Hallelujah, we have not been created uniform instead we come in all shapes, sizes and colours. And this is not only about humans, animals and plants – our cities and villages reflect our earthy diversity and emphasise spiritual unity in an amazing and convoluted paradox of life. Each of us carries something special, bright and unique, and yet all of these beautiful attributes rest on the same pedestal of God’s creativity. Some boast fair skin, others scintillating fur and yet other still are immensely proud of their hills and valleys. When it came to New York City nothing could contain its natural brilliance when comes to blindingly yellow days of its golden fall. The 1992 fall was no exception with its mounds and mountains of crispy leaves rustling all over the sidewalks, squares and, of course, the sanctuary of them all – Central Park. Something is very light and airy about this crisp air, bright sun and cheery smiles that beset the city in this magic time of year.
Three Months Ago
The smile was even becoming a fixture on my face as I was settling into some resemblance of normalcy amid crazy traffic, indifferent crowds and overflowing energy. For the past three months, I had been re-building my defences with my first ever legal job in America. Finding it was not easy even after receiving my work permit back in July. I did not look then and after taking a month-long detour in Vermont (another story) my chances did not seem to improve. When I came to New York in the middle of August not only had I lost time but also some front teeth that now awkwardly hang in my mouth thanks to a massive metal brace.
Back in the Big Apple with my last four hundred bucks to my name, I could no longer munch off people since having a temporary work permit accorded me a permanent status of responsibility. At the same time I did need some start-up concessions such a temporary place to stay while looking for work. Dorin’s Queen’s would have been just splendid – alas, my beloved couch was now occupied by the next arrival – Dorin’s friend Helen. She, being a refined and educated sort of girl, was not about tolerate too much of my rough company let alone sharing a bathroom and other life necessities. I had to look elsewhere. Since luxury of having countless New York friends was not forthcoming, I had to resort to the only option on the block – John and Jennifer in New Jersey.
These welcoming and very hospitable folks once again came to my rescue by dolling out a whole room on the second floor of their small neat house amidst tranquil centennial trees, one large dog and at least six hungry and purring cats. The food in the fridge and grass in the yard were still there for me to deal with except now my stay had to be responsibly short. No more loitering around wondrous suburbia and its neat hedges, I needed a job and fast. To my previous experience and current dismay, jobs in sleepy Maplewood and environs were very scarce, low paying and hardly attainable. Instead, making a track into the proverbial space sink of New York City was the only option. Luckily, downtown New York was only about 45 minutes away by train in addition to a mere 1.5 mile stroll to the railway station. Once there, the whole world was at one’s feet – at least what some songs believably alluded to…
“What should I become” was a very intriguing key question. After all I had four years if post-secondary education, many life experiences and healthy front teeth behind me. Now as a true grizzled veteran I seriously contemplated a rocketing Wall Street career. Why not? – was an inspiring question so easily answered by heroes of many a movie including the super hit of them all – “Wall Street”. I could just close my eyes and imagine the sweetest feeling of being surrounded by mounds of dollars – hundreds, thousands of them just snuggling against every part of my body just like your favourite pillow – caressing, massaging and pandering to one’s every move – mesmerising!
Bef6re starting my job search in earnest I took a day to peruse New Times, no less, and make some necessary phone calls. A couple of them were to follow up on some broker positions right in the heart of Wall Street. To my amazement and they were willing to interview the rookie – wow! Little did I know then about what actually was Wall Street – the place hardly suited for clueless seekers of luck – these usually get slaughtered.
Sure there were some of those, but by and large the real money was made by relatively few, preferably with Wharton or Harvard credentials. The rest of mortals did not stand a chance consigned to the vagaries of thousand small firms pushing through dubious financial schemes really fit exclusively for speculators. Of course, an average speculator knew a thing or two about such schemes and usually stayed away unless they really controlled them. So with obvious dearth of natural customers these places thrived on dentists, thrill junkies and retired grandmas – sometime with all three combined into one – a powerful cocktail! Many of these “investments” offered cosmic returns and required little persuasion even for the worst of adrenaline seekers. That’s were the “brokers” came in and although these “jobs” peppered such respectable publications as York Times and required all basic statutory credentials, they really did not pay any salary and were interesting only to select few who knew many and knew how to persuade the rest of humanity to part with their money. Apart from these, there were also many a less shady pushers of investments such as Dean Witter or Bear Sterns, however, on the brokering side of the business these guys did not pay any salaries either while being much more selective in choosing their workforce that usually required at least a business degree from Baruch College.
This was the middle of 1992, the market was moribund and applicants many. I was hardly aware of these intricacies and solely relied on my “unique” insight and an old worn-out blue suit of distinctly Soviet cut. Joining the ranks of people working for living at the Maplewood railway station was an uplifting event – I was going to New York City, my mood was upbeat, jittery and hungry, especially since I had to shell out a small fortune of $6 to get to Hoboken, the Path Train terminal that eked out another dollar to deliver me across Hudson right into the bowels of downtown Manhattan. When still on the train I chatted with my next seat companion who was quick to start a conversation given my apparent respectability and a copy of fresh Wall Street Journal clutched under my arm. Most of the stuff in the paper was high-fluting gobbledygook so entertaining my middle class companion was way more fun. Mentioning that I was on way to Wall Street after just a few short months on the American soil elicited much enthusiasm on his part and myrrh of happiness on mine – America was really a land of opportunity – just reach out and grab it, the rest was just perpetual bliss!
Saying good-bye to my momentary cheerleader I was alone, standing right in the midst of the most awesome sight of all – the court yard of the Wall Trade Centre. Surely, NYC prided itself on its dizzying heights and behemoth size since the days of JP Morgan but nothing could really prepare one for a virgin gaze upwards to measure up to this architectural feat. Its numerous and sharp ribs seemed to thrust all the way to scratch the underbelly of heaven itself – unforgettable!
Now was the time to proceed into the dark tunnel like bowels of the money capital of the world. I found my first appointment on the twenties floor of an old grey (they are all grey) stone edifice that must have been gracing local landscape since pre-1929 times of happiness. Old, ornate cast-iron doors led to spacious offices of “Boiler and Co”. My whole body tensed up, blood rushed to my face, my palms wet as I was about to face my destiny. I felt like a 100-dash champion before unleashing an onslaught on my rivals but for now I had to wait and this was the worst part. In fact, it was so painful that the process of waiting itself threatened to kill me. Luckily, the busy phone-jumping secretary managed to locate my presence relatively quickly – “ah, you are here to see Mr. Johnston?”
“Yes” I stuttered – “He’ll see in a minute” she said ushering me into a large office with a wide desk, some pens, paper and not much else if you do not count the magnificent window view of the famed locale.
I sat, gnawed on my nails and waited some more. “Swoosh”- brash, young and tall Mr. Johnston rushed in to close the door behind what betrayed a flurry of activity next door. He was muscular, square-jawed and looked to belong on a rugby pitch of an English public school. He was a purebred and I had to coil in to sum up my readiness and get ready to sacrifice my body in service to “Boiler and Co.” “I was willing to learn fast and that was my brightest asset”.
Probably fresh out of college and ready to do the same Mr. Johnston was clearly in the rush to sift through his candidates. Mine did not take long as my short resume bespoke less than volumes about my suitability. To my slight surprise Mr. Johnston did not care as much about my knowledge of stocks and bonds. What he was really trying to ascertain was whether I knew anybody in the dental field. Did he need a referral? I was a bit stumped and mercifully released. With an obligatory smile and “we will call you” trailing behind I quickly found my way back to the elevator. Since I still took things at their naïve face value, the last phrase sounded sort of encouraging. The only negative aspect of the whole thing was an apparent multitude of other candidates now occupying numerous chairs in the reception hall. They did not look any worse than I with all their suits looking way shinier – I was in a tough company.
A quick jot to the next location produced very similar “we will call you” result. All I had to do now was to go back to New Jersey and wait for fateful calls trying to beat each other in heaping offers to their brilliant candidate! Fortunately, an old Soviet sceptical nature dictated that I undertook something more practicable especially since my Jersey phone had an answering machine. Why not look around for other opportunities; after all I had the whole day and a pre-paid return ticket. After all, my freshly crumpled suit could withstand more action that day.
I kind of weighed my chances in a quick run down of a possible career. Law – this was at least three years of school – too long; medicine – more years and too much blood; sales – I am already waiting for call backs. Sobering up and weighing my chances tremendously enhanced by a suit, I decided to try retail – shoes, purses and furniture would do. After scouring a few nearby locations that blunted my onslaught with unmistakable “No” I decided to wonder uptown and assess the situation. The stroll gave me a better look at the city and saved me a $1.25 subway fair.
Tracing up Broadway, the picture did not look all that promising as I traversed through Tribeca, Chinatown and Little Italy. Everything seemed a little shabby, forlorn and covered with old garbage of paper cups, cigarette buts and torn newspapers covered in Wall Street “help wanted” ads. Many rough looking characters were lounging on public benches and some very homeless people were asking for change just about on every street corner. With many a storefront shut by the latest economic recession, there seemed to be not many takers clamouring for my services.
