I failed to get any of the jobs that I had applied for because I had not completed at least one full semester to be eligible to be a Resident Assistant, my accent was more Indian than Jamaican even though I was from Nepal and they did not want magical realism in the school paper.
So I had no choice but to apply for the position of a waiter at the University Club. The place was more of a restaurant and hosted university events. I had no experience waiting tables but how hard could it be to carry a tray with plates of food? Well, I never could carry the tray with one hand so had to use both to move the food around. Even today, I get panic attacks when I see waiters in the city carrying a tray full of plates on one hand.
The job was pretty easy. You only showed up for work whenever they had dinner events for faculties, alumni, fraternities and sororities. The pay was minimum wage but I was happy that I could finally