05 octobre 2005
Deep Thoughts
Sometimes when I put on a business suit and walk around downtown Chicago, I feel like I actually have a job.
04 octobre 2005
Rosh Hashanah Haiku
It seems hard to pray
For the whole world on one day
Where is God all year?
For the whole world on one day
Where is God all year?
02 octobre 2005
Restaurant Sundays
The guys cleaning up the restaurant work quietly, occasionally whistling melodies that trail off before they become melodies. Once in awhile, I’ll hear a tenor voice wailing a high note from the kitchen, where one of the local Latino music stations blares at maximum volume from a small transistor radio. Other than that, the only sounds in the vacant restaurant are the sounds of cleaning—the bristly broom against the pebble-encrusted floor, the rag squeakily wiping window cleaner across various glass surfaces, the mop wringing bleach-scented water into the bucket as it gets prepared to erase the traces of last night’s sticky drips and spills.
I sit at the host stand, trying to get over a hangover while waiting for someone to call. It’s Sunday, so most normal people are either trying to sleep off Saturday’s excesses and indiscretions, gathering together with family and friends for brunch, or trying to ignore or prepare for the week ahead.
Around 10:30 a.m., a Latino man bearing a food package rings the buzzer and I let him in. He says something to me in Spanish, and I point him to the main dining room, where one of the clean up crew is working on the windows. They exchange packages and money. The food man leaves and I muster up my best “gracias” that I hope signifies a lack of knowledge of the language, but an earnest desire to communicate. He smiles and ducks out.
About ten minutes later, the smaller of the two clean-up crewmen appears before me and presents a plate of fried rice, breaded, deep-fried shrimp, and shredded lettuce, beautifully arranged for my eating pleasure. “For me?” I ask, pointing to myself. “Yes, yes!” he says, unsmiling but not unkind. It’s a bit hard to tell if he’s looking at me because he is very cross-eyed, but I think I am making eye contact with him as I exclaim, “thank you so much! That’s so nice!” He nods and walks away. Mind you, it’s 10:45 a.m., and I have already eaten scrambled eggs with cheese and bacon at home, but I am not one to refuse a gift so graciously given.
The guys who work during the day and I have limited communication, largely because of their beginning English skills and my (lack of) Spanish skills. They do not try to make small talk with me, nor do they flirt with me, like the bussers, food runners and kitchen workers do during the night shift. I know that they are probably doing this job because they are not qualified to work the floor during business hours (read: customer interaction hours), which means that they are probably being paid rather poorly for the work that they do. So when they offer me part of their “comida” without my asking and without ever having had a real conversation with either of them, I am touched. And I eat it, whatever it may be that day. I want to say, “please do not give me your food, I do not deserve it. I’m doing this job so that I don’t go insane living with my parents while I figure out what I want to do with my life. I am not working to survive.” But explaining that wouldn’t change anything. They would still have food to give and I would still be sitting here twiddling my thumbs while they cleaned the grit off the windows and the grill in the kitchen. I do not even know their names.
I sit at the host stand, trying to get over a hangover while waiting for someone to call. It’s Sunday, so most normal people are either trying to sleep off Saturday’s excesses and indiscretions, gathering together with family and friends for brunch, or trying to ignore or prepare for the week ahead.
Around 10:30 a.m., a Latino man bearing a food package rings the buzzer and I let him in. He says something to me in Spanish, and I point him to the main dining room, where one of the clean up crew is working on the windows. They exchange packages and money. The food man leaves and I muster up my best “gracias” that I hope signifies a lack of knowledge of the language, but an earnest desire to communicate. He smiles and ducks out.
About ten minutes later, the smaller of the two clean-up crewmen appears before me and presents a plate of fried rice, breaded, deep-fried shrimp, and shredded lettuce, beautifully arranged for my eating pleasure. “For me?” I ask, pointing to myself. “Yes, yes!” he says, unsmiling but not unkind. It’s a bit hard to tell if he’s looking at me because he is very cross-eyed, but I think I am making eye contact with him as I exclaim, “thank you so much! That’s so nice!” He nods and walks away. Mind you, it’s 10:45 a.m., and I have already eaten scrambled eggs with cheese and bacon at home, but I am not one to refuse a gift so graciously given.
The guys who work during the day and I have limited communication, largely because of their beginning English skills and my (lack of) Spanish skills. They do not try to make small talk with me, nor do they flirt with me, like the bussers, food runners and kitchen workers do during the night shift. I know that they are probably doing this job because they are not qualified to work the floor during business hours (read: customer interaction hours), which means that they are probably being paid rather poorly for the work that they do. So when they offer me part of their “comida” without my asking and without ever having had a real conversation with either of them, I am touched. And I eat it, whatever it may be that day. I want to say, “please do not give me your food, I do not deserve it. I’m doing this job so that I don’t go insane living with my parents while I figure out what I want to do with my life. I am not working to survive.” But explaining that wouldn’t change anything. They would still have food to give and I would still be sitting here twiddling my thumbs while they cleaned the grit off the windows and the grill in the kitchen. I do not even know their names.
