He looked out the window. The morning seemed fine with a blue sky. He could not remember what he dreamed about last night. His was his habit to remember night dreams. Sometimes it was easy, especially when the dreams were interesting with many colors and a lot of happenings. This morning his mind was blank. Last night’s dreams must have been boring. He always dreamed while sleeping. In fact, he could not recall if there had ever been a night without dreams. He often thought that he lived in two worlds: one of this reality and one of night dreams. It would be so much better to able to remember vividly the events of the dream world, because that would make it more real, and make one’s life much richer. Many times when he was lying in the dark waiting for sleep to come he asked himself what tonight’s dream would be and he fell asleep full of hope and anticipation. He had not had a nightmare for a long time, only so-so dreams, boring dreams, and sometimes sweet dreams. Sweet dreams were those whose recollection made him feel good. There were faces that he knew and there were strange ones.
It was only about eight in the morning but the air had already feel warm. His back was wet with sweat and the pillow was hot under his head. He slept on the floor because the room was too small for a bed. Since the hot weather set in, he had put away all the blankets that he had put on the floor in layers to use as a mattress. The small fan blew hot air into his face. He had thought of putting up an air conditioner but the landlord warned that there would be an extra 25 dollars added to the rent if it was used. That made him hesitated. Another 25 dollars was much but right now he had to watch his spending very carefully. He had been out of work for three months since moving back to this town from Philly.
He stood up, walked to the window and lighted a cigarette. A few cars went by down in the street. He was on the third floor of a three-storied row house that ran from one end of the block to another. A Chinese man owned this unit which that included a restaurant on the first floor. He was lucky to find this room. It had a window facing east that allowed sunlight every morning. Two hundred dollars for a rat hole. It was not too cheap, it was just OK. But he had to find work quick, before the money ran out. There was 150 dollars left in the bank account, and it was a matter of days before the crisis set in. He had thought about calling up some people he knew he could extract some financial help from. Maybe one in this town and two or three other in Philly.
After taking a shower, he walked downstairs and picked up a copy of the New York Times in a coffee shop at the corner, then went back to his room. He looked at the headlines. The siege of Sarajevo was in the final stage and the US government was talking intervention. Clinton’s budget fight with Congress went on. In the Metro section, candidates Dinkins and Gulianni traded hash words. Also three bodies were found washing up the Brooklyn water front near the Navy yard. The tea was getting cold. He turned to the classified pages and went down the columns. Reading the help wanted ads had become a daily ritual and he had no hope of finding anything new. A lot of calls had been made without results. Numerous job applications had been filled and submitted. Areas that he might be qualified for were limited. He had no marketable skills, except for some hotel experiences. He could also handle counter work in a fast food restaurant. Labor was the only thing he had to sell. His eyes casually scanned the pages and he found an item under "I": "Vietnamese interpreter needed. Must know the community." He immediately thought this was something he could try. He spoke Vietnamese as his mother tongue. He tore off the item and put it in his pocket, the finished the tea and went out.
The street was now choked with traffic. The air was getting hotter. The temperature for the last four or five days had been in the 90’s. Today would be no different. He wore blue jean and a white t-shirt with a green New Port logo on the chest. Men with hairy arms and chests and women with excessive buttocks filled the sidewalks. The weather was great for body watching and exposing. He walked past a store front and saw himself in the glass windows. A body out of shape. He got into his car, a beat up 81 Honda, and drove around, looking for a telephone in some place quiet where he could talk without being bothered by traffic noises. Making this call was the least he could do for today in terms of job searching. And old guy standing at an intersection gave him a dirty look while he was waiting for the light to turn green.
"You’re in the crosswalk!" The old man said loudly as he was walking past and his two hands were heavy with overstuffed shopping bags and that might be the reason he got mad. He put his head out the window and said: "Learn to mind your business, will you?" And stepped on the gas as the light turned green. He found a telephone in a streets was traffic was light. He dialed the number. Three rings and a male voice came on at the other end: "John speaking."
