Rosa La Rouge

Nick

The saffron sliver of morning gave shape and form to the tenements and apartments, the bridges and causeways, the myriad of string-art-intersected entrances into the city, allowing Nick’s thoughts and memories to form and dance, to vanish and reappear between the double-paned glass of the subway car and the dark ethereal morning into which the light now crept. His father’s visage formed, as it often did when Nick was still half-awake. In this particular vignette, a combination of memory and archetype, Nick’s Father was outstretched on a ladder leaned against one of the rent houses that supplied the family’s livelihood when Nick was a child. His Father needed his help; to steady the ladder, or bring a scraper, or hammer, or a second set of eyes to observe a problem and ruminate on the possible solution. 

His Father’s hand remained, waiting, when, like a magician’s trick, it vanished and Jeanie appeared, her turquoise eyes filled with life, with love for Nick, without knowledge of past or future. The feelings that Jeanie conjured: Love, disappointment, regret, longing, hurt, danced as colors around her spectre; light kaleidoscoping in the mind when eyes are tightly shut.

A flickering of lights as the train pulled into the Clark Street Station returned Nick’s consciousness to the subway car, to the hard rubberized floor beneath his feet and the postered advertisements lining the interior of the car. Although he did not ponder the reasons behind it, and though he had been a New Yorker all his life, and had taken this train, at roughly this time for the past 11 years, Nick still took comfort in watching the sea of humanity enter through the sliding double doors of the subway car. 

His routine consisted of boarding the sixth car at the Nevins Street Platform in Flatbush, entering through the double doors and settling into one of the long benches opposite the entryway. More often than not, especially this early, the bench was available. When it was not he stood in the corner of the opposite entry well. There were the regulars: The elderly gentleman who walked with a cane, its top a silver-plated rhinoceros head. He wore a dapper, albeit aged suit and hat, every day. Occasionally, and lately, frequently, Nick would exit at Grand Central, along with the gentleman and walk up to 23rd and 7th to the Bagel Maven Café, where he would wait in line to order a regular coffee and sesame bagel with a schmear. While Nick waited in the queue, the gentleman would enter the diner and take his usual seat in the full-service section,  lean his cane against the chair to his right and place his hat on the opposite side of the formicated table-top. The Dominican waitress would take his order, placing her hand on his shoulder as she greeted him. 

Sometimes it was the young girl, Mhi, from Laos, or Vietnam, or Cambodia, Nick was not sure, who waited on the gentleman. When a set was not coming together the way that it should, or the actors were on stage interrupting his tasks, he walked back down 7th street and returned to the Bagel Maven for lunch. By this time, Mhi was undoubtedly there, working in tandem with the Dominican waitress. Together, the two served late breakfasts to the tourists, and bagel sandwiches to the workers who emptied from the buildings that surrounded the avenue: The publishers and editors and copywriters from Penn Station, the suits from the law firms, the girls from the makeup counters at Macy’s, and the myriad of construction workers, cab drivers and tienda employees -  the “great unwashed” as Nick sometimes referred to them, a phrase he had picked up from his grandmother, an Irish immigrant who held strong opinions on almost every topic imaginable.

The elderly gentleman did not board the train until Clark Street. In addition to him, Nick would often see the nurse, heading to her shift at Prebyterian. There were the NYU students travelling in herds, and occasionally, the middle-aged investment banker who was terminally worried about losing his job. During a power outage resulting in the train coming to a stop in a tunnel, he and Nick struck up a conversation. After that the two would sit together whenever they spotted each other. The investment banker was originally from The South. Regardless of the initial topic of conversation, his thoughts would return to his childhood. He grew up on a golf course, where, regardless of what was happening, his father played 18 holes each and every day. He played nine holes in the morning, and then, when the investment banker’s mother returned home, his parents would play another nine. The children were left to themselves until the holes were completed. Nick could not escape the lament in the banker’s voice as he described his longing for his parents’ time and attention. The banker could not stand golf; hated the very site of a golf course. Nick thought of the banker whenever he would see someone in a suit being less than human. Everyone has a story, and everyone is a child of God, Nick reminded himself. Even bankers.

On the train this particular morning, a transient missing two fingers on each hand dozed across from him. He studied the man’s hands, which presently rested on his lap, on top of his dingy jeans, as he slumped to his left. How had he managed to lose both his index and middle fingers on each hand? So many stories, so many of the great unwashed who shuffled into and out of the city every day. It was times like this that Nick wished to be a writer. He did not have the patience for it. But their stories needed to be told. Nick had heard somewhere, or read a pithy quote that described each and every death as a library burning to the ground. On days such as this, when the subway was quiet—save for the muffled directives from the driver, the muted annotations rolling out of the crackled loud-speaker, Nick embraced that ideal.

Still, Nick knew those romantic notions could be washed away in an instant – though the gentleman missing two fingers was asleep, Nick knew he could wake up, catch Nick staring at his hands, and without drawing a breath, spill out an admonishment “What the fuck are you looking at, motherfucker?”

A library? Hardly.

Nick, on the sixth car, on the Number 2 line from Flatbush, was making his way into Manhattan, to the Lyceum theatre. He was building set pieces for a musical scheduled to open in less than two months. How many productions had he now been a part? One hundred? More? By now, they had all become the same. The only thing that changed was the venue. The Palace Theatre had an oversized stage. Sets could be as big and elaborate as the designer dared to dream. The Lyceum, on the other hand, was older. It was cramped, with odd corners. Good for hiding actors waiting to make their entrance, but bad for building sets that made the audience gasp in awe when the curtain was drawn back. Still, set designers are who they are, and how many times had Nick heard some variation of the phrase “surely we can find a way to make this work?”

Nick listened to countless rehearsals and dress rehearsals, building the sets as the rehearsals progressed, tweaking items as necessary to accommodate directors and actors alike. He was as numb to their requests and pleadings, their earnest insistence that art not be sacrificed, even though Exxon was footing the bill for this production, as he was to the sporadic admonishments on the subway line as he made his way into The City. In all his years as a builder of sets, he had seen only one play from beginning to end; a production of “Noises Off” put on by the Oberlin College Theatre Company during the second semester of his freshman year. There would not be a sophomore year for Nick, at least not a complete one.