The situation slightly improved past 14th street and I was feeling a renewed surge of confidence. By the time I shuffled all the way up to 34th street the mood was definitely festive as I spotted the famed Macys. Planted right in the heart of the city, it flag-shipped the retail Mecca for the masses that stretched across the belly of Manhattan like a tight undersized belt after a Christmas dinner. The squeeze of 34th street was tight and inescapable for many in search of consumption fix, the first rail of American miracle – the place was thickly studded with restaurants, shops, crowds and homeless – very American. After forlorn sidewalks and crumbling lofts of Tribeca I felt claustrophobic amidst swirling crowds clamouring to devour anything in sight. Surely there must be a place for my services. How it can be otherwise – I can smile, be friendly, circumspect and servile! It might not be as glamorous as back there on Wall Street but I did not need to know any dentists and they actually paid by the hour, not much but steady. I was enthusiastic and confident of my chances. Trying Macys felt like the best idea since there were big, selling and catered to thousands with some of whom might only speak Russian. My candidacy looked unbeatable as I took in some air, Napoleonic-ly puffed my chest and pushed the door.
Stepping inside after natural outdoors nearly killed my eye sockets as I desperately tried to escape the glitter – shiny cosmetic bottles, chic accessory counters and ever smiling faces of obsequious sales people nearly knocked me and my tired suit out of contention. Believing in better luck upstairs I rushed the steps up to the HR department perching on the sixth floor. Huffing and puffing, my hopes lingered longer than they should have as the numerous applicants occupied a number of seats ahead of me. Most of them strikingly young, beautiful and well-dressed were not even in the same league. Yet I gave it a shot filling in a lengthy application while chit-chatting with my next seat neighbour – a very useful chatter box he was. It turned out that most of the jobs did not pay any higher than $7 to $8 bucks an hour and they vastly preferred applicants from a special institution christened New York Institute of Fashion and Technology. I did know some things about technology but the word fashion made me slightly queasy – may be they had janitor positions?
After hopelessly dropping my application in a pile of thousands, I felt alone and foreign. All my schooling, degrees and suits seemed to mean precisely squat when it came to New York’s job market, perhaps following the footsteps of Godfather in the food business was going to be my best bet. At least I felt just as hungry and desperate as a latest victim of Don Fanucci.
It was late afternoon; I was starving with my choice selection for the evening being a prime NY hot dog at $1.50 plus drink. I felt a slight surge of hot dog energy. Well, this was not going to last long and it was time to assail as many a restaurant in the vicinity of Midtown as possible. Mexican, Italian, McDonalds, all fell cringing under my assault. And although most of the responses were decidedly negative a few places seem to be in the mood to gamble a bit. One Times Square establishment called Roxy’s wanted me to try-out the next day as their host du jour – who said it was an inferior suit?
Completely strung out and exhausted I stumbled 1.5 miles back to John and Jen’s well past midnight. My feet were worn-out by my sole-unfriendly Soviet models and there were no messages waiting on the answering machine. I slid into the oblivion of a hot Jersey August night.
El Torito
For three months now I have been earning my keep under the glorious auspices of this second-rate taco establishment that occupied the basement of the Empire State Building. Part of a large restaurant operator we shared the facilities with another restaurant owned by the same guys – “Hoolihans” with a decidedly Irish motive. Their place was usually hopping since they offered rowdier beer selection and more common British cuisine mixed with specials from all over, including Cajun. Our theme was a little more one-sided, firmly settling for second best in the fight for the basement bragging rights. Not in a least dismayed by our performance, I was happy, as could be, dishing out fajitas, burritos and chimichangas. After all this was legitimate work that had some benefits and even medical insurance that came at a small premium. Although our wages came to just $2.50 per hour and amounted to $50 weekly pay checks, my tips more than made for it usually averaging around $400 per week. I felt nearly overwhelmed with riches after all I could save at least $1,000USD every month! Translating this bounty into roubles gave me headache almost every time.
What I loved the most about the place were the people. They came from all over the place creating sort of a mini UN right on premises. Sally, my manager, hired me from the street somehow sensing that I really needed a job more than most. She was an immigrant herself and could certainly relate. She came from somewhere in the Caribbean about twenty years ago. Now with family and kids she still exuded a great deal of hot Caribbean charm and a surprising laid-back disposition.
Our kitchen staff came nearly exclusively from Haiti and Africa not counting bartender Alex from Brazil. He was a great calm compliment to his fiery and flamboyant Creole co-workers always ready to dish-out at waiters whenever they could. Usually joined by Zambians and Nigerians on a swing shift they relished bothering me about eating their refried rice. The food was just as spicy and fun. No real animosity but a whole a lot of friendly banter, hot air and laughter.
“Where are my beef fajitas for table ten?” screamed somebody at the top of his lungs before slamming the double-action aluminium swing doors, this was Al, the Indian - the man who claimed perfectly legal papers, university education, much Hindu charm and Brooklyn accent.
“You are getting on my nerves with your fajitas, man. I told you five minutes, take a sip of lemonade or something, f$%k” – Haitian Patrice with looks of a true 100-meter track king loved needling our Al.
“Whatever, just get moving...” – Al just rushed in to make another pass in front of table ten, just in case. We worked on commissions and were always in the rush to collect it. The kitchen dudes, being on hourly wage, could not care less. They always suspected that we made more and that did not help the cooperation. But somehow it worked – “Al, your bloody fajitas are getting co-o-o-old” – sang African Umbu with his thick cheeks jiggling like jelly.
“Thanks, ass” – Al scurried with his fajitas barely avoiding a fateful crash with Carlos, the busboy.
“Cabron!” - fired Carlos. He did not speak much English and vastly preferred his beloved Mexican expletives to dump on anyone in his way, especially our slick Al. “Cabron yourself” – Al was adept at multilingual fights at a slightest provocation.
Besides Al, out waiting staff boasted yours truly complemented by two Bangladeshi cowboys, Tiram and Victor, Californian sun girl Lisa, Megan the vegan and perennial cursing primadona Rosa from some jungle in Columbia. Apart from Carlos we also had a Puerto Rican teenager Ruiz who spent all his money on shoes and jewellery. It was a phenomenal mishmash of personalities, colours and languages. Add to the mix Puertorican gagster kitchen and Long Island based white waiting staff from Houlihans and you get the idea. It was just fun, I did not care that I wore a smelly black shirt, jeans and apron instead of a suit. People were genuine, energetic and hopeful. Most were genuinely unhappy with their lowly station in American life but somehow real in their concerns, sometimes lack of proper legal status and inexhaustible hope for tomorrow. It could not be otherwise after all we were at the bottom of the most famous office tower in America.
A break after a short but hectic lunch usually gave one at least a free hour if you were scheduled for dinner. Overexposed to Tex-Mex as a matter of work I vastly preferred Houlihans kitchen. The food for staff was free and one could order just about anything on the menu. I immensely preferred Chicken Parmesan, coke and a cigarette scrounged off always happy Victor. This tiny, thin boned fine citizen of Bangladesh represented the best his poor country could offer. He was diligent, prompt and shipped most of his earnings home to help his family. He could not have done otherwise. He was a part of a collective, and even individualist American culture was not going to change his mind. He was as much as firm as philosophic in his compassionate attitude - he was just a part of bigger family and helping was in their blood. I felt like a bit of a bastard sometimes – after all I rarely called or send anything to my mother. “I would do more soon…but now I am just too shell-shocked and happy to be where I am” – I pondered selfishly while puffing on one of Victor’s Marlboroughs.
“I need to go to a store for few minutes, want to come”
“No, I’ll just nap a bit” – I loved to curl up in one of the booths on occasion.
The sleep was not coming, as recent and terrorising memories of helplessness were flooding my mind. The thoughts were racing and would not stop. “Thank you God, as remembered my second day, job searching on the unfriendly streets of New York.
Roxy’s
After cosmically deep sleep at John and Jen’s, I had hard time keeping up with my commuter demands. In fact, I had to undertake a mad rush from Penn Central to Times Square just to make it for a 10AM appointment at Roxy’s diner. With fresh streaks of sweat rolling down my cheeks, I rolled in to start my career at hosting indifferent touristy crowds of Times Square fame. I was pared up with some nice looking girl from Long Island. She was a pro as I struggled to smile and appear at ease while dealing with “early special” stampedes clad in wide-hanging T-shirts and white sneakers.
After ushering just a few groups of customers through a maze of tables in this hopping upscale diner, my try-out suddenly ended with a “fail” mark. I strained to figure out why but failed to receive a satisfactory answer from Hassan, a fiery dark eyed middle-eastern type managing the place. Amazingly, something must have moved in his almost robotic heart – “OK, come back at seven o’clock and we’ll try you behind the counter”.