"I am calling about the job as an interpreter…"
"Oh yeah, you’re Vietnamese?"
"Yes."
"How well do you speak the language?"
"Fluently."
"Great. I am doing a project about the Vietnamese community in the city," the male voice continued. "Can I see you?"
"If it’s convenient for you."
"How about this afternoon?"
"Fine."
"Let’s say…three o’clock? You can come to my place, then we will go somewhere else and talk."
The man then went on to give his address, and the conversation ended. He got back into his car. That was a good sign. He might find some work at last. It was not even ten o’clock and a long day was still ahead of him. A couple of days before he had tried to applied for a driver job at a car service office on Ocean Avenue. The man copied his social security card and driver’s license, gave him a road test, and was never heard from again. He walked the street of Manhattan day after day, coming into every hotel big and small and asked for personnel offices. Some gave him applications to fill out and we-will contact-you’ s. But most just said straight out that they were not hiring.
He had been back to Brooklyn for three months from Philadelphia. There he had worked as a waiter and been doing fine when an avalanche of phone calls came from his girlfriend in Brooklyn demanding that he come back. He tried to refuse at first, seeing no hope for a satisfactory reconciliation. He was frequently awaken at three in morning and they fought over the phone. The calls kept coming even at work. He felt miserable. He thought about running further south or west but to what end he could not imagine. He did not know anyone outside Philly or New York. The money was always limited and by running into the unknown he could end up a bum. Her relentlessness finally defeated him. One morning he loaded his belongings into his car and drove to Brooklyn. A room had been founded earlier. He paid the first month’s rent, a security deposit, and moved in. The next day he was out on the streets looking for work.
He drove to the big avenue and walked into a Chinese coffee shop and ordered a coffee and a bowl of rice soup. The fat waiter was running among the customers, sweat glistening on his wide forehead. People around him were talking animatedly and it sounded like the loud buzzing of a sea of bees. He sat in a corner, sipping coffee and waiting for the soup to get cooler. He could not understand a word of the conversations going on around him. The day was getting brighter and hotter and the restaurant’s air conditioner seemed not to be able to provide enough cold air. Customers were mostly men, slim and dark. Some were burying their heads in the colorful Chinese newspapers and almost everyone was smoking.
A man and a woman squeezed their way through and sat at his table. They were young, maybe in their late 20’s. The woman took and napkin and wiped sweats off her face. The man looked at the menu and then at the waiter who was cleaning up a table at the other end of the dinning room and not seemed to be aware of the couple’s presence. And they patiently waited. They might be husband and wife. Or they might be tired lovers. And they were not talking to each other. The man was reading a newspaper and the woman casually looked around her. She was wearing a white sleeve-less t-shirt that exposed her ivory arms and neck. Her pearly black eyes occasionally landed on him and quickly looked away. He felt uneasy at such a close distance with these strangers. He tried visualize how the woman might look underneath her clothes. Those breasts, arms , back, belly, buttocks, and neck had enjoyed how many days and nights of sexual pleasure with the man next to her, the men before this man and others in the future, but yet, this man might the first and only.
He ate his soup. The waiter finally came over and placed in front of the couple a pot of tea and two cups. The man looked up from his newspapers and said something to the waiter, who nodded quickly then walked away. The woman remained silent.
After finishing the soup, he paid at the cashier, put the change in his pocket and walked out of the restaurant. He had forgot to leave some tips for the waiter. A black man followed him and tried to sell him a gold necklace. He just smiled and shook his head. "C’mon," the man insisted. "Don’t you have a girlfriend or a mother? This thing costs 50 dollars in the store, you can have it for ten!"