Nick grew up helping his father, a periodic drunk who, nevertheless, possessed a tireless work ethic, repair the myriad of problems that arose in the several rent houses that his Father owned. Through necessity and guidance from his Father, as well as his brother-in-law, a full-blown alcoholic who would later, at the age of 33, collapse and die while working on one of the rent houses, Nick learned to become an apt rough and finish carpenter, without, at the time, possessing a label for either of those skills. Nick grew up repairing drywall punched through from angered fists. He removed and replaced carpeting soiled by pets given free reign of the house, but no time outside to relieve themselves. He repaired stairs, replaced roofs, framed in rooms, soldered piping, painted walls, improvising, under his father’s constant reminder, in order to consider cost; to keep in mind that these were rent houses and the tenants within were temporary. They would soon be gone to whatever life, to whatever domicile next awaited them. These skills, his Father’s attention to cost and reminder that what they were doing was for those whose lives were transient and temporary, all of it, unbeknownst to Nick at the time, made him an ideal set builder for the productions, big and small, that dotted Broadway.

Nick had enrolled in Oberlin College at the encouragement of his high school history teacher, Father Frank. Father Frank had managed to draw out in Nick a near-dormant love of learning. In particular, what had happened in our collective past that presently affected us, without our even being aware of it.

Nick learned of the particulars of the famines in Ireland, which brought not only his grandmother to New York, but Father Frank’s family as well. Father Frank’s teaching could turn on a dime. In one breath, he was talking about his Mother’s childhood in Hell’s Kitchen, and in the next he transported the class to the low mountains and plains of Texas, to Comancheria, the lands of the Commanche and Apache tribes. 

Nick would sometimes ponder the two disparate images: His and Father Frank’s families making their slow churn across the Atlantic from Cork to Brooklyn while Comanche trod their paths from Mexico through the foothills of the Rockies and into the varied corners of present day Texas. The Irish, squeezed into tenements, their lives in constant peril, the early settlers to Texas, under divine mandate, pushing into Comancheria. Neither the Comanche nor the denizens of New York recognized any mandate, spiritual or otherwise, for the respective encroachment. The Irish, dispatched through poverty and disease, the middle-aged Anglo settlers of Comancheria, meeting their maker at the hands of the Commanche, occasionally making prisoners of children, enslaving them at first and then, over time, assimilating these blue-eyed strangers fully into their tribe and culture. Both groups, eventually melding into the landscape through sheer number, wave after wave of arrival into the disparate landscapes.

Nick learned of Cynthia Ann and Quanah Parker, and how the colt revolver was purchased by the US Navy and all but forgotten, only to be rediscovered by the rag-tag group of Indian hunters called the Texas Rangers, who were desperate for a way to even the score. The Comanche: Men and boys who could fire twenty arrows from the back of a horse running at full stride, and their women, who would finish the job that the arrows started, scalping the mortally wounded, harvesting their very souls – the morbidity – the ruthlessness – the insanity of those settlers who staked a claim in the middle of hell itself, claiming themselves harbingers of true morality, but in reality, putting themselves and their loved ones in imminent peril, all for the sake of a piece of land that came to them without the exchange of any silver or goods.

Whether it be the Comanche, or Irish immigration, or Rome, or the Huns, Father Frank brought the distant past into the present, and then danced with it. All things were connected. Nothing happened in isolation. The Comanche were tied to Nick, just as Paris was tied to Kabukui. In Nick, Father Frank saw a project of sorts. He guided Nick. It was he who gave Nick a pamphlet for Oberlin College, even though Nick had never seriously considered the possibility of college. His Dad had scoffed at the utter horse-shit of higher education – men with soft hands and weak constitutions – men who could carry their thoughts, but not a hammer. Still, underneath the rough exterior, and apart from the benders, Nick’s father was a kind man.

Nick enrolled at Oberlin in the fall after his graduation from high school, receiving a decent scholarship based on a combination of family income, being a first generation college student, and an earnest and persuasive written recommendation from Father Frank. Nick’s classes were mostly core classes, held in the central academic building, but an elective in photography required him to walk to the Fine Arts Building twice a week. Between the academic and Fine Arts Building was Moody Hall, the campus theatre.

It was late August, classes not yet in session a full month, when Nick, making his way across the campus toward the student union, noticed the activity coming from inside and outside the back of the theatre. Two large doors were propped open by saw horses, each splattered with countless colors of paint and stain. In front of the doors, on the sidewalk and grass, were scattered various items of construction and repair-- saws, ladders, hammers, screwdrivers, rulers and measuring tape, and lumber. A large piece of canvas was spread on the ground and a girl, dressed in jean shorts, an oversized shirt for painting, and a tabbed ball cap with her hair pulled through, was painting an A-framed door. She was using shades of brown and black to give the effect of wood grain. It was passable, if not decent. Nick stood silently and watched the frenetic activity.

Nick noticed a young man plugging a circular saw into an extension cord. The same young man had placed a 2x4 over a sawhorse. The young man finished plugging the saw in, and tested the power by engaging the trigger. Nothing happened. He turned the saw over and examined the blade, finally turning the saw back upright and, again, pressing the trigger. 

Nick grew anxious. He flashed back to an image of a saw in his hand, his father guiding Nick’s left hand to the handle of the safety mechanism, instructing Nick to bring it back toward Nick’s body. Nick did as he was told, and with his Father’s hands over his own, Nick pressed the trigger; the saw screaming to life. Guiding Nick, his Father aligned the teeth of the saw against the wide wax pencil mark made only a moment before. The teeth of the saw’s blade tore through the pencil mark, and soon the smaller piece of wood dropped to the ground beneath them.

“You have to press the safety button and move the guard back,” said Nick.

“What?” replied the young man.

“I think the reason the saw isn’t starting is because the safety isn’t engaged.”

“And, before you begin cutting, you need to move the guard back.”

“Right,” said the young man, embarrassed that his lack of familiarity with power tools was so apparent.

“I’ve just never used this saw before,” said the young man. “It’s brand new.” 

“They are all the same,” Nick thought to himself.

“Want some help?”

“If you want. Sure.”

“I’m Nick.”

“Greg.”

The introductions were made as Nick walked toward Greg. Greg handed the saw to Nick. Nick noticed that the girl who had been painting the door had stopped her work and was watching. Nick caught her out of the corner of his eye. She was beautiful, with sharp features, crystal eyes. He thought to himself that half of the energy that he felt from the activities going on around him was coming from her, alone.

“Is there another sawhorse around,” asked Nick.

“I think so,” replied Greg.

“It’s not absolutely necessary, but it’ll give us some stability. What are you building?”

“Specifically, or in general?”

“Well, for now, specifically.”

“A frame for a big window. A bay window. It has to open and close. A lot.”

“What about in general?”

“A set for a play.”

“What’s the play?”

“Noises Off. The set is really complicated. It’s two stories and has to rotate so that both sides can be visible to the audience.”

Nick immediately started to construct the set in his mind – the supports, the stairs, the mechanisms needed to allow it to rotate.

“Want to see it?”

“Sure. Want to make this cut first?” 

