Ped Xing

Two Chinese were standing alongside me at a crosswalk, waiting for the green light, when one of them, a lanky lady who was lugging bulky grocery bags, started bitching at the man she was with.

Chong ching yeung, chang ching! [I could use a little help, you sonavab-ach!]”

The man, who was on his smartphone, glared at the lady, which meant, with his height, he was practically looking up, the way a midget boxer might when challenged by a larger foe.

He dismissed her and went back to what sounded like a Mobile Legends game.

Chong lai chaaan? Ching chan chon? [What? Are you just gonna let me?]” the lady insisted.

Chang klung, klay shehhhh [Shut up, harsehoeee]!” the man roared, a terrible attempt at overcompensating for his stature, what with his wee voice that petered out to hoarse.

The lady stood there, and, the next thing I knew she was a wild woman. She emptied the contents of the bag by throwing them around the curb: apples, deli meat, a bottle with some Chinese voodoo oil in it.

Ching klang klong, kling? Ching klang klong, kling? [You want this, huh? You want this, huh?]” she wailed, panting.

The midget man slid his phone into his pocket, looking around seemingly embarrassed.

He turned to his girlfriend.

Chong maiii! Klang kleng kling klong klung! Klang, tiu! [That’s it! You better throw them hard! Harder, baby!]” he said, as if he’s Amy Perez—the midget, Snow White and the Seven Dwarves version—egging her on to just let it all out by throwing the china against a wall on Face to Face.

“Waaaaaa! Waaaaaa! [Waaaaaa! Waaaaaaa!]” the woman cried, whereupon her boyfriend gestured to comfort her. “Ching chan su! [Lay off me!]”

When the lady noticed me intently watching their scene, she turned to me and said “Shang kai shekkk? [What are you looking at?]”

Nervous, I pointed at myself, saying, “Ching chong, ching chong?”

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