Having a whole day to kill before the next try-out (sorry NFL), I decided to keep roaming around Manhattan for other job options. The easy work it wasn’t and hot sun-drenched Manhattan was rapidly losing its golden lustre – “Where is this bleeding goose laying those golden eggs. So far I cannot even wash anyone’s dishes for free”. I felt a little helpless again. To beat the nagging tinge of despair I needed to keep moving scouring Midtown once again.
I have to say this must have been the most educational day in local geography. First I swept through the garment district with its numerous wholesale/retail shops, warehouses and other dusty establishments. Block after block the whole place was just beset by these, straining to provide latest and cheap fashions to New Yorkers streaming up to the sixth floor to apply for Macy’s jobs. I got it - they bought, applied, ate at Roxy’s and went home. They did the same thing all over again, day after day – but where did they get the money? This was the key question I have not clued in yet.
I came here on a tourist visa but I was not a tourist anymore. My first sighting of Empire State Building had nothing to do with its inspiring heights; these were the lofty elevations I could not afford. Instead I paid particular attention to some fine retail establishment on the ground level. One of these was a restaurant that apart from above the ground bar also had downstairs eatery. Gingerly edging downstairs I braced for yet another indifferent “no”. At the bottom of the stairs by host stand I saw a very attractive middle aged lady with soft southern face and welcoming smile – I met Sally, the manager, and the rest was going to be history. She promised to let me know when to come for training and my hardened heart believed – for the first time in days I recaptured a ray of hope.
Another hopeful beam of light entered my consciousness when I filled out an application for a McDonald’s job. The burly manager seemed receptive to my candidacy for a try at the till and his “we will call you” sounded a little more reassuring. Just one look at the hectic kitchen hacking at hamburgers, cheese and fries and I knew – this was the rock bottom with a starting wage of $4.25 per hour. Completely drained I chugged out of there towards my fateful appointment with Roxy’s.
This was just around the time when theatre going crowds were warming up for latest Broadway instalments. They were hungry, permed and ruthless, ready to consume anything in sight after a day of heavy sightseeing. I was the sacrificial lamb – darting to and fro delivering goodies from behind the counter and constantly mixing up orders, after all I was not up to date on American delicatessen jargon. I had to learn on the fly under the critical eyes of my new middle-eastern masters who couldn’t care less about my well-being.
“Faster, faster!” – their constant goading shrills were driving me crazy.
“What the hack is Dijon?” – I asked myself while pretending to know what I was doing while fishing a proper package out of a condiments basket.
“BLT with fries” – well, I knew about the fries but can anybody explain the concept of BLT – I just kept swishing sweat streaming down my face.
“Coffee with double cream” – at least I can get this – what a relief! “And I do not even know if I am still working here and at what wage?”
“Anaya! Anaya!” – the owner barked at me. I was dizzy and could not possibly comprehend the request. “Anaya, bottle of Anaya” - he screamed, grinding his well-worn gold teeth. Luckily, I caught the last rail of the departing train – “aah, the bottle of water! Eureka!”
“Well, you do not need to scream so much even if your rent is high” – was my last conscious thought before plunging back into the mayhem of ketchup, coffee and rudeness.
Those five hours behind the counter at Roxy’s were probably the most exhausting of my whole life. My clothing, shirt and pants, were drenched. It was nearly midnight and I did not even know if I could get back to Maplewood, shuffling my sore feet along to the Penn Central by many fellow human beings getting ready for a hot night right under the stars – how romantic and in a drastic need of shower. Barely managing to get the last train in Hoboken I was finally back in my bed with no messages waiting – welcome to America!
Back at El Torito
Momentary back from my midday nightmare, I got up and took a swig of Coke. Ahh, this was much better – a good starting jolt for my evening shift.
“Eh, Alex, how are doing?” – this was Kevin from next door, Houlihans. Kevin was a very friendly type who got picked on more than anybody else in the place. He looked like a carbon copy of Bubba Gump less his accent and interest in things outside shrimp industry. He actually was an aspiring actor who had spent years trying with hardly any success. And yet he smiled. I did not care if others made fun of him after all there was something very warm, almost grandmotherly, about him.
“Hi Kevin, how are things?” I was getting very adept at standard American replies even if they meant nothing.
“Alex, I know you have mentioned that you have gone to church back in Russia. Would you be interested to come to a devotional with my friends?” – his effulgent smile was about to blind me, how nice.
“Sure, sounds like a great idea. Tell me more”
“Just a whole bunch of people, mostly young, mostly aspiring entertainers, get together and worship” – I felt like in a warm motherly cocoon. Purrr.
“Well, I am entertainer, but I will come for sure. When is it?” – “Next Wednesday at noon, I’ll give you directions, or we can go together” – “Great Kevin, see you later. Oh here is our Indian Prince!” Al just re-appeared for his evening instalment of “Serve me a taco”.
“What did this loser want” – he warmly sidled up to sip a Coke of his own.
“Do not be so hard on him Al. He is a nice guy, just needs somebody to talk to once in a while. Anyway, what’s up with you?”
“I am leaving” – “Get out of here!” – “No, I am serious; I got a gig with Nobody Beats the Wiz. Two weeks of training and then you can make some real coin. Maybe close to fifty grand”. I was flabbergasted, fifty grand, I had hard time comprehending such great pile of green. Besides, I loved Al and his brash princely ways. He became my mentor from my first day at el Torito when he showed me his waitering art. He was quick, efficient and supple enough to grab the most tables and make the most coin. He was inspiring and I would hate to lose him.
“Screw you, Al! I have just started to enjoy my self and there you are leaving us” – “C’est la Vie, buddy. I’ll drop by for a beer or something. Do not worry…”
“I wish…” thoughts of my first El Torito steps just came flooding back like those of a first kiss that worked.
McDonalds
For the next couple of days I made few more fruitless attempts to conquer Manhattan. I called Roxy’s just to find out that I got no shifts. What about those exhausting hours serving behind the counter? Well, I did not even speak up although John insisted that I showed up there and collected my lawful wages. To be honest, that was the last thing on my mind as I just wanted to avoid that terrifying glare of the human-less middle-eastern eyes. For now, I avoided Times Square knocking on every door that could remotely resemble a place where they hired. By night fall with a lunch of a single hot dog I would trudge back to Jersey. I no longer felt like a proud commuter with bright future on Wall Street, instead I felt like a piece of dung which everybody around was lining up to kick. John and Jen struggled themselves and had no good plan to offer either – “I guess I just have to wash my shirt, press my pants and keep coming back. Hopefully the money does not run out too soon…” Jen and John were deep in their bodybuilding sleep when I opened the door.
There were phone messages! Hallelujah!
One of them was from McDonalds on the East Side wanting my services next morning at 8AM. The other was Sally from El Torito who wanted to try me at waitering at 10AM. What a conundrum. McDonalds of course looked more stable but with $4.25 per hour I could not possible survive for too long. The $2.50 at El Torito looked worse, but what about the tips. I had to try both. But first things first as I even did not have a uniform – black shoes and black shirt. At least, neither clamoured for my well-worn ties nor tired white shirt.
At last, something was happening. I was up at the crack of dawn to take the first train. No more dreams of starched Wall Street collars, just give me some meat and potatoes. I was in my only dark pants, sneakers and some old blue t-shirt. It would do for McDonalds. But how could I get out of there at 9:30AM as a latest to get shoes, shirt and be at Al Torito by 10AM? Lying from the start of my hard working fast food career seemed imprudent but necessary as I entered the famed establishment just recoiling from a breakfast rush. Everything looked a little out of order as workers scurried around trying to build up their fragile defences for the next onslaught.
“Sorry, John, I have to leave at 9:30 today as I have an appointment with Immigration” – slightly stunned by a request for shorter hours so early in my hamburger career, my manager quickly agreed. After a death in the family, nothing ranges as high on the American staircase of excuses as dates with Immigration and IRS. This time it worked like a charm. Free to bugger off in an hour and a bit I plunged into my mop duties. This one like all others was watchfully supervised by the incumbent staff, all of whom was young, not very friendly and starkly black - an interesting mix considering the melting pot that is New York City.
After first few moderately successful and vigorous attempts at the mop, I was assigned a duty behind a cash register. Actually, it is not quite true as there was another warm body to separate me from the money. This was a shift supervisor who was going to teach me some McDonald’s magic. I was there to watch, smile and deliver freshly heated up goodies to those enamoured with junk food.
“Hamburger! Double cheeseburger with large fries and sprite! Hash browns!” – my head started to spin dashing back and forth between the register and hot counter. Stepping on everybody’s toes, shoving stuff in bags and smiling to the next customer was quickly sucking my energy. I got even worse when I was entrusted with clunking on the register nearly on my own. I only wished to be left alone as suspicious supervisor was there to pounce on any mistake. My fingers were visibly shaking, I felt like back in hell or more precisely back at Roxy’s minus middle-eastern characters. At least here they looked like giving me a real chance as opposed to using free slave-labour of yet another “trainee”.
“Ding-dong!” – it was 9:30AM, what a relief as I dashed out after punching my time card. “See you tomorrow!”