Nick moved a saw horse from the double doors and brought it over, placing it four feet from the one he was already using. Nick picked up the board and put it on the two horses.

“Have you already marked the cut?”

Greg pointed out two delicate marks made 3 ½ feet from the bottom of the wood. Nick reached into the pocket of his shirt and fished out a grease pencil. He then grabbed a twelve-inch metal ruler, placed it at the 3 ½ foot mark and drew two quick, sharp lines, one on top of the other.

Nick became aware that he was taking over Greg’s job.

“Sorry. My Dad owns rent houses. I’ve been around construction my whole life.”

“I’m acting in the play. I should know more about set building, but I don’t.”

“Hold the board down there” said Nick, pointing to the sawhorse opposite of where he was standing.

Greg walked down to the saw horse and braced the board. Nick lifted the safety latch and pressed the button as he squeezed the trigger. Within seconds, the cut was made and the spare piece of wood fell to the ground.

“Awesome,” said Greg.

“What do we do with it now,” asked Nick.

Greg and Nick walked through the double doors into the back of the theatre. On one of the entrance doors, someone had taped a newspaper article of a boy who had impaled himself, through the mouth, on a rod-iron fence. Over the article, but under the picture, someone had written “Safety First!”. Lining the walls of the workshop were bins full of lumber, both new and scrap. Next to the bins, several doors in A-frames and on rollers were stored in a row. Each of them were, more or less, black, but it was obvious, even from Nick’s distance, that they had endured many coats of paint.

Nick realized that the girl outside must have selected one of the doors and was in the process of turning it from black to brown, using broad strokes to paint in wood grain so that it would be visible to the audience. 

“The stage is this way,” said Greg.

With Nick holding the 3 ½ foot piece of lumber, they walked through a single entrance and out onto the stage. Nick and Greg were standing stage left. Before Nick, a large two-story set, complete with stairs and frames for doors was in the midst of coming to life.

In the middle of the set, a couch and chair were placed. A script with highlighted lines and notes written in the margins lay on the couch, creased open to where the actor had stopped rehearsing their lines. Everywhere, people were painting, or measuring. In the middle of the house seats, two people stood, arms folded, hands occasionally pointing to various locations of the set – gesturing toward change, or explanation, or approval.

In various spots, people gathered as though around a campfire, scripts in hand, going over lines, or bullshitting, or both. Nick was mesmerized. He had seldom experienced such an energy. At the rent house, working with his brother-in-law and the few semi-regular day laborers that his father employed, apart from the occasional jokes, or exchanges during breaks, the work was done silently and deliberately.

Everyone, regardless of task, united in a common goal of building this set, of memorizing lines, of putting on this production for the entertainment and satisfaction of the audience. Nick’s heart raced a bit as Greg began to describe the set and explain the design to Nick.

“The play is divided into two major parts, and so is the set. It’s essentially a play within a play,” Greg explained. “The first half is set ‘on stage’ and the second is set back stage. It’s a farce; a play about the conflicts and relationships between the actors. You know, the real play is never the play. It’s what’s not said or seen by the audience, necessarily. It’s what happens as a show runs night after night. That’s what this play is about.

“Interesting.” Nick didn’t know what else to add.

“This is the most complicated set I’ve ever worked on. Not that I’ve worked on a ton of them. But I have worked on a few. Like I said, earlier, I’m really an actor.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m playing Freddy. Freddy Felowes. It’s a good role. He’s a fool, so he gets a lot of laughs.”

At that moment, the girl from outside walked onto the stage and paused, brush in hand. Nick took the time to observe her more closely. She was earnest with an integrity and intensity in her spirit. He was certainly attracted to her. She was surveying the various groups on the stage, looking for something, or someone, in particular.

“Jeanie!,” said Greg. “You ok?”

“Can someone help me with the door?”

Nick and Greg exchanged a quick look. Nick turned back to Jeanie.

“I can.”

“Ok?,” replied Jeanie, trying to figure out if she should know Nick or not.

Jeanie turned and went back through the workshop and out the double doors.

“Good luck,” smiled Greg as Nick started out after Jeanie.

“Thanks,” replied Nick, almost inaudibly.

“I don’t know if it’s dry enough yet, but I’d like to move it back inside,” said Jeanie.

“I’m Nick.”

“Oh, sorry. I’m Jeanie. Have I met you before?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Are you in the theatre program?”

“No. I was just walking by.”

“Right. I saw that. The theatre claims another victim.”

“I don’t know about that. I just saw, uh, Greg, trying to use the circular saw and stopped to help.”

“That’s nice of you,” Jeanie replied. “And handy with a saw? That could be pretty useful around here.”

After a brief moment, Jeanie motioned toward the door she had just painted. 

“What do you think?”

“Looks good,” replied Nick.

“No. I know it looks like crap. What I mean is, do you think we can take it inside? And I only painted the door and not the frame, do you think that will be ok?”

“Yes to both,” replied Nick.

“Ok. You grab this end,” said Jeanie, pointing to the bottom of the A-frame.

Nick helped lower the top of the door down to Jeanie. Jeanie took the weight of the door, careful to touch the frame and not the paint on the door. Nick then moved to the bottom of the door, and, as Jeanie continued to hold her end, Nick grabbed the two base supports of the frame. Too late, Nick realized that he should have stood on the opposite side. To correct his mistake and to allow him to back through the doors, Nick began to swing the door and frame around. When it was facing the right way, he began shuffling backward toward the double doors.

“Is it heavy,” asked Nick.

“No. Just awkward.”

“Yeah.”

Nick could tell that he had reached the threshold of the double doors by the change under his feet from concrete to metal. Years of carrying sheetrock made him support the prop door on his knee as he reached around and threw open the double door that he and Greg had previously closed by moving the sawhorse. He quickly moved through the double doors, letting the door he had opened bounce off of the prop door that he and Jeanie were carrying. As Jeanie neared the double doors she, too, supported the weight of the prop door on her knee and pushed against the entrance door.

“We can set it over there for now,” said Jeanie, pointing to a spot near the other prop doors. They shuffled over, with Nick still walking backward. When they had reached the other prop doors, Nick set his end down first, and then jogged over to where Jeanie was, and helped her as she pushed up.

“Thanks,” said Jeanie.

“No problem,” replied Nick.

“You’re right. I haven’t seen you before.”

“I just started. I’m taking core classes and one photography class.”

“Ah,” replied Jeanie.

“Are you from here,” asked Nick.

“Upstate. New Paltz. They have a great theatre department here.”

“Really,” replied Nick.

Jeanie smiled, “apparently it’s a well-kept secret.”

Are you in the play,” asked Nick.

“I’m Brooke.”

“Oh.”

“She’s completely clueless. It’s a fun part. I hope I’m playing against type.”