Merchants along the avenue had started to set up their vegetable and fruit stands. Graffiti-covered delivery trucks double-parked amid the honking and shouting of the angry drivers. Maybe he should not have gone back to this city. Maybe he should not have gone back to this relationship in which he had long lost faith. He felt like a prisoner. He did not have the courage to run away into the unknown. The girlfriend had detained him with her blind resilience and extremely possessive behavior. Things had not gotten any better. They fought almost everyday. The only good thing about living here is the city with its crowded streets where he could mingle and lose himself in the distraction. He could walk around the town from morning till night without getting tired. He would sit in parks watching the old people, the bums, the drug dealers and the pigeons without really thinking about anything. He could browse for hours in the book stores. He could go into the movie theaters and sleep the shows.
He parked his car near the station and took the train to Manhattan. It was almost eleven. The air was cool in the train and he suddenly became aware of his appearance. T-shirt and jeans would not be proper for a job interview, he thought. But then, this could be a very informal occasion. The guy wanted to see him at his address then they would go somewhere else to talk. Besides, the train had already rolled and he could not go back to get in to more business-like attire.
After changing train three times he got off at 53rd Street and Lexington Avenue. The trips took more than an hour. It was too early for the appointment so he wandered into Bloomingdale’s. He had worked here once many years before as a dish washer for an Italian restaurant in the basement of the department store. The restaurant had no back room for utility people so everything was done in full view of the customers. He was embarrassed at first but after a couple of weeks things were OK. Now walked past the restaurant again and looked in. He recognized the short order cook, a skinny guy with a curly black hair from Thailand. Because the restaurant was small and served only cold food, mostly salad and pasta, this guy was the only cook . He could not recognize any of the waiter or waitress. Maybe they were new. He had got the job from an employment agency that charged him 60 dollars. It had been those days of desperation, of looking the streets looking for work, then ended up with a labor position that paid minimum wage. Getting off from work on Fridays afternoon, he usually strolled down Fifth Avenue among the well dressed, glistering people; and watching the store windows with all the wealth in the world he felt like a lost dog and the sadness almost killed him inside. Then he would go home to an apartment in Brighton Beach that he shared with three other people and drowned himself in booze and marijuana smoke. Then there were days when he worked as a messenger. He remembered that it was around Christmas and the office was extremely busy. There was never a moment of rest. The dispatcher always had a stack of envelopes ready to go. All the messengers were people on the verge of being eliminated from society. They were dirty and many dressed in rags. There were old men and teen-agers. He did not feel or look any different from them. He wore a black over coat with torn pockets; a scarf kept his neck warm, and on his feet a pair of old sneakers with plastic stuffed inside to keep the feet from getting wet in the snow. He would started the day with a cup of coffee, then walked around the city delivering packets to doll-like receptionists in almost germ-free offices. For lunch, like many of his co-workers, he would lined up in a soup kitchen to get a sandwich and a bowl of soup. The days usually ended in darkness.
He came out of Bloomingdale’s when the time of the appointment got close. He walked four blocks to 58th Street then turned right toward Third Avenue. There it was, the apartment building where his prospective employer was waiting for him. He pushed the glass door, told the doorman the apartment number he wanted to go to. The man picked up the phone, said something then turned to him: "He will be right down."
He said and waited. About ten minutes later a guy wearing short and carrying a tape recorder approached him. They shook hands and introduced each other. The guy said he wanted to go to the coffee shop around the corner so they could talk. He asked the guy what he wanted a Vietnamese interpreter for.
"I am writing a novel about Vietnam after 1975," the guy said, "and I’d would like to know people in the Vietnamese community in the city. How long have you been here?"
"About ten years."
"How did you get out of Vietnam. Did you escape?"
"Yes."
The guy looked about 30, slim and blond. They walked into a coffee shop and sat at a corner table. The guy ordered two coffees.
"I have talked to a couple people, referred to me by an agency downtown who takes care of refugees," he said. "I am collecting as much material as I can."