I ran like mad as I had to criss-cross Manhattan from Park to eighths and then drop from the 53rd to the 38th in order to buy cheap sneakers at Pay-Less. Next was to run to the 34th, quickly grab a black shirt and speed up the last stretch to the 5th. This felt like a world-class steeple-chase. Eins, Zwei, Drei… At 10:05AM I descending down to El Torito, habitually dripping with sweat and hoping that my third try at food business would be the charm.
The rest was just a miracle. I met my beloved Al who did not mind at all me trailing him all day on his double shift. I loved the laid-back atmosphere, kitchen banter and money, as Al cleared $100 in tips that day – a whole week’s worth of McDonalds’ hamburger flapping. Thank God I did not have to go back there. This was my destiny. Going back home that day I felt as happy and peaceful as an inebriated father after receiving news of his first born. I was just gliding on thin air.
Farewell to Al
Al was going to stay for another week or so, but everybody felt sad enough to mark the occasion on the spot. After all it was Saturday, moribund business day for early-to-bed shopping crowds of the 34th street, so the restaurant closed early and we all marched to O’Reily’s by the Madison Square Garden. A couple of managers, Margaret and Gus, joined our motley crew on the way to this delicious and very Irish watering hole that boasted real Guinness and a goodly amount of attitude served with some heavy meat products.
It was delicious time of dreaming about the future, mostly Al’s, and that of building plans for one true American dream. Hardly anybody sniffed at picket fences, double garages and kids in the backyard. Nobody wished it more than Gus – slightly older, more mature and well-documented (although I had my doubts) he dreamt of a mortgage, a wife and a couple of ninos. His dream was a little slow in coming as he was still sharing a Jersey apartment with a couple of types and saving money for better tomorrow. I couldn’t know it better since I was one of his roommates. It has been more than two months since I joined Gus and his Mexican buddy Juan in their pad. We split rent three ways and I had my own room at whooping $270 per month plus an illegal satellite with umpteen amounts of channels with some entirely avoiding PG ratings. It was only half a block away from Lincoln Boulevard and the spectacular postcard Manhattan view – I could not wish anything better, especially where I came from…
Newark, New Jersey
After a week of commuting between El Torito and Maplewood, it became clear that I had to move. I started making some money and overstaying John and Jen’s hospitality was not in my plans. And yet I felt very sad about prospects of moving on my own. Considering the shortest of time frames and urgent need for cheap I frantically perused East Jersey papers for suitable options – Manhattan was out of question.
One of such ads flogged cheap existence at a weekly rate of $70 per week plus deposit. Just within few blocks of the Newark train station - my lot was on the rise! A quick call to the location revealed an available, ready for picking, option. John’s was a little apprehensive about the location. But such as life, as he managed to stifle his protective fatherly feelings towards his protégé. We loaded up my life possession in two suitcases and drove off.
His apprehension did let up when we drove right through the middle of the ghetto that is Newark. Known as somewhat of a successful upstart in the prosperous fifties and sixties, it had seriously gone downhill since then. While preserving a bit of downtown core with some semblance of respectability welcoming suburban commuters to their well-maintained and secured underground parking garages, the rest of the city had gone to some very serious and nearly irretrievable pot. Boarded up stores, gaping glass-less windows and red brick of projects marked the desperate place of human misery that it truly was. Almost exclusively black it was infested with crime, depravity and drugs being pushed on many a corner with upswept needles peppering sidewalks in plain view.
My digs were located in a rickety five story walk-up with my perch right at the penthouse level. The level of accommodations was similar to that of a weekly rate hotel on the Vancouver East Side or right downtown New Orleans. I stuck out as a sore thumb among decidedly darker clientele. Not that I felt much intimidation – after all I have traversed Harlem unharmed – but the feeling of awkwardness was palpable. John helped me with the luggage all the way into my tiny room that was lavished with a small stove, a fridge, a small table and a single bed with nothing else to mention outside of an ancient wardrobe shoved against a narrow window that betrayed no signs of air conditioning. I was to share a hallway bathroom with other habitants of this palatial arrangement. The only source of light in the area was a single bulb thickly coated in a spider web – a tell-tell sign of no star ratings on the place.
Saying good-bye was somewhat awkward and difficult, especially for John who almost felt like crying. This was the time to assure his sweet suburban sensibilities that everything was going to be alright. And it was despite noisy neighbouring ghetto blasters, booming voices in the foyer and stifling heat that I had to endure for the next two weeks. Many a time I felt lonely and lost, just like young Vito Carleone during his Ellis Island quarantine. With no entertainment options and basic diet of orange pop and peanut butter sandwiches, Bible was my only companion – always tarrying to life up my spirits. Fortunately, my quarantine was no quarantine at all as I got to go to work almost everyday except Sunday. I loved it – I loved my new job, my co-workers and customers, especially the ones who left decent tips.
After making a couple of hundred dollars I even opened a bank account and became a legitimate member of society with a bank book. It was respectable and safe as I did not have to carry my hard earned cash around Newark with its streets completely abandoned when I had a habit of returning from an evening shift. Luckily my sojourn in this cloaca of human misery did not last more than a couple of weeks when Gus suggested that I joined him and Juan in their almost spectacular location in West New York.
I never felt so relieved leaving save for saying sayonara to Red Army. Loaded with two full suitcases and a bag, I happily squeezed onto the next bus to the way to Gus’s. It was one of those crisp sunny days in early autumn that everyone adored, so did my spirit as birds sang and danced in my heart and adjoining arteries.
West New York
As mentioned my next port of call was a far cry from ravages of Newark. Quite on the contrary it was a reasonably respectable neighbourhood. It fact there were two. One was one of the plushest and expensive pieces of real estate found outside of Manhattan. It consisted of magnificent townhouses, high rises and occasional homes fronting the Lincoln Boulevard. Despite a noisy thoroughfare the folks did not seem to mind living here one iota considering spectacular Manhattan skyline views that made especially mesmerising splash every clear night. Every time coming back home at night I could not help but feel elated and nearly levitating at the fairy tale view of the lit-up monster. I was not the only one admiring as majority of these folks in townhouses who were mostly white, English speaking and undoubtedly well-financed.
Half a block from the Lincoln Boulevard the demographics suddenly and very dramatically changed. Forget about your highly touted Ivy League English and dramatic Manhattan views. Here on out, Spanish was a preferred tongue with most people hailing from all sorts of southern locales including Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic and of course Mexico. All stores here offered everything in Spanish first, some relied on it entirely. Laundromats, churches and long-distance telephone outfits – all were geared to Hispanics. Predictably, rents just plummeted around the corner from the lush high rise gardens and casually parked Porsches. Here people drove beat-up cars, ate a lot of carbs and let to riff-raff like me.
I absolutely loved my new surroundings. The view of course was the main reason but apart from that there was something really liberating and very capitalist on these high Jersey escarpments. “Maybe this elusive American dream really exists?” – I pondered on many occasions.
Besides there were parks, a couple of small lakes and great basketball courts with the best view in the world. Here I attempted to try my old dribbling savvy of once a bench warmer on the university basketball team. This time I was up against some unorganized bunch of guys from the neighbourhood. Not particularly tall, muscular or athletic - they did not appear to be very threatening as I fancied my chances. Two, three minutes into the game I realized that my patented perimeter jump shot here was old news with guys zigzagging past me at hundred miles an hour while bragging convoluted and very controlled drills with some culminating in dunks, fade-aways and other stuff I had only seen on TV. Wow, I barely managed to stay afloat with some basic passes and un-fanciful moves. “If that’s the way they play here on the street, what do they do on professional courts?” – I marvelled, feeling a near end to my mercilessly short American basketball career – “I think I will stay close to tacos instead”.
In my free time I ventured further inland to assert my rightful citizenship by attending the local library and then forgetting to return books on time – a sure sign that I had arrived. Having re-established contact with home and some of my friends, including gregarious Tracy from BC, my life was slowly turning into a pleasant routine. I even was able to gift $50 to John and Jen on the occasion of their wedding. Surely I was a legitimate member of society with social insurance, health coverage and even, a monthly commuter ticket. I can survive here! Sure more money would be nice as plentifully proved by Juan who bussed tables in some high end establishment at $700 per week. May be one day, I too could graduate to something more lucrative but for now I just wanted to fit in the groove and glide. Sure I made some enquiries about going to school and maybe finding another job but none of it was more than a half-hearted effort at motion. After all without financial aid I could hardly count on much more than some vocational courses. One thing was remaining unsettled though, as having become a Christian a year before I longed for a community I could share my faith with.
Once I went to a local Presbyterian church with no particularly great results. The pews were predominantly empty, the parishioners old and sermon too scripted and boring. Sure there were some friendly smiles by the exit – too late I made up my mind. The following Sunday I decided to try a local Spanish charismatic church. This was completely the opposite – people celebrated, pews were stuffed and everybody waved, swayed and sang during a lengthy service. Alas, all of it was in Spanish and although my knowledge of the beautiful tongue was growing rapidly I still found much of what was going on a little foreign and puzzling. In other words I did not belong here either.