Nick smiled.

“I have to paint three more doors.”

“Want some help?”

“Yes, please.”

“Where have you been,” asked Nick’s father, as Nick walked through the door of the rental on Sommerset Street.

“Sorry. Studying.”

“We’re behind on getting this carpet out of here. Lady must’ve never let her dogs out to take a shit.”

“I can tell.”

The odor was overpowering, but Nick, his Father, and the crew, were used to it. It was almost to be expected. A tenant moves in, signs a lease promising to take care of the house, and then proceeds to destroy it. Over the years, in order to control costs, Nick’s Father had evolved a system: Cheap carpet with minimal pad that he ordered, every time, from a warehouse in Queens. White paint. White paint only. Cheap fixtures, replacing them only when necessary. It was a system born out of survival. Would it have been better to restore some of these houses to some state of grandeur? 

As Nick’s father was prone to say, “you have to be kidding.” These were rentals. The tenants are hostile and out to destroy. You hope they stay in three, or five, or eight years. You know that when they move out it will be a gut job. It is always a gut job. 8 years or three months, it did not matter. Tenants were tenants and it was always a gut job.

Nick fished a box cutter from his jean pocket and started to walk to a corner of the living room. There was no need to communicate intent between Nick and his Father. They knew each other’s next move.

“What were you studying,” asked Nick’s Father.

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“I wasn’t studying, exactly. I was helping build a set on a stage. For a play.”

“A what?”

“A set for a play.”

“What,” said Nick’s Father, for a second time.

“I saw a guy trying to work a circular saw, and he didn’t really know what he was doing, so I stopped to help.”

Nick’s Father chuckled, giving an understanding nod.

“And then there was a girl painting doors, so I helped her.”

“A girl, huh?” Nick’s Father smiled. “That explains it.”

Nick smiled. “Yeah, it probably does.”

As usual, the elderly gentleman entered the train at the Clark Street stop. Nick’s car rolled slowly past him, coming to a stop that allowed the gentleman to board the seventh car. The gentleman waited out the surge of people entering and exiting the train, and then made his way on board, sitting next to one of the seats reserved for the handicapped. The train rolled out of the stop. Nick let his mind wander. The image of Jeanie again came into view, out in the ether between the train window and the cityscape in the now purple distance. In his image of her, she was smiling, her excitement and earnestness immediate and apparent. Nick had been in love with Jeanie from the moment he met her until this very moment, sitting on the train carrying Nick, the Old Man, and the Great Washed and Unwashed into Manhattan.

Nick continued to help with the set. Much of Nick and Jeanie’s efforts were focused on reinforcing the multiple doors that would be heavily used during the course of the play. Under Nick’s guidance, the doors were taken off the A supports and framed into place on the set. Nick made the supporting frames sturdy, so that the doors could be opened and slammed shut repeatedly, without shaking the entire set or making it obvious that the entire construct was temporal. With Nick’s assistance and work, nobody, including the director and the set designer, worried about the components of the set. Nick, almost instantly, became an indispensable part of the crew. Though not officially a part of the theatre program, Nick’s advice and counsel were sought on almost every aspect of design and construction. 

Initially, Jeanie was as active a participant in the process of set construction as Nick, and during that time they were able to spend time talking and getting to know one another.

Nick learned that Jeanie came from a large Catholic family; her Father, an engineer for IBM, her Mother a stay-at-home Mom. Nick talked about his Father and the rental business, though his blue collar roots were somewhat of an embarrassment and something he thought best to keep to himself as much as possible.

Nick talked about his Mother as well. A sweet, quiet woman, the opposite of Nick’s boisterous, opinionated Father. He had not yet told Jeanie about his Father’s occasional benders, and the times when he would stagger through the front door of their home, looking to pick a fight. He had not yet told Jeanie that, on occasion, his Father would strike his Mother’s face with an open hand, and how his Mother would pack up the station wagon and drive to her sister’s house in Pennsylvania. But she would return. She always returned.

Nick joined the group from the play that met nightly at the corner bar across from campus. On most evenings, Nick and Jeanie sat close to each other, or at least within each other’s orbit. Nick soon found himself walking Jeanie home from the bar to her apartment a few blocks away. Though it was September, the nights were still warm enough, and they were young enough, to talk until the early hours of the morning, sometimes until dawn itself. They talked about everything. They talked about Nick’s family, and about Jeanie’s family. They learned of each other’s story, their respective journey. They were young enough and Jeanie was optimistic enough, that, from the stoop in front of her apartment building, the world held limitless and incredible possibility. Although Nick was in love with Jeanie, he did not want to push the relationship. It was too fragile, or he was, or some combination of the two. He did not wish to scare away this beautiful thing that was happening. 

One afternoon, while Nick was working on the set, and Jeanie was with the rest of the actors running lines, Greg, also a part of the gang frequenting the bar, brought up the subject.

“You’re falling for her, man.”

“Maybe.”

“You guys are spending a helluva lot of time together.”

“Yeah.”

“So, what gives?”

“I don’t know. I like being with her. I’m not going to rush anything. I just like being with her.”

“Well, you’d better do something. A lot of guys have their eye on her.”

That bothered Nick. But what Nick could not know at the time is the fact that it is not the man who chooses the woman. It is the opposite. What Nick did know was that Jeanie was pretty, and vivacious, and energetic – the essence of life itself. In the middle of his conversation with Greg, and as Nick thought about Jeanie and all that she had come to mean to him, she showed up.

“Hey, Jeanie,” said Greg, immediately cutting a wry look in Nick’s direction.

“Hey, how’s it going?”

“Good. We’ll be done in time.”

“Two days,” said Jeanie, making the peace sign with both of her hands. “Can I talk to you for a sec,” she said, looking directly at Nick.

“Sure.”

They walked off stage to the empty area in the workshop where the doors had previously been stored.

“Listen, I’m going to be hungry after this. Do you have to work later, or can we go to Manuel’s?”

“I can go.” 

Nick had to work, but his Father would understand.

“Cool. Wait for me.” And then Jeanie leaned in and kissed Nick on the cheek. She pulled back, looked at him, and walked back onto the stage.

Nick was flush. He had kissed girls before, made out; even his virginity was in the past. But he was caught off guard. And he was so entirely in love with her. He walked back onto the stage, betraying his feelings with a grin when Greg looked at him.

“Hot damn,” was all Greg said.

Nick waited for Jeanie outside of the double doors, resting his back on the concrete retaining wall that rose from the ground and followed the sidewalk that connected the theatre to the Fine Arts building.

After some time, the actors started to emerge from the double doors. Jeanie emerged and when she caught Nick’s eye, her pace quickened.

“Hey,” she said. “Ready.”