"Maybe I can help. He knew a few people whose stories might interest you. If you want…" He could not finish the sentence, thinking about a woman who went insane after arriving in NY. She had been brutally raped by the Thai pirates during the days on the sea. Her husband was killed and his body was thrown in to the water. He heard about this from his girlfriend.
"I’d appreciate if you help me contact those people you know. You live in Brooklyn now?"
"Yeah. I’ve just moved here from Philadelphia."
"And you haven’t worked?"
"No."
"I see. How did you get out of Vietnam?" Was it in a boat? Where did you go?" The guy asked and turned on the tape recorder.
" I lived in central Vietnam. The city where I lived was liberated when I was 15 and in high school. After the events of 1975 I dropped out of school. I was considered an undesirable element by the local authority because I always avoid political meetings or join any youth organizations and would sit in coffee shops all days. So they wanted to re-educate me. I was jailed three times, all on misdemeanors. The last time I got arrested I was sent to a labor camp in the mountains near the Laotian border. We cleared jungles. There were no trials and no sentences. People were simply locked up and put to work until the camp officials felt that you’d been transformed for the better, then released you. After six months there, I escaped, went into hiding for three months. Then my father found contacts and sent me off in a boat with 20 other people and we sailed to Hong Kong. The weather was good. It was December…"
The waiter came and poured more coffee into their cups. The guy stopped the tape recorder and asked him if he wanted to eat. He said no. The guy then ordered a sandwich for himself. It was almost four o’clock. He thought about what he would do after this conversation. He had no idea. He might see his girlfriend tonight and if they were gentle enough to each other, he would take her to his place and they would have dinner together.
"We arrived first in Hainan island, you know, Chinese territory," he continued. "And the people there were kind to us."
"In what way?"
"We arrived on the island on the eve of the Lunar new year. They let us stay in a hut on the beach and brought us foods. On the day we departed, two days later, they gave us gasoline and water."
The restaurant was now almost empty. There was one person, an old man, sitting by the window with a bottle of wine. He was talking to himself. Outside, the street was getting more and more crowded. Men and women in office attire were walking fast, back and forth. There were more yellow cabs, more buses running by. He could not hear the noises of the traffic. In the restaurant there was only the gentle sound of classical music coming down from the ceiling speakers.
The guy did not finish his sandwich. He signaled to the waiter and when the waiter came he asked for a glass of water. He kept talking, trying to piece together details of events that had happened more than ten years ago. His throat became dry and he felt dizzy.
"We sailed to Hong Kong and the first sign that we saw that told us we were close to our destination was empty coke cans floating in the ocean. But we landed in Macau first. It was late in the afternoon," he said.
"What did the Macau people do to you?" The guy asked.
"We were not the first to come to their shore as refugees. They knew who we were and what we wanted."
"And from there you went to Hong Kong?"
The tape ran out. The guy said he did not have any extra tapes. The dizziness was getting worse.
"Where do we go from here?" He asked, lighting a cigarette and drinking the last drops of his coffee that had turned cold.
"We will keep in touch. What’s your telephone number?" The guy said. He gave the guy his girlfriend’s number and added, "if I am not there you can leave messages."
"Sure. You still have my number, don’t you?"
"Yeah."
"Here’s for your trouble. And I appreciate," the guy said and handed him a 20 dollar bill. He took the money and put it in his pocket. He did not wish to stay any longer. He stood up and shook the guy’s hand: "Nice to know you."
"Take care."
He walked out of the restaurant. The air immediately swallowed him with all the heat of a summer afternoon and the traffic noise suddenly brought him out of what had seemed to be a short, unexpected coma. He felt the 20 dollar bill in his pant pocket and knew this was the first and also the last time he saw the guy, an aspiring writer who tried to write a novel about an exotic topic, an exotic people. He wanted to laugh out loud.
He stopped by a pay phone and dialed his girlfriend’s number. Three rings, and then… "We are not home at the moments. Please…" He put the receiver down. Five o’clock in the afternoon.
Where the day takes you.
(1991)