New Promise
Here showed up Kevin and invited me to a devotional of people seemingly my age. I was elated. To be honest I did not even know what devotional meant, but demurred in asking as it sounded very Christian and heart-warming. I could not wait till Wednesday hoping to find my long-lost family. Finally it arrived and I found myself in front of a theatre, not a church, right in the middle of Times Square…
(To be continued)
Three Months Ago
The smile was even becoming a fixture on my face as I was settling into some resemblance of normalcy amid crazy traffic, indifferent crowds and overflowing energy. For the past three months, I had been re-building my defences with my first ever legal job in America. Finding it was not easy even after receiving my work permit back in July. I did not look then and after taking a month-long detour in Vermont (another story) my chances did not seem to improve. When I came to New York in the middle of August not only had I lost time but also some front teeth that now awkwardly hang in my mouth thanks to a massive metal brace.
Back in the Big Apple with my last four hundred bucks to my name, I could no longer munch off people since having a temporary work permit accorded me a permanent status of responsibility. At the same time I did need some start-up concessions such a temporary place to stay while looking for work. Dorin’s Queen’s would have been just splendid – alas, my beloved couch was now occupied by the next arrival – Dorin’s friend Helen. She, being a refined and educated sort of girl, was not about tolerate too much of my rough company let alone sharing a bathroom and other life necessities. I had to look elsewhere. Since luxury of having countless New York friends was not forthcoming, I had to resort to the only option on the block – John and Jennifer in New Jersey.
These welcoming and very hospitable folks once again came to my rescue by dolling out a whole room on the second floor of their small neat house amidst tranquil centennial trees, one large dog and at least six hungry and purring cats. The food in the fridge and grass in the yard were still there for me to deal with except now my stay had to be responsibly short. No more loitering around wondrous suburbia and its neat hedges, I needed a job and fast. To my previous experience and current dismay, jobs in sleepy Maplewood and environs were very scarce, low paying and hardly attainable. Instead, making a track into the proverbial space sink of New York City was the only option. Luckily, downtown New York was only about 45 minutes away by train in addition to a mere 1.5 mile stroll to the railway station. Once there, the whole world was at one’s feet – at least what some songs believably alluded to…
“What should I become” was a very intriguing key question. After all I had four years if post-secondary education, many life experiences and healthy front teeth behind me. Now as a true grizzled veteran I seriously contemplated a rocketing Wall Street career. Why not? – was an inspiring question so easily answered by heroes of many a movie including the super hit of them all – “Wall Street”. I could just close my eyes and imagine the sweetest feeling of being surrounded by mounds of dollars – hundreds, thousands of them just snuggling against every part of my body just like your favourite pillow – caressing, massaging and pandering to one’s every move – mesmerising!
Bef6re starting my job search in earnest I took a day to peruse New Times, no less, and make some necessary phone calls. A couple of them were to follow up on some broker positions right in the heart of Wall Street. To my amazement and they were willing to interview the rookie – wow! Little did I know then about what actually was Wall Street – the place hardly suited for clueless seekers of luck – these usually get slaughtered.
Sure there were some of those, but by and large the real money was made by relatively few, preferably with Wharton or Harvard credentials. The rest of mortals did not stand a chance consigned to the vagaries of thousand small firms pushing through dubious financial schemes really fit exclusively for speculators. Of course, an average speculator knew a thing or two about such schemes and usually stayed away unless they really controlled them. So with obvious dearth of natural customers these places thrived on dentists, thrill junkies and retired grandmas – sometime with all three combined into one – a powerful cocktail! Many of these “investments” offered cosmic returns and required little persuasion even for the worst of adrenaline seekers. That’s were the “brokers” came in and although these “jobs” peppered such respectable publications as York Times and required all basic statutory credentials, they really did not pay any salary and were interesting only to select few who knew many and knew how to persuade the rest of humanity to part with their money. Apart from these, there were also many a less shady pushers of investments such as Dean Witter or Bear Sterns, however, on the brokering side of the business these guys did not pay any salaries either while being much more selective in choosing their workforce that usually required at least a business degree from Baruch College.
This was the middle of 1992, the market was moribund and applicants many. I was hardly aware of these intricacies and solely relied on my “unique” insight and an old worn-out blue suit of distinctly Soviet cut. Joining the ranks of people working for living at the Maplewood railway station was an uplifting event – I was going to New York City, my mood was upbeat, jittery and hungry, especially since I had to shell out a small fortune of $6 to get to Hoboken, the Path Train terminal that eked out another dollar to deliver me across Hudson right into the bowels of downtown Manhattan. When still on the train I chatted with my next seat companion who was quick to start a conversation given my apparent respectability and a copy of fresh Wall Street Journal clutched under my arm. Most of the stuff in the paper was high-fluting gobbledygook so entertaining my middle class companion was way more fun. Mentioning that I was on way to Wall Street after just a few short months on the American soil elicited much enthusiasm on his part and myrrh of happiness on mine – America was really a land of opportunity – just reach out and grab it, the rest was just perpetual bliss!
Saying good-bye to my momentary cheerleader I was alone, standing right in the midst of the most awesome sight of all – the court yard of the Wall Trade Centre. Surely, NYC prided itself on its dizzying heights and behemoth size since the days of JP Morgan but nothing could really prepare one for a virgin gaze upwards to measure up to this architectural feat. Its numerous and sharp ribs seemed to thrust all the way to scratch the underbelly of heaven itself – unforgettable!
Now was the time to proceed into the dark tunnel like bowels of the money capital of the world. I found my first appointment on the twenties floor of an old grey (they are all grey) stone edifice that must have been gracing local landscape since pre-1929 times of happiness. Old, ornate cast-iron doors led to spacious offices of “Boiler and Co”. My whole body tensed up, blood rushed to my face, my palms wet as I was about to face my destiny. I felt like a 100-dash champion before unleashing an onslaught on my rivals but for now I had to wait and this was the worst part. In fact, it was so painful that the process of waiting itself threatened to kill me. Luckily, the busy phone-jumping secretary managed to locate my presence relatively quickly – “ah, you are here to see Mr. Johnston?”
“Yes” I stuttered – “He’ll see in a minute” she said ushering me into a large office with a wide desk, some pens, paper and not much else if you do not count the magnificent window view of the famed locale.
I sat, gnawed on my nails and waited some more. “Swoosh”- brash, young and tall Mr. Johnston rushed in to close the door behind what betrayed a flurry of activity next door. He was muscular, square-jawed and looked to belong on a rugby pitch of an English public school. He was a purebred and I had to coil in to sum up my readiness and get ready to sacrifice my body in service to “Boiler and Co.” “I was willing to learn fast and that was my brightest asset”.
Probably fresh out of college and ready to do the same Mr. Johnston was clearly in the rush to sift through his candidates. Mine did not take long as my short resume bespoke less than volumes about my suitability. To my slight surprise Mr. Johnston did not care as much about my knowledge of stocks and bonds. What he was really trying to ascertain was whether I knew anybody in the dental field. Did he need a referral? I was a bit stumped and mercifully released. With an obligatory smile and “we will call you” trailing behind I quickly found my way back to the elevator. Since I still took things at their naïve face value, the last phrase sounded sort of encouraging. The only negative aspect of the whole thing was an apparent multitude of other candidates now occupying numerous chairs in the reception hall. They did not look any worse than I with all their suits looking way shinier – I was in a tough company.
A quick jot to the next location produced very similar “we will call you” result. All I had to do now was to go back to New Jersey and wait for fateful calls trying to beat each other in heaping offers to their brilliant candidate! Fortunately, an old Soviet sceptical nature dictated that I undertook something more practicable especially since my Jersey phone had an answering machine. Why not look around for other opportunities; after all I had the whole day and a pre-paid return ticket. After all, my freshly crumpled suit could withstand more action that day.
I kind of weighed my chances in a quick run down of a possible career. Law – this was at least three years of school – too long; medicine – more years and too much blood; sales – I am already waiting for call backs. Sobering up and weighing my chances tremendously enhanced by a suit, I decided to try retail – shoes, purses and furniture would do. After scouring a few nearby locations that blunted my onslaught with unmistakable “No” I decided to wonder uptown and assess the situation. The stroll gave me a better look at the city and saved me a $1.25 subway fair.
Tracing up Broadway, the picture did not look all that promising as I traversed through Tribeca, Chinatown and Little Italy. Everything seemed a little shabby, forlorn and covered with old garbage of paper cups, cigarette buts and torn newspapers covered in Wall Street “help wanted” ads. Many rough looking characters were lounging on public benches and some very homeless people were asking for change just about on every street corner. With many a storefront shut by the latest economic recession, there seemed to be not many takers clamouring for my services.