They made the short walk to Manuel’s, a Puerto Rican hole-in-the-wall immediately off campus. Jeanie ordered a papusa with guacamole and a margarita. Nick ordered a plate of enchiladas and a Reingold.

They chatted about the play. Jeanie asked again about how the set was coming along, and then went into her exasperation with Chad, who had the most lines and was still tripping through them with only two days left.

Nick nursed his beer, while Jeanie, in the midst of her excited chattering, gulped her margarita down and ordered a second. Shortly, their food arrived on heavy ceramic plates. Nick started to cut into his enchiladas when he noticed Jeanie, knife in one hand, fork in the other, staring at her plate.

“Are you ok?”

Jeanie’s eyes met his gaze. Her earnestness, even for Jeanie, was intense and focused.

“Is this going anywhere,” asked Jeanie.

Nick was caught off guard, and his heart began to race.

“What?”

“You heard what I said. Is this going anywhere? We’ve been out until at least 3 every night this week. We’ve talked and talked. I’ve told you everything. I’ve tried to show my interest. Hell, I’m forgetting my lines because I’m so fucking tired.”

Nick had never heard Jeanie say the word “fuck” before.

“I’m sorry.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“I’m sorry,” replied Nick, Instinctively. He looked at Jeanie. She was exasperated. She was mad.

“I have been waiting for you to make a move.” Jeanie was almost shouting.

Nick reached across their table, across the deep blue and green tiles, and placed his hand on top of Jeanie’s hand.

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“This is going somewhere.”

“It’s about fucking time,” said Jeanie.

Nick cracked a smile. So did Jeanie, and as she did, she lifted Nick’s hand to her lips and kissed his fingers.

Comments

[rick schochler]

Mhi

Mhi fished the postcard out of her apron and looked at it again. She found it on one of the Formica tables in the full service section of The Bagel Maven, where she worked with Francis. The right corner of the postcard was already frayed from Mhi thumbing it instinctively, ensuring herself that it was still there.

The woman in the painting; her red hair with strands covering her ivory face, her white tunic with sleeves turned up over her simple peasant dress – her look of frustration, and anger, and hurt. It was herself: Mhi was the painting and the painting was Mhi. And, of course, it was not. Mhi was Laotian. This woman, with her red hair and porcelain skin was not. But Mhi was smitten and drawn to this woman.

She pulled the postcard back out of her apron and turned it over, as she had already done numerous times, and read the inscription, studying it for clues as to who this woman was.

Rosa La Rouge, Henri Toulouse Latrec
1886-1887. The Barnes Foundation

Mhi had never pondered art before. At least not to any serious extent. She possessed a good aesthetic, and would pause at the galleries and art shops along Seventh Street on her way to work, considering what she liked and what she did not.

Mhi had worked at the Bagel Maven for a little over six months now. Her afternoon shifts overlapping with Francis’, so that Mhi could help with the breakfast rush. Francis, a buxom woman from the Dominican, who defaulted by her nature to seeing the positive in everyone, and who possessed an ability to turn even the most agitated of souls into a calm, at-ease, and pleasant customer; content to nibble on their bagel and to allow Francis to refer to them as “honey” as she refilled their ceramic mug for the third time. Francis had taken to Mhi immediately and was in a continual process of teaching Mhi how to wait tables and serve the crowds that came into the Maven for breakfast and lunch.

Though Mhi did not possess Francis’ ability to soothe the troubled guest, Mhi’s quiet composure and grace had a calming quality of its own. Only the most obtuse of customers would see Mhi’s reserved nature as something to attack and exploit. If Francis was there, and saw a guest become short with Mhi, or demand more than their fair share, Francis’ motherly intervention would be swift, albeit as kind as the customer would allow.

Mhi loved those few hours when she and Francis worked together. At 2pm, Francis would leave for the day, and the full service section would be Mhi’s to run until the 5pm rush. Mhi knew there was a reason she had the afternoon shift, but she did not mind. It gave her a chance to practice the art of serving and it frequently gave her an opportunity to pause, gaze out of the enormous picture windows at the front of the restaurant, and get lost in thought as the sea of New Yorkers and tourists, artists and bankers, made their way between Penn Station and Chelsea.
Mhi’s parents had immigrated to New York from Laos in the 1970s, part of the mass exodus that resulted from the Great Purge. Many of her cousins and family had settled in Texas, but Mhi’s Father, an intelligent, if not largely self-educated man, decided that New York would provide the best opportunity for himself and his family.

Mhi’s Father’s commitment to work and to improving their lot, in whatever way he perceived that to be, was indefatigable. In the early years of their existence, Mhi’s Father worked all of the clichéd immigrant jobs: Warehouses, taxicabs, dishwasher, vacuuming floors in the enormous skyscrapers that pocked Manhattan; all the while socking away as much money as he could each month.

It was common knowledge within the small Laotian Community in Queens, that the best thing one could do in order to make money and secure a footing in this new land, was to open a convenience store. So, Mhi’s Father got a job at Dean and Deluca’s in Lower Manhattan. He learned to stock shelves, order inventory, and prepare sandwiches. He paid attention to all of the Mom and Pop stores that lined the streets of Manhattan and Queens. He liked the stores that kept buckets of flowers out front. He resented, but understood, the stores that kept steel wool on a string above the cash register. He worked at Dean and Deluca’s for almost five years, saving money even more earnestly than in years past.

Finally, a small store became available on __________ Steet in Queens. It was close to home, and though it was on the edge of ______, it had a lot of foot traffic, with plenty of apartments and even a school in close proximity. He deposited six months rent, talked to the vendors with whom he had worked and formed relationships with, and in June of that year, changed the awning sign to ______’s. Mhi’s mother quit her job as a housekeeper, and together with Mhi, who was 13 at the time, and Mhi’s younger brother, the entire family went into business.

Mhi worked at the store every day, as soon as she returned from high school. At 5:30, she and her brother would take a break, eat their dinner, and study behind the counter. A small black-and-white television sat in one of the corner shelves below the cigarettes, and while she studied history, or French, or Algebra, or learned about Egypt, she would watch the local news, then Jeopardy, and Wheel of Fortune.

The store had a pace to it. In the morning, people would pop in for a soda, or coffee, or a bearclaw wrapped in cellophane, or one of the apples that Mhi’s Father kept on the counter close to the register. People who had finished their night shifts would place a six-pack of Budweiser or Rheingold on the counter. By noon, mothers on their lunch breaks, planning that evening’s meal, would come in to pick up some pasta, or bread, or milk. By two in the afternoon, the alcoholics and junkies started filtering in, along with those getting off shifts.

