At the Food Court
Joe Llamzon
→BFA FAV 2027
A mother and son on their Saturday out. A tired-looking mall worker in matching shirt and hat. A girl alone on her phone, waiting for somebody. Partner, friend, parent? Maybe they’re just alone.
During my breaks from work at the mall, I go to the food court on the third floor. I have to climb three escalators, the kind that make you go all the way around to keep going up. I always go to the same stall for Chinese food. The first time I was up there, they lured me in with their persistent sample offerings, and I never looked back.
I’ll find a table towards the back of the food court, where there’s a huge window facing the forestry behind the mall. No buildings or roads, just trees and a perfect sunset at the right time of day. Sometimes the light will come in and paint the stall signs with a burning orange that no photo could ever replicate.
At a table with two chairs, I’ll try to enjoy my meal, but the truth is that I always feel an air of melancholy when I’m at the mall food court. Time passes in an unpredictable way—no speed or slack, just passing. I never know how to spend these irreconcilable hours. Some days, I listen to music to give the time some sort of unit—verses and choruses until the song is over and three minutes have passed. Other days, I scroll mindlessly on social media, aware of its pointlessness and embarrassed at how much I enjoy it. Most times, though, I just sit there, looking at the people around me who, for some reason, feel so different from myself. Yes, different from each other too, but still closer to one another than myself. From my point of view, this is their life—their day, their mall, their town. I’m not from here, though. I’m an observer. This feels like a town I’m passing through, a mall I’m visiting. But I live here now. I have this job, and I regular the Chinese stall on my breaks. I think about how this is my life now, and I miss home, awfully. There’s no place that will make you miss home like a food court in an American mall.
That is, when that home is Singapore. That’s where I grew up, where I spent the summer before coming to college. That summer…it was beautiful! Everyday was brilliantly the same, filled with friends and fun and, ironically, many food courts—just not like the kind in America. In Singapore, food courts are a place with life. They are the driving forces of culture in our city. Random hawker centers on street corners, FoodRepublic chains in fancy malls, they’re all a part of us. You’ll find the same delicious dishes anywhere, served by people who’ve spent their whole lives perfecting their craft. All throughout the summer, I would meet my friends in food courts across the island as if they were a shared home for us. It couldn’t be more different from the States.
When I was younger, my family would fly to the US to spend our summers with my uncle Todd in Pennsylvania. The thing that stood out most about those trips was the way strangers would talk to you. I remember arriving in the US and being greeted by such nice immigration officers, or visiting the local family diner in my mom’s hometown and being served by the most friendly servers. It was a uniquely American kindness. That family diner had a claw machine, and one time I tried to win a plushie from it—Toothless from How to Train your Dragon—but couldn’t budge it. Then, a few minutes later, a complete stranger came up to my table holding Toothless. Without a word, he tossed Toothless to me and left. I was too shocked to even say thank you.
At some point, we began visiting our relatives in the States less and less. I think it was the distance that made it so hard. So I spent the rest of my childhood away from America, and over time, the reminiscence of friendly strangers shifted to glimpses of political turmoil and violence, a new tragedy on the news every day. Even when we had visited the States, my parents would always tell me to be careful: It isn’t as safe as home. Singapore is safe, but people won’t talk to you like they do in America.
Ten years went by. It was with an acceptance letter to university that my return to America was slated, but I wasn’t particularly ecstatic. Over the past decade, I’d grown resentful of America. I thought of looking for schools elsewhere, but something about going to school in the States seemed important. June came, and I made way for Providence, leaving the taste of Singapore ten thousand miles away.
A few weeks after arriving in Providence, I found myself in a car headed for Pennsylvania. I hadn’t seen Todd in ten years, and I wanted to change that. Dark roads up mountains. Tree-lined rivers. It was all new to me, and I couldn’t shake this sense of insecurity.
My mom was the only one in her family to ever leave town. She met my Filipino father by chance then moved across the world to start a new life. I was raised in a city and knew nothing of the countryside. In Todd’s veins were fishing and camping. In mine were metros and skyscrapers. As a kid none of it ever mattered, but I had grown since then. Worries plagued me. I now feared that there would be a rift between my uncle and I—that I would be an outsider.
Todd had a campground where he was staying for the weekend. A place called Cross-Forks. It was so deep in the Appalachian that my GPS lost connection and I arrived late, completely dark out. I pulled onto a dirt side road leading up the mountain. The headlights followed to the top of the slope and there, waiting for my arrival, was Todd. Bald and stout as ever. I pulled in and got out.
“Hey nephew,” he shouted.
“Hey uncle.”
Then he hugged me like a bear.
Todd bought the land a year ago and made it his own. A trailer for sleeping, a cooler for beers, a firepit. He put up some string lights between the trees and was happy with how they looked. It was a place for him to get away from it all on the weekends. A place for himself. I both adored it and understood it. Todd asked if I’d ever had a mountain pie, which I hadn’t, and insisted I try one. He sandwiched together ham, cheese, and pizza sauce on some bread then cooked it over the campfire with something called a pie iron. It was like a homemade pizza pocket and it was scrumptious. The perfect snack for the camp-fire, where we sat and talked for hours.
He talked about my mom and how much he missed her. He talked about his mom and how much he missed her. He had wanted to be a history teacher but left school to support the family after his mom passed. He drove truck for the same chemical cleanup company for thirty years until he became the manager. He talked of how he missed the road but how his position paid well. How his wife yelled at him a lot, but how he probably deserved it. A lot could’ve gone differently in his life, but he was happy with it, proud of where he was from. Todd felt in so many ways that I never would have known.
So I told him all that I felt. How I was worried I didn’t belong because I didn’t know how to fish or hadn’t gone camping much before. All to which he said, “what’s the need for all that when you live in a city?” A breath. “There’s nothing wrong with being from where you’re from.” That was all I needed.
A decade of misconception, gone in a second. Todd, Appalachian born and raised, gently accepting me and our inherent differences. It was a natural act of human decency. This man, who I’d always defined by where he was from, was infinitely bigger than my misguided assumptions, alongside the rest of America I’d created in my head. I loved Singapore, but it had become the only thing I ever knew. Being back in America, I could finally meet a truth beyond my tunneled vision. My conversation with Todd was my first step on that path.
The next morning, I bear hugged Todd goodbye, and promised him it wouldn’t be another ten years.
A mother and son enjoying their Saturday out. A mall worker in match-ing shirt and hat, resting. A girl on her phone, waiting for somebody. Partner, friend, parent? Maybe they’re alone, and okay with that.
The workers at the Chinese food stall know me now. I see the glint of welcoming recognition whenever I walk up to their stall. I’m officially a regular. I enjoy my meals at a table with two chairs, observing the life around me.
This is my life now.
Joe Llamzon is feeling time move faster lately.