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.