After three, kids fresh out of school came in for candy, or chips and a soda. Rush hour would bring an onslaught, when it seemed like the entire store was up for grabs. After seven, people would choose something sweet, or a bottle of wine, or a six-pack for the evening. Mhi’s Father, to his liking, kept a small assortment of flowers out front, and Mhi appreciated the times when she would look up and see the occasional bouquet, instead of the endless parade of alcohol and steel wool.

Many of those who made up the Laotian community in Queens had ambitions for their children. They desired college for them, dreamed of one day being able to refer to their progeny as educated and successful. This was not the case for Mhi’s Father and Mother. Mhi’s Father believed that success was achieved through industry. And, given his experience, who could argue? The store, through the collective efforts energies of the family, provided for them. They had the store, a comfortable house nearby, and a relatively new Chrysler Town and Country Van.

Mhi was not aware as to whether she shared her Father’s views or not. She was stuck – somewhere between Laos and New York. She was an above average student, and though her teachers would occasionally try to pull an idea or thought out of Mhi, and they generally liked Mhi, there was a wall. Discovering what dreams and ambitions constituted Mhi was like navigating a maze with no exit. And, all of Mhi’s teachers eventually settled on regarding Mhi as nice, and quiet, and almost – almost, nothing.

Mhi graduated high school in June without a plan as to what to do next. The store seemed inevitable. During the summer after graduation, Mhi began to escape. Though she had never thought much of Manhattan, she began taking the train to different locations. She was fond of Chelsea, with its shops, galleries, bars, and comedy clubs which were never open when she walked by. She walked up 27th past Madison Square Garden, and Macy’s, into Times Square, and then back down again in time to catch the C Train and return to the store ahead of rush hour.

During one of these walks, while looking into a restaurant with a counter over-stuffed with bagels, patrons queued and in front of the glass cases, ordering their sandwiches and seltzers, Mhi noticed a red Help Wanted sign in the window.
“Certainly not.”
How could she possibly work in Manhattan? Or wait tables for that matter?
Mhi kept walking, past Peter McManus, the Brown Derby, both freshly opened, welcoming the lunch crowd and the bar flies alike. How could she not work at her Father’s store? He would be disappointed, would he not? How would her Mother react? She was such a mystery, even to Mhi. What motivated and drove her? What were her hope and dreams, her likes and dislikes? Apart from the cardoman-flavored candy that they kept stocked for their Indian patrons, of which Mhi’s Mother would occasionally open and enjoy, Mhi had little clue as to her tastes or desires.
The thought occurred to Mhi that if her Mother ever went missing, she could physically describe her, but if the question probed any deeper – to the why’s and where’s – Mhi would not have any answers. Her mother was a riddle, like Mhi herself. But Mhi was aware of her own emotions, and fears; her energy and impulses. Her mother seemed to be devoid of emotion, thought, and care.

“Numb,” said Mhi, audibly, as she walked.

If the police in her fantasy, where her Mother has vanished, kept probing for a description of her Mother, Mhi would only be able to say:
“Numb. Look for the numb little Laotian lady with the non-descript shirt, and non-descript pants, with streaks of gray in her hair. If she says, thinks, or feels nothing, that will be her.”
Mhi’s thoughts made her angry. Why give so much thought and concern to two people, who, as far as she knew, did not care if she even existed? Never an “I love you,” never a “how was your day,” never a mention of the flyers that Mhi used to bring home from school announcing auditions for the Spring One-Act Play, or the reformation of the previously inactive French Club, or the plea for participants in Odyssey of the Mind. The flyers, along with napkins and other refuse, were eventually cleaned from the table, discarded and forgotten.

Near 23rd Street, while walking under construction scaffolding erected over the sidewalk, Mhi stopped, abruptly, and turned around. The washed and unwashed flowed around her. She made her way back down 27th; back to the Bagel Maven. When she entered the restaurant, the line was still long, but not as long as earlier. She scanned the establishment, one thought on whom she should approach, the other on turning around and forgetting this impulse.

Mhi noticed the cordoned section with a sign asking patrons to “Wait to Be Seated.” She noticed the second floor, where customers could take their food and sit without having to tip a waitress. She noticed the small, elevated station, where a portly man looked out from behind a pane of glass over the entire scene.
“Do you want to sit, or order from the counter,” asked Francis.
Mhi paused, nervously.
“It’s ok, baby,” assured Frances. “Are you hungry?”
“I saw the Help Wanted sign in the window, responded Mhi.
“Oh, well that’s something different altogether, isn’t it,” responded Francis with a smile and a chuckle.
“Yes,” said Mhi with a smile.
“Let me go talk to Joe. Normally, he likes to do interviews in the afternoon.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“No problem, sweetie. Have a seat here.”
Before Mhi could say anything, Francis turned a ceramic cup upright and placed it back down on the saucer. She poured from a silver carafe that served as an extension of her left hand. Her right hand fished two creamers and three sugars from the pouch of her apron and placed them next to Mhi’s cup and saucer. As she turned to walk away, she briefly placed her hand on the back of Mhi’s shoulder.

Mhi blew into and then sipped from the cup. She had never really had coffee before. She had tried it a few times at the store out of curiosity and boredom, and found it displeasing. But this time she added the two creams and three sugars, and stirred with the silver spoon that rested on top of the paper napkin next to her cup and saucer. Maybe it was nerves, perhaps it was Francis’ touch and instinct for what Mhi needed, but what she was certain of was that the coffee tasted good.

Mhi watched Francis approach the portly man on the elevated perch behind the glass. Francis rapped on the glass with her knuckles to get his attention and began talking. She gestured in Mhi’s direction and both of them looked directly at her. Mhi returned her gaze to the swirl of coffee and cream in her mug.

After a moment, Francis returned.

“Joe said to come back at two. He likes to wait until the lunch crowd has died down. Come back and find me, and he will talk to you then. I’m Francis.”
Francis gave Mhi a gentle pat on her forearm. Mhi nodded and started to pull out her pocketbook to pay for the coffee.
“Oh no, sweetie. It’s on the house.”

Francis smiled and walked back to the coffee station in order to get a fresh carafe.
Mhi exited the Bagel Maven and began walking north again.
“What am I doing,” she muttered. “I have an interview,” thought Mhi, a charge of electricity shooting through her body as she walked. She paused and examined herself in a shop window.
“Oh my God.”

She found a Duane Reede at the corner of 7th and 19th. She had a hair brush, but was in jeans and a Gap t-shirt. She bought a tube of coral-colored lipstick and some maybelline mascara and blush. She loaded her purchases into her purse and found a Wendy’s. They would have a bathroom.