The situation slightly improved past 14th street and I was feeling a renewed surge of confidence. By the time I shuffled all the way up to 34th street the mood was definitely festive as I spotted the famed Macys. Planted right in the heart of the city, it flag-shipped the retail Mecca for the masses that stretched across the belly of Manhattan like a tight undersized belt after a Christmas dinner. The squeeze of 34th street was tight and inescapable for many in search of consumption fix, the first rail of American miracle – the place was thickly studded with restaurants, shops, crowds and homeless – very American. After forlorn sidewalks and crumbling lofts of Tribeca I felt claustrophobic amidst swirling crowds clamouring to devour anything in sight. Surely there must be a place for my services. How it can be otherwise – I can smile, be friendly, circumspect and servile! It might not be as glamorous as back there on Wall Street but I did not need to know any dentists and they actually paid by the hour, not much but steady. I was enthusiastic and confident of my chances. Trying Macys felt like the best idea since there were big, selling and catered to thousands with some of whom might only speak Russian. My candidacy looked unbeatable as I took in some air, Napoleonic-ly puffed my chest and pushed the door.
Stepping inside after natural outdoors nearly killed my eye sockets as I desperately tried to escape the glitter – shiny cosmetic bottles, chic accessory counters and ever smiling faces of obsequious sales people nearly knocked me and my tired suit out of contention. Believing in better luck upstairs I rushed the steps up to the HR department perching on the sixth floor. Huffing and puffing, my hopes lingered longer than they should have as the numerous applicants occupied a number of seats ahead of me. Most of them strikingly young, beautiful and well-dressed were not even in the same league. Yet I gave it a shot filling in a lengthy application while chit-chatting with my next seat neighbour – a very useful chatter box he was. It turned out that most of the jobs did not pay any higher than $7 to $8 bucks an hour and they vastly preferred applicants from a special institution christened New York Institute of Fashion and Technology. I did know some things about technology but the word fashion made me slightly queasy – may be they had janitor positions?
After hopelessly dropping my application in a pile of thousands, I felt alone and foreign. All my schooling, degrees and suits seemed to mean precisely squat when it came to New York’s job market, perhaps following the footsteps of Godfather in the food business was going to be my best bet. At least I felt just as hungry and desperate as a latest victim of Don Fanucci.
It was late afternoon; I was starving with my choice selection for the evening being a prime NY hot dog at $1.50 plus drink. I felt a slight surge of hot dog energy. Well, this was not going to last long and it was time to assail as many a restaurant in the vicinity of Midtown as possible. Mexican, Italian, McDonalds, all fell cringing under my assault. And although most of the responses were decidedly negative a few places seem to be in the mood to gamble a bit. One Times Square establishment called Roxy’s wanted me to try-out the next day as their host du jour – who said it was an inferior suit?
Completely strung out and exhausted I stumbled 1.5 miles back to John and Jen’s well past midnight. My feet were worn-out by my sole-unfriendly Soviet models and there were no messages waiting on the answering machine. I slid into the oblivion of a hot Jersey August night.
El Torito
For three months now I have been earning my keep under the glorious auspices of this second-rate taco establishment that occupied the basement of the Empire State Building. Part of a large restaurant operator we shared the facilities with another restaurant owned by the same guys – “Hoolihans” with a decidedly Irish motive. Their place was usually hopping since they offered rowdier beer selection and more common British cuisine mixed with specials from all over, including Cajun. Our theme was a little more one-sided, firmly settling for second best in the fight for the basement bragging rights. Not in a least dismayed by our performance, I was happy, as could be, dishing out fajitas, burritos and chimichangas. After all this was legitimate work that had some benefits and even medical insurance that came at a small premium. Although our wages came to just $2.50 per hour and amounted to $50 weekly pay checks, my tips more than made for it usually averaging around $400 per week. I felt nearly overwhelmed with riches after all I could save at least $1,000USD every month! Translating this bounty into roubles gave me headache almost every time.
What I loved the most about the place were the people. They came from all over the place creating sort of a mini UN right on premises. Sally, my manager, hired me from the street somehow sensing that I really needed a job more than most. She was an immigrant herself and could certainly relate. She came from somewhere in the Caribbean about twenty years ago. Now with family and kids she still exuded a great deal of hot Caribbean charm and a surprising laid-back disposition.
Our kitchen staff came nearly exclusively from Haiti and Africa not counting bartender Alex from Brazil. He was a great calm compliment to his fiery and flamboyant Creole co-workers always ready to dish-out at waiters whenever they could. Usually joined by Zambians and Nigerians on a swing shift they relished bothering me about eating their refried rice. The food was just as spicy and fun. No real animosity but a whole a lot of friendly banter, hot air and laughter.
“Where are my beef fajitas for table ten?” screamed somebody at the top of his lungs before slamming the double-action aluminium swing doors, this was Al, the Indian - the man who claimed perfectly legal papers, university education, much Hindu charm and Brooklyn accent.
“You are getting on my nerves with your fajitas, man. I told you five minutes, take a sip of lemonade or something, f$%k” – Haitian Patrice with looks of a true 100-meter track king loved needling our Al.
“Whatever, just get moving...” – Al just rushed in to make another pass in front of table ten, just in case. We worked on commissions and were always in the rush to collect it. The kitchen dudes, being on hourly wage, could not care less. They always suspected that we made more and that did not help the cooperation. But somehow it worked – “Al, your bloody fajitas are getting co-o-o-old” – sang African Umbu with his thick cheeks jiggling like jelly.
“Thanks, ass” – Al scurried with his fajitas barely avoiding a fateful crash with Carlos, the busboy.
“Cabron!” - fired Carlos. He did not speak much English and vastly preferred his beloved Mexican expletives to dump on anyone in his way, especially our slick Al. “Cabron yourself” – Al was adept at multilingual fights at a slightest provocation.
Besides Al, out waiting staff boasted yours truly complemented by two Bangladeshi cowboys, Tiram and Victor, Californian sun girl Lisa, Megan the vegan and perennial cursing primadona Rosa from some jungle in Columbia. Apart from Carlos we also had a Puerto Rican teenager Ruiz who spent all his money on shoes and jewellery. It was a phenomenal mishmash of personalities, colours and languages. Add to the mix Puertorican gagster kitchen and Long Island based white waiting staff from Houlihans and you get the idea. It was just fun, I did not care that I wore a smelly black shirt, jeans and apron instead of a suit. People were genuine, energetic and hopeful. Most were genuinely unhappy with their lowly station in American life but somehow real in their concerns, sometimes lack of proper legal status and inexhaustible hope for tomorrow. It could not be otherwise after all we were at the bottom of the most famous office tower in America.
A break after a short but hectic lunch usually gave one at least a free hour if you were scheduled for dinner. Overexposed to Tex-Mex as a matter of work I vastly preferred Houlihans kitchen. The food for staff was free and one could order just about anything on the menu. I immensely preferred Chicken Parmesan, coke and a cigarette scrounged off always happy Victor. This tiny, thin boned fine citizen of Bangladesh represented the best his poor country could offer. He was diligent, prompt and shipped most of his earnings home to help his family. He could not have done otherwise. He was a part of a collective, and even individualist American culture was not going to change his mind. He was as much as firm as philosophic in his compassionate attitude - he was just a part of bigger family and helping was in their blood. I felt like a bit of a bastard sometimes – after all I rarely called or send anything to my mother. “I would do more soon…but now I am just too shell-shocked and happy to be where I am” – I pondered selfishly while puffing on one of Victor’s Marlboroughs.
“I need to go to a store for few minutes, want to come”
“No, I’ll just nap a bit” – I loved to curl up in one of the booths on occasion.
The sleep was not coming, as recent and terrorising memories of helplessness were flooding my mind. The thoughts were racing and would not stop. “Thank you God, as remembered my second day, job searching on the unfriendly streets of New York.
Roxy’s
After cosmically deep sleep at John and Jen’s, I had hard time keeping up with my commuter demands. In fact, I had to undertake a mad rush from Penn Central to Times Square just to make it for a 10AM appointment at Roxy’s diner. With fresh streaks of sweat rolling down my cheeks, I rolled in to start my career at hosting indifferent touristy crowds of Times Square fame. I was pared up with some nice looking girl from Long Island. She was a pro as I struggled to smile and appear at ease while dealing with “early special” stampedes clad in wide-hanging T-shirts and white sneakers.
After ushering just a few groups of customers through a maze of tables in this hopping upscale diner, my try-out suddenly ended with a “fail” mark. I strained to figure out why but failed to receive a satisfactory answer from Hassan, a fiery dark eyed middle-eastern type managing the place. Amazingly, something must have moved in his almost robotic heart – “OK, come back at seven o’clock and we’ll try you behind the counter”.
Having a whole day to kill before the next try-out (sorry NFL), I decided to keep roaming around Manhattan for other job options. The easy work it wasn’t and hot sun-drenched Manhattan was rapidly losing its golden lustre – “Where is this bleeding goose laying those golden eggs. So far I cannot even wash anyone’s dishes for free”. I felt a little helpless again. To beat the nagging tinge of despair I needed to keep moving scouring Midtown once again.
