Leave Mom Alone: An Internet Cafe Story Before I took up residence in MechaLand, I didn’t own a computer. So I did my online business at one of the many Internet cafes in my neighborhood in Queens. →[More:]The rates were reasonable, about two or (usually) three dollars an hour. The connection speeds were fast, much faster than the shitty dialup that was available to most working-class immigrant communities.

The ambience was another thing altogether. These establishments made Marz Bar look like the Plaza Hotel. One place stank of moldy carpet. Another one seemed to attract a lot of illegal aliens who were in the habit of pissing with the bathroom door open.

About 95% of the customers were teenage male gamers, brimming with testosterone-fueled dorkiness and generating more volume than I thought human beings were capable of. Constant, unregulated volume.

Take the classic gamer exchange:

Dood, dood, where are you dood?

im in ur base killing yr d00dz.

And imagine it groaning under the weight of every cussword and racial/orientational/gender slur known to American English and you’ve got a fair idea of the atmosphere in these joints.

So one day I’m in a café, sending out resumes. Over in the next row are two kids, one of whom appears to be South Asian. The other –I think from the looks of him – was Thai. They’re goofin’, carrying on. The South Asian kid is maybe five feet tall and most of that is mouth. The Thai kid, on the other hand, has a mellow disposition. He waves aside insults and doesn’t seem to give a shit what anyone thinks of him.

So the South Asian is trying to get under his skin and starts getting racial with him, calling him a “yellow bastard” and a “fucking monkey.” The Thai kid laughs at him.

Then the South Asian kid decides to pick on Mom.

“. . . and your mom came over on the banana boat.”

Now it’s not a joke anymore.

“You don’t talk about my mom.”

“Your mom . . .”

The Thai kid gets up out of his seat. I can see that he’s got delicate Thai features and a Would-You-Like-Me-To-Supersize-That American body.

Oh, shit. This is not gonna be good.

“You don’t talk about my Mom.”

“Your mom . . .”

[THUMP]

“You don’t talk about my [THUMP] Mom. My [THUMP] Mom is beau[THUMP]ti[THUMP]ful.”

The Thai kid returns to his seat. And for the first time in several years of patronizing this place, the cafe is silent.

I did exchange words a few times here and there in those cafes. But I always left Mom out of it.