In the bathroom, she removed the orange hair tie and let her ponytail fall to her shoulders. She brushed her hair, and then applied the lipstick. She opened the small round compact of blush and ran her index finger over the surface and applied it to each cheek. She could count the times she had wore makeup on a single hand. She took a paper towel from the dispenser and blotted her lips. She briefly examined the imprint before discarding the towel.
She still had 45 minutes until 2 pm. She walked slowly back down 27th toward the Maven, letting the sea of people flow past her. She stopped and looked into the window of an electronics in the stop at -- the tape decks and VCRs, CD players and cordless phones, none of which really interested her. Eventually, she found herself back in front of the Maven. Mhi could see Francis on the other side of the big panes of glass. She was flowing between tables, carafe in her left hand, refilling cups, patting patrons on the shoulder, sliding checks across the formica tables and underneath their saucers.

Mhi took a deep breath and opened the door, the bells on the opposite side gave a brief rattle. Francis caught her eye and motioned Mhi toward one of the few booths in the full-service area. Mhi slid across the vinyl seat and tucked her hands underneath her legs. Francis came by and turned over Mhi’s mug and filled it with piping hot water. Her right hand reached into her apron and pulled out two Teatley tea bags.
“I figure you could use some tea, sweetie.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re a bit early. You must be anxious. Don’t worry. I’ll tell Joe you’re here. He’ll be over in a bit. In the meantime, try not to be nervous.”
Francis took a copy of the Times from a table close to Mhi’s booth and laid it in front of Mhi.
“Here you go.”
Francis walked over to Joe, still occupying his perch behind the glass.
“Your interview is here,” said Francis, as she rapped on the glass.
“She’s early. Give me a minute.”
“She’s nervous. Go easy on her.”
“She have any experience?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But I like her.”
“I don’t want to train anybody.”
“I’ll train her.”
Joe smiled. “Ok. I’ll talk to her. Give me a minute.”
Joe was working on his order for the next day, though it rarely changed. From day to day, he knew how many sacks of flour and sugar to order. He knew to order salmon on Mondays and Thursdays. He knew to cut his orders in half for the weekend, but to make sure his condiments were stocked, as people liked to linger on Saturdays and Sundays.
Joe finished tabulating his order. He would call it in after he talked to Mhi. Joe picked up his half-rimmed reading glasses which he had compulsively removed immediately upon finishing his order. The glasses found their spot at the end of Joe’s nose. He opened the door of his roost above the floor of the restaurant, and shuffled down the three carpeted stairs. Once on the linoleum floor, he wobbled toward Mhi’s booth.
Mhi noticed Joe coming toward her and, similar to that morning, focused her gaze on her tea. Joe reached the booth, glasses at the end of his nose, pencil behind his ear, carrying the black ream of inventory orders.
“Francis tells me you’re interested in the job.”
“Yes. I’m Mhi.”
“Joe.”
Joe slid into the seat opposite from Mhi and shook Mhi’s hand.
“What’s your experience?”
“I don’t have any experience waiting tables, but I’ve worked in my Father’s store since I was 13. I’m very familiar with the Sysco order forms that you’re using.”
Joe liked that, though Mhi did not notice any reaction to this information.
“What do you do at your Father’s store?”
“Everything. Cash register, stocking shelves, ordering, cleaning, prepping sandwiches, changing water in flower buckets, sweeping and mopping.”
“But no experience waiting tables?”
“No.”
Joe looked up at Mhi, then over to Francis, who motioned Joe to look back at Mhi.
“You’re going to have to be a fast learner. We get real busy and our customers are in a hurry.”
“I’m a hard worker.”
“I don’t doubt that. But waiting tables is different. Francis will train you. She’s the best there is.”
“I can see that.”
“Where are you coming from?”
“What?”
“Where do you live?”
“Queens.”
“Any problems getting here?”
“No.”
“When can you start?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Ok. Be here at 5am. Francis can train you, then you can take the afternoon. Ok?”
“Ok. Thank you.”
“Thank Francis.”
“Ok.”
Joe slid his black binder across the formica, braced himself on the table, and stood up.
“See you tomorrow.”
With that, Joe waddled back toward his perch. On the way back, he nodded to Francis, who smiled. She came over to Mhi’s booth.
“You got the job?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“When do you start?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Oh my. We’re going to have to find a uniform. Let’s go to the back and see what we can find.”
Mhi followed Francis through the double doors, turned left and went into a small store room. Mhi stood in the entrance way as Francis walked over to a small row of narrow lockers. Mhi noticed the timeclock to her left, above it a poster detailing the minimum wage. In the far corner was a yellow mop bucket on casters, the mops and brooms hanging on the wall above the bucket. Francis opened one of the lockers, several gray dresses with white collars, just like what Francis was wearing, were folded and stacked on a shelf in the locker.
“The last couple of people that’ve worked here were a lot bigger than you,” Francis chuckled. “I think this is as close as I’m going to get for now. I’ll get Joe to order a couple more for you. What’s your size?”
“I’m normally a zero or a one,” replied Mhi.
“Oh my, you tiny thing.”
Mhi smiled. Mhi studied Francis as she pulled the uniform out from the stack and reorganized the rest, placing them back on the shelf and closing the blue, vented metal door. How could a person be so kind? How could someone possess so much confidence as to not view every interaction as a potential confrontation?
“This is just going to hang off you. You should also get some good shoes,” said Francis, pointing to the white orthopedic shoes on her feet. “They’re not pretty, but I don’t know what I’d do without them.”
Mhi looked at the shoes. Maybe she could get a new pair of Nikes or something. Francis handed the folded uniform to Mhi. She then grabbed two hair nets from a box on the table next to the time clock.
“You ever wear one of these?”
“Yes. When working on the sandwiches.”
“Good. In the morning, I’ll give you an order pad and we’ll go over how to write up a ticket. Those guys in the kitchen need clear, simple instructions.”
Francis chucked again.
“What time did Joe say for you to be here?”
“Five.”
“I normally get here at 5:30, but that will work.”
“Ok.”
“See you then, sweetie.”
Mhi tucked her oversized uniform under her arm and headed back down 27th street to the _______ stop.
“I’m going to work in Manhattan,” Mhi thought to herself, exhilarated.
The next thought being, of course, how to tell her Father that she would no longer be working at the store.
“They have to know that this day might come,” thought Mhi, defensively. They can’t expect that I’d work at the store forever.”

But maybe they did. Mhi’s Father had never spoken of inheritance, or passing down the store, but he took great pleasure in making sure that Mhi and her brother knew every facet of how the store operated. In truth, Mhi could run the store by herself. She could fill out the order forms and call in the daily deliveries. She could balance the cash drawer and make deposits at the Prosperity Bank at the end of the block. She could make the sandwiches and steam the dumplings that they served and that their regulars coveted. She knew to restock the steel wool pads that hung on a wire above the register and to refill and front the beer and wine prior to the evening’s rush. She knew how to be polite, if not familiar, with the myriad of regulars that relied on her family to keep their refrigerators and cupboards stocked with their necessary and desired provisions.