I have to say this must have been the most educational day in local geography. First I swept through the garment district with its numerous wholesale/retail shops, warehouses and other dusty establishments. Block after block the whole place was just beset by these, straining to provide latest and cheap fashions to New Yorkers streaming up to the sixth floor to apply for Macy’s jobs. I got it - they bought, applied, ate at Roxy’s and went home. They did the same thing all over again, day after day – but where did they get the money? This was the key question I have not clued in yet.
I came here on a tourist visa but I was not a tourist anymore. My first sighting of Empire State Building had nothing to do with its inspiring heights; these were the lofty elevations I could not afford. Instead I paid particular attention to some fine retail establishment on the ground level. One of these was a restaurant that apart from above the ground bar also had downstairs eatery. Gingerly edging downstairs I braced for yet another indifferent “no”. At the bottom of the stairs by host stand I saw a very attractive middle aged lady with soft southern face and welcoming smile – I met Sally, the manager, and the rest was going to be history. She promised to let me know when to come for training and my hardened heart believed – for the first time in days I recaptured a ray of hope.
Another hopeful beam of light entered my consciousness when I filled out an application for a McDonald’s job. The burly manager seemed receptive to my candidacy for a try at the till and his “we will call you” sounded a little more reassuring. Just one look at the hectic kitchen hacking at hamburgers, cheese and fries and I knew – this was the rock bottom with a starting wage of $4.25 per hour. Completely drained I chugged out of there towards my fateful appointment with Roxy’s.
This was just around the time when theatre going crowds were warming up for latest Broadway instalments. They were hungry, permed and ruthless, ready to consume anything in sight after a day of heavy sightseeing. I was the sacrificial lamb – darting to and fro delivering goodies from behind the counter and constantly mixing up orders, after all I was not up to date on American delicatessen jargon. I had to learn on the fly under the critical eyes of my new middle-eastern masters who couldn’t care less about my well-being.
“Faster, faster!” – their constant goading shrills were driving me crazy.
“What the hack is Dijon?” – I asked myself while pretending to know what I was doing while fishing a proper package out of a condiments basket.
“BLT with fries” – well, I knew about the fries but can anybody explain the concept of BLT – I just kept swishing sweat streaming down my face.
“Coffee with double cream” – at least I can get this – what a relief! “And I do not even know if I am still working here and at what wage?”
“Anaya! Anaya!” – the owner barked at me. I was dizzy and could not possibly comprehend the request. “Anaya, bottle of Anaya” - he screamed, grinding his well-worn gold teeth. Luckily, I caught the last rail of the departing train – “aah, the bottle of water! Eureka!”
“Well, you do not need to scream so much even if your rent is high” – was my last conscious thought before plunging back into the mayhem of ketchup, coffee and rudeness.
Those five hours behind the counter at Roxy’s were probably the most exhausting of my whole life. My clothing, shirt and pants, were drenched. It was nearly midnight and I did not even know if I could get back to Maplewood, shuffling my sore feet along to the Penn Central by many fellow human beings getting ready for a hot night right under the stars – how romantic and in a drastic need of shower. Barely managing to get the last train in Hoboken I was finally back in my bed with no messages waiting – welcome to America!
Back at El Torito
Momentary back from my midday nightmare, I got up and took a swig of Coke. Ahh, this was much better – a good starting jolt for my evening shift.
“Eh, Alex, how are doing?” – this was Kevin from next door, Houlihans. Kevin was a very friendly type who got picked on more than anybody else in the place. He looked like a carbon copy of Bubba Gump less his accent and interest in things outside shrimp industry. He actually was an aspiring actor who had spent years trying with hardly any success. And yet he smiled. I did not care if others made fun of him after all there was something very warm, almost grandmotherly, about him.
“Hi Kevin, how are things?” I was getting very adept at standard American replies even if they meant nothing.
“Alex, I know you have mentioned that you have gone to church back in Russia. Would you be interested to come to a devotional with my friends?” – his effulgent smile was about to blind me, how nice.
“Sure, sounds like a great idea. Tell me more”
“Just a whole bunch of people, mostly young, mostly aspiring entertainers, get together and worship” – I felt like in a warm motherly cocoon. Purrr.
“Well, I am entertainer, but I will come for sure. When is it?” – “Next Wednesday at noon, I’ll give you directions, or we can go together” – “Great Kevin, see you later. Oh here is our Indian Prince!” Al just re-appeared for his evening instalment of “Serve me a taco”.
“What did this loser want” – he warmly sidled up to sip a Coke of his own.
“Do not be so hard on him Al. He is a nice guy, just needs somebody to talk to once in a while. Anyway, what’s up with you?”
“I am leaving” – “Get out of here!” – “No, I am serious; I got a gig with Nobody Beats the Wiz. Two weeks of training and then you can make some real coin. Maybe close to fifty grand”. I was flabbergasted, fifty grand, I had hard time comprehending such great pile of green. Besides, I loved Al and his brash princely ways. He became my mentor from my first day at el Torito when he showed me his waitering art. He was quick, efficient and supple enough to grab the most tables and make the most coin. He was inspiring and I would hate to lose him.
“Screw you, Al! I have just started to enjoy my self and there you are leaving us” – “C’est la Vie, buddy. I’ll drop by for a beer or something. Do not worry…”
“I wish…” thoughts of my first El Torito steps just came flooding back like those of a first kiss that worked.
McDonalds
For the next couple of days I made few more fruitless attempts to conquer Manhattan. I called Roxy’s just to find out that I got no shifts. What about those exhausting hours serving behind the counter? Well, I did not even speak up although John insisted that I showed up there and collected my lawful wages. To be honest, that was the last thing on my mind as I just wanted to avoid that terrifying glare of the human-less middle-eastern eyes. For now, I avoided Times Square knocking on every door that could remotely resemble a place where they hired. By night fall with a lunch of a single hot dog I would trudge back to Jersey. I no longer felt like a proud commuter with bright future on Wall Street, instead I felt like a piece of dung which everybody around was lining up to kick. John and Jen struggled themselves and had no good plan to offer either – “I guess I just have to wash my shirt, press my pants and keep coming back. Hopefully the money does not run out too soon…” Jen and John were deep in their bodybuilding sleep when I opened the door.
There were phone messages! Hallelujah!
One of them was from McDonalds on the East Side wanting my services next morning at 8AM. The other was Sally from El Torito who wanted to try me at waitering at 10AM. What a conundrum. McDonalds of course looked more stable but with $4.25 per hour I could not possible survive for too long. The $2.50 at El Torito looked worse, but what about the tips. I had to try both. But first things first as I even did not have a uniform – black shoes and black shirt. At least, neither clamoured for my well-worn ties nor tired white shirt.
At last, something was happening. I was up at the crack of dawn to take the first train. No more dreams of starched Wall Street collars, just give me some meat and potatoes. I was in my only dark pants, sneakers and some old blue t-shirt. It would do for McDonalds. But how could I get out of there at 9:30AM as a latest to get shoes, shirt and be at Al Torito by 10AM? Lying from the start of my hard working fast food career seemed imprudent but necessary as I entered the famed establishment just recoiling from a breakfast rush. Everything looked a little out of order as workers scurried around trying to build up their fragile defences for the next onslaught.
“Sorry, John, I have to leave at 9:30 today as I have an appointment with Immigration” – slightly stunned by a request for shorter hours so early in my hamburger career, my manager quickly agreed. After a death in the family, nothing ranges as high on the American staircase of excuses as dates with Immigration and IRS. This time it worked like a charm. Free to bugger off in an hour and a bit I plunged into my mop duties. This one like all others was watchfully supervised by the incumbent staff, all of whom was young, not very friendly and starkly black - an interesting mix considering the melting pot that is New York City.
After first few moderately successful and vigorous attempts at the mop, I was assigned a duty behind a cash register. Actually, it is not quite true as there was another warm body to separate me from the money. This was a shift supervisor who was going to teach me some McDonald’s magic. I was there to watch, smile and deliver freshly heated up goodies to those enamoured with junk food.
“Hamburger! Double cheeseburger with large fries and sprite! Hash browns!” – my head started to spin dashing back and forth between the register and hot counter. Stepping on everybody’s toes, shoving stuff in bags and smiling to the next customer was quickly sucking my energy. I got even worse when I was entrusted with clunking on the register nearly on my own. I only wished to be left alone as suspicious supervisor was there to pounce on any mistake. My fingers were visibly shaking, I felt like back in hell or more precisely back at Roxy’s minus middle-eastern characters. At least here they looked like giving me a real chance as opposed to using free slave-labour of yet another “trainee”.
“Ding-dong!” – it was 9:30AM, what a relief as I dashed out after punching my time card. “See you tomorrow!”
I ran like mad as I had to criss-cross Manhattan from Park to eighths and then drop from the 53rd to the 38th in order to buy cheap sneakers at Pay-Less. Next was to run to the 34th, quickly grab a black shirt and speed up the last stretch to the 5th. This felt like a world-class steeple-chase. Eins, Zwei, Drei… At 10:05AM I descending down to El Torito, habitually dripping with sweat and hoping that my third try at food business would be the charm.
