A story from Anne; originally submitted as a comment.
Another sunny southern California Mother’s Day— we made it a special event. Dressed in our church going Sunday best we went to that famous Polynesian Restaurant in Laguna Beach. It’s been there for years overlooking the Pacific. Bamboo furniture, rattan wall coverings, plastic orchids, potted palms, and white tablecloths— smelling like too many years of teriyaki stir fry—it is considered a nice respectable Sunday tradition.
The place was packed. We were seated next to a long table with a party of 11 people—nicely dressed young professionals in their early thirties. Five on each side, with the host at the head of the table holding court. A raging, loud drunk—he clearly demanded to be idolized. He loudly announced to everyone in that room that his daddy owned several large radio stations in the area.
When we were first seated, he yelled over to my mother in a voice loud enough for everyone in the room to hear: “You’ve got a nice selection of good-looking gals —how much do they go for?” We were shocked and ignored him. He kept up the loud and abusive insults throughout our entire meal. The insults and words got even worse. At one point, he asked out loud, “does your blonde daughter have matching pubic hair?” He repeatedly accused my mom of being a madam, and myself and daughters of being her hookers. We could only ignore him. He thought he was very funny, and the loud tirade went on, and on, throughout the meal. I asked a waiter to help us—he responded there was nothing he could do. The evil man’s guests were embarrassed, and some of them tried to get him to stop. But he was all powerful in that realm of his and silenced his guests. We hurried through our meal.
When I had had enough and we were ready to leave, I told my oldest daughter to go get the car and bring it around to the front—“make sure all the doors are unlocked and pull up to the curb right in front. Keep the engine running.” She scrambled out to get the car. I told youngest daughter (the Swedish blonde)— “take grandma and start walking her out to the car while I stay here and pay the bill.” Grandma and daughter both suspected that I had a plan and tried to hang back, but they did start to move away.
The bill came, and I laid down the cash. Mom and youngest were ahead of me—they had already passed the large table but were trying to walk away while looking backward.
I got up from my chair and walked the long length of that table—facing that evil man and the exit. Just before I came up even with him I fired off a very serious backhand. He fell out of his chair on the other side of the table —took his chair and some dishes with him! Seeing that, the youngest daughter spun grandma around and started pushing her through the dining room, almost as fast as if she was actually in a wheelchair! The last I saw of that animal he was trying to pull himself up from the floor crying “She slapped me, she slapped me!” I did see a slow-forming smile starting on the face of one of his male guests. Wished I could have seen the others.
I kept walking.
On the way out, I stopped at the host stand to explain what happened—his response was the same: “we can’t do anything about guests like that.” When I got to the car, the girls were already inside and we left.
Strange thing about this—none of us wear much make-up!
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