But the store was her Father’s. Mhi and her brother, and her Mother, daily stocked the shelves, prepared the food, swept and mopped the linoleum floor, dusted the shelves, and re-ordered what was necessary because their help was critical and necessary to keep the store running and in good shape. The family existed to serve the store. In return, the store provided.
Then why had Mhi pursued the job at the Bagel Maven? Why did her heart race at the prospect of commuting into Manhattan every day? Why was she titillated by the prospect of waiting tables with Francis, serving the tourists, bankers, police and artists? Would this break her Father’s heart? Would he see it as betrayal?

Mhi descended the concrete stairs at the ________ station and paused in front of the kiosks selling weekly and monthly MTA passes. She had only bought tokens previously. $20 for a weekly pass, $35 for a monthly pass. Mhi took the small wallet from her front pocket and thumbed her papered money. $35 exactly. She read the instructions, and after pausing again, inserted the bills, one by one. In a moment, the machine whirred, printing the pass. It dropped into the receptacle below. Mhi opened the clear plastic window, and picked up the pass. She placed it into her back pocket. She had already purchased her token for the return trip. She would start using the pass tomorrow.
On the ride home, or rather, to ______ station, which was closest to the store, she examined the schedule. There was a departure at 4:15, arriving at _________ Station at 4:45. If she walked quickly, she would arrive at the Bagel Maven precisely at 5am.
The bells on the door signaled Mhi’s return to the store. Her Father was behind the cash register re-stocking the cigarettes that he kept on a shelf above the register.
“Mhi, the flowers need water.”
“Ok.”
He did not notice the uniform folded in Mhi’s arms.
Mhi went to the back and found the white bucket. She took the small hose and attached it to the faucet on the sink where they filled the mop bucket. The bucket began to fill.
Mhi was trembling. Even her fingertips were vibrating. How to tell her Father? When? The water swirled into the bucket, the sound changing as the water line rose over the hose. What was she thinking? How could she be so inconsiderate of her Father’s feelings? He had built this business out of instinct for survival. There had never, not once, been any discussion of anyone leaving, of doing something else. And yet, Mhi had always known that her future did not include the store. Of what her future was comprised was a mystery. One thing she did know is that yesterday, it did not include waiting tables at the Bagel Maven, and today, it did.

She carried the bucket by the white plastic grip that was only slightly more comfortable than grabbing the bare metal handle itself. She needed both hands to carry the bucket and the plastic handle dug into her palms. She turned her body and backed into the swinging door, then turned around, making her way to the store’s exit. Her Father remained behind the counter.
At the entrance, she sat the bucket down and took a moment to rest and rub her palms. She then turned around, lifted the bucket and backed out of the entrance door. Once out on the sidewalk, she took the bucket to the tiered platform that displayed the various flower arrangements that were for sale. Mostly carnations and daisies, and, of course, roses, sold individually and by the dozen. Today the roses were red and pink. Mhi enjoyed when orange roses were in stock. Their availability was infrequent and their color was vibrant and striking.

She began to fill the galvanized containers that held the flowers. It would take several trips to completely refill the containers; the one containing the single roses took almost an entire bucket of water itself.

Mhi filled the containers on the lowest tier first so that the bucket would get lighter. As it got easier to carry, she filled the middle tier, and then the top tier. She worked this way, moving from left to right, making her trips to refill the bucket as necessary, until the containers were refilled. It was a system she had developed in childhood, and it remained intact.

As Mhi was working, her Mother came out onto the sidewalk, broom in hand, and began sweeping. When she saw Mhi, she came over to where Mhi was standing and began sweeping up the petals and refuse underneath the flower stand.

After a moment of working silently together, which they frequently did, Mhi’s Mother asked about the uniform that Mhi had left in the back room.
“It’s mine.”
“For what?”
“I saw a Help Wanted sign while I was in Manhattan this morning. To wait tables. I got the job.”
“I’ve been wondering where you’ve been going lately.”
Mhi paused again and considered the thoughts that were swirling inside her mind.
“I’ve been going into Manhattan a lot. I don’t know why, really. It’s different, I guess.”
“You’re trying to find yourself.”
Mhi was taken aback by the insight.
“I suppose so.”
“If we are lucky, we get the chance to consider who we are – what we want. We all make decisions that acknowledge or reject what we find. You’re 18. You’re lucky. You have the opportunity to discover who you are. And, more importantly, do something about it.”
“What about Dad?”
“He might be mad at first. Or sad. But he will be ok. His mind and his energies are so tied up in this store. But his drive, even if he forgets, is us. He wants a better life for you and for your brother. He forgets. I will remind him.”
“The uniform is too big.”
“We’ll go home early and I’ll pin it and fix it.”
“Ok,” replied Mhi, stunned. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t even really think about bringing this up with you. I was so worried about Dad; about how he’d take it.”
“I know.”
Mhi paused, and then continued. “I was just thinking, earlier today, when I was in Manhattan, that I don’t really even know you. I don’t know who you are.”
“Mmmm,” nodded Mhi’s mother.
“What are your dreams? Are you who you hoped to be?”
“So much of my youth was spent on survival. On just staying alive. Same for when we came here. There was no time, no room, for dreams. My dream became to have a life where my kids could dream.”
Mhi began to tear up. “But who are you? I’ve never really known.”
“I don’t know. I’m a survivor. An immigrant. My mind is in one place, and my soul is in another. I guess, in so many ways, I am half a person.
“I’ve felt that way about myself for a long time.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure it’s been hard for you and your brother. Your Father and I, our energy has been spent on survival, on building a shelter from whatever storm we happened to be in. I guess, in some ways, you feel like half a person, too. But I don’t want that for you, or your brother. You can breathe. You can dream. Do it.”

Mhi’s Mother placed her hand on Mhi’s forearm. Mhi could not remember the last time they had touched. She felt her Mother’s dry hand, and her energy. A pulse raised up Mhi’s arm, to her shoulders, her head, her heart. She burst into tears and put her arm around her Mother’s neck.
“Thank you.”
Mhi’s Mother patted Mhi on her hip.
“Go home. I’ll talk to your Father. When I get home, we’ll fix the uniform.”
“Ok.”
Mhi was holding the bucket. Mhi’s Mother stretched out her hand and took the handle from Mhi’s hand.
“Go.”
“Ok. Thank you.”
Mhi’s Mother turned, bucket in hand, and went back into the store. Mhi headed to the ______ bus stop, for the short ride home.