The rest was just a miracle. I met my beloved Al who did not mind at all me trailing him all day on his double shift. I loved the laid-back atmosphere, kitchen banter and money, as Al cleared $100 in tips that day – a whole week’s worth of McDonalds’ hamburger flapping. Thank God I did not have to go back there. This was my destiny. Going back home that day I felt as happy and peaceful as an inebriated father after receiving news of his first born. I was just gliding on thin air.
Farewell to Al
Al was going to stay for another week or so, but everybody felt sad enough to mark the occasion on the spot. After all it was Saturday, moribund business day for early-to-bed shopping crowds of the 34th street, so the restaurant closed early and we all marched to O’Reily’s by the Madison Square Garden. A couple of managers, Margaret and Gus, joined our motley crew on the way to this delicious and very Irish watering hole that boasted real Guinness and a goodly amount of attitude served with some heavy meat products.
It was delicious time of dreaming about the future, mostly Al’s, and that of building plans for one true American dream. Hardly anybody sniffed at picket fences, double garages and kids in the backyard. Nobody wished it more than Gus – slightly older, more mature and well-documented (although I had my doubts) he dreamt of a mortgage, a wife and a couple of ninos. His dream was a little slow in coming as he was still sharing a Jersey apartment with a couple of types and saving money for better tomorrow. I couldn’t know it better since I was one of his roommates. It has been more than two months since I joined Gus and his Mexican buddy Juan in their pad. We split rent three ways and I had my own room at whooping $270 per month plus an illegal satellite with umpteen amounts of channels with some entirely avoiding PG ratings. It was only half a block away from Lincoln Boulevard and the spectacular postcard Manhattan view – I could not wish anything better, especially where I came from…
Newark, New Jersey
After a week of commuting between El Torito and Maplewood, it became clear that I had to move. I started making some money and overstaying John and Jen’s hospitality was not in my plans. And yet I felt very sad about prospects of moving on my own. Considering the shortest of time frames and urgent need for cheap I frantically perused East Jersey papers for suitable options – Manhattan was out of question.
One of such ads flogged cheap existence at a weekly rate of $70 per week plus deposit. Just within few blocks of the Newark train station - my lot was on the rise! A quick call to the location revealed an available, ready for picking, option. John’s was a little apprehensive about the location. But such as life, as he managed to stifle his protective fatherly feelings towards his protégé. We loaded up my life possession in two suitcases and drove off.
His apprehension did let up when we drove right through the middle of the ghetto that is Newark. Known as somewhat of a successful upstart in the prosperous fifties and sixties, it had seriously gone downhill since then. While preserving a bit of downtown core with some semblance of respectability welcoming suburban commuters to their well-maintained and secured underground parking garages, the rest of the city had gone to some very serious and nearly irretrievable pot. Boarded up stores, gaping glass-less windows and red brick of projects marked the desperate place of human misery that it truly was. Almost exclusively black it was infested with crime, depravity and drugs being pushed on many a corner with upswept needles peppering sidewalks in plain view.
My digs were located in a rickety five story walk-up with my perch right at the penthouse level. The level of accommodations was similar to that of a weekly rate hotel on the Vancouver East Side or right downtown New Orleans. I stuck out as a sore thumb among decidedly darker clientele. Not that I felt much intimidation – after all I have traversed Harlem unharmed – but the feeling of awkwardness was palpable. John helped me with the luggage all the way into my tiny room that was lavished with a small stove, a fridge, a small table and a single bed with nothing else to mention outside of an ancient wardrobe shoved against a narrow window that betrayed no signs of air conditioning. I was to share a hallway bathroom with other habitants of this palatial arrangement. The only source of light in the area was a single bulb thickly coated in a spider web – a tell-tell sign of no star ratings on the place.
Saying good-bye was somewhat awkward and difficult, especially for John who almost felt like crying. This was the time to assure his sweet suburban sensibilities that everything was going to be alright. And it was despite noisy neighbouring ghetto blasters, booming voices in the foyer and stifling heat that I had to endure for the next two weeks. Many a time I felt lonely and lost, just like young Vito Carleone during his Ellis Island quarantine. With no entertainment options and basic diet of orange pop and peanut butter sandwiches, Bible was my only companion – always tarrying to life up my spirits. Fortunately, my quarantine was no quarantine at all as I got to go to work almost everyday except Sunday. I loved it – I loved my new job, my co-workers and customers, especially the ones who left decent tips.
After making a couple of hundred dollars I even opened a bank account and became a legitimate member of society with a bank book. It was respectable and safe as I did not have to carry my hard earned cash around Newark with its streets completely abandoned when I had a habit of returning from an evening shift. Luckily my sojourn in this cloaca of human misery did not last more than a couple of weeks when Gus suggested that I joined him and Juan in their almost spectacular location in West New York.
I never felt so relieved leaving save for saying sayonara to Red Army. Loaded with two full suitcases and a bag, I happily squeezed onto the next bus to the way to Gus’s. It was one of those crisp sunny days in early autumn that everyone adored, so did my spirit as birds sang and danced in my heart and adjoining arteries.
West New York
As mentioned my next port of call was a far cry from ravages of Newark. Quite on the contrary it was a reasonably respectable neighbourhood. It fact there were two. One was one of the plushest and expensive pieces of real estate found outside of Manhattan. It consisted of magnificent townhouses, high rises and occasional homes fronting the Lincoln Boulevard. Despite a noisy thoroughfare the folks did not seem to mind living here one iota considering spectacular Manhattan skyline views that made especially mesmerising splash every clear night. Every time coming back home at night I could not help but feel elated and nearly levitating at the fairy tale view of the lit-up monster. I was not the only one admiring as majority of these folks in townhouses who were mostly white, English speaking and undoubtedly well-financed.
Half a block from the Lincoln Boulevard the demographics suddenly and very dramatically changed. Forget about your highly touted Ivy League English and dramatic Manhattan views. Here on out, Spanish was a preferred tongue with most people hailing from all sorts of southern locales including Puerto Rico, Dominican Republic and of course Mexico. All stores here offered everything in Spanish first, some relied on it entirely. Laundromats, churches and long-distance telephone outfits – all were geared to Hispanics. Predictably, rents just plummeted around the corner from the lush high rise gardens and casually parked Porsches. Here people drove beat-up cars, ate a lot of carbs and let to riff-raff like me.
I absolutely loved my new surroundings. The view of course was the main reason but apart from that there was something really liberating and very capitalist on these high Jersey escarpments. “Maybe this elusive American dream really exists?” – I pondered on many occasions.
Besides there were parks, a couple of small lakes and great basketball courts with the best view in the world. Here I attempted to try my old dribbling savvy of once a bench warmer on the university basketball team. This time I was up against some unorganized bunch of guys from the neighbourhood. Not particularly tall, muscular or athletic - they did not appear to be very threatening as I fancied my chances. Two, three minutes into the game I realized that my patented perimeter jump shot here was old news with guys zigzagging past me at hundred miles an hour while bragging convoluted and very controlled drills with some culminating in dunks, fade-aways and other stuff I had only seen on TV. Wow, I barely managed to stay afloat with some basic passes and un-fanciful moves. “If that’s the way they play here on the street, what do they do on professional courts?” – I marvelled, feeling a near end to my mercilessly short American basketball career – “I think I will stay close to tacos instead”.
In my free time I ventured further inland to assert my rightful citizenship by attending the local library and then forgetting to return books on time – a sure sign that I had arrived. Having re-established contact with home and some of my friends, including gregarious Tracy from BC, my life was slowly turning into a pleasant routine. I even was able to gift $50 to John and Jen on the occasion of their wedding. Surely I was a legitimate member of society with social insurance, health coverage and even, a monthly commuter ticket. I can survive here! Sure more money would be nice as plentifully proved by Juan who bussed tables in some high end establishment at $700 per week. May be one day, I too could graduate to something more lucrative but for now I just wanted to fit in the groove and glide. Sure I made some enquiries about going to school and maybe finding another job but none of it was more than a half-hearted effort at motion. After all without financial aid I could hardly count on much more than some vocational courses. One thing was remaining unsettled though, as having become a Christian a year before I longed for a community I could share my faith with.
Once I went to a local Presbyterian church with no particularly great results. The pews were predominantly empty, the parishioners old and sermon too scripted and boring. Sure there were some friendly smiles by the exit – too late I made up my mind. The following Sunday I decided to try a local Spanish charismatic church. This was completely the opposite – people celebrated, pews were stuffed and everybody waved, swayed and sang during a lengthy service. Alas, all of it was in Spanish and although my knowledge of the beautiful tongue was growing rapidly I still found much of what was going on a little foreign and puzzling. In other words I did not belong here either.
New Promise
Here showed up Kevin and invited me to a devotional of people seemingly my age. I was elated. To be honest I did not even know what devotional meant, but demurred in asking as it sounded very Christian and heart-warming. I could not wait till Wednesday hoping to find my long-lost family. Finally it arrived and I found myself in front of a theatre, not a church, right in the middle of Times Square…
(To be continued)
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