“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” the man kept repeating, his shirt slightly dirtied and wet from the watermelon juice which he… vomited (how gross) onto the floor right behind the chair on which my mom was seated. Some of what he belched found its way onto my mom’s hair, clothes and handbag.
Sitting opposite her, I watched it happen, but it came without prior warning. The man showed no signs of wanting to retch, although I noted his face was flushed from all the beer, just like any other companion of his at his table - a mob of people so uncouth I wish never to come across the likes of them in Singapore again, at least not places such as these where people are expected to behave with a certain degree of civility. Talking, laughing, snorting extremely LOUDLY in a motley jumble of dialect, Mandarin, Cantonese and English (the restaurant staff said they were from Guangzhou) throughout the course of their dinner, they totally ruined the atmosphere. My sis wanted to get the waiters to shush them - politely, of course - but was advised by my parents not to. We will do no such thing; we will bear with it.
I emitted a yelp when I saw what the man had done, just as my mom realised what had happened and the four of us sprang up and reached for towels and tissues. My mom was aghast, disgusted, no doubt, and the offending man stood to a side, looking at the puddle on the floor and at all the fuss, his eyes appearing glazed, but wide in amazement as if in disbelief of the commotion and mess he’d created. I ventured a glance towards the table of mainlanders. They were engaged in comradely laughter, either oblivious to the incident or making jest of what their friend had done.
Thank goodness there was a spare shirt in the car. I turned to accompany my mom to the car and then to the washroom to help her wash up, leaving my dad and sis behind at the table. We walked past the man. Again he bowed and his head low, “I’m so sorry. I’m really so sorry.” I think my mom replied to the effect of “It’s ok.” And there was me thinking in my mind that No, it’s not ok. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. But instead I walked on, barely giving that man a second look. Oh, how I wanted to glare him down! I was tempted to confront him and his companions, but that would’ve been unwise. If even I felt thus, I could only imagine my dad fuming yet attempting to control his anger, his sense of protective duty over my mom compelling him to take action - even if only verbal - against the man.
We returned from the ladies’ a good handful of minutes later, and I saw that the floors had already been mopped clean and my dad, still standing, was bent over signing the bill. He was silent, lips pursed. His eyes, set into a deep frown, conveyed deep indignation and infuriation, and I knew that had that not been a public place and had we not the apprehension that the mainlanders could react in ways uninvited and untoward, he would have strode across and chided them. Instead he - we - directed our displeasure at the restaurant manager, who even while sympathising with us and the rest of his patrons, was powerless to act in the face of such occurrences. All he could do was to assure us that they were not regulars, and that nothing of this sort had happened before. A discount would be nice? I thought, but then again we understood it’s not their fault.
What to do? I replayed the scene and tried to imagine what we could have down, or what people from different sorts of background would have done. What if this wasn’t Singapore, but, say, Beijing? Or what if this was London? What if the man was a Japanese, or a European? What if my dad wasn’t my dad, but some other equally guarding but less prudent husband? There could be so many varying responses, but knowing the cultures well, how people might react can be quite predictable to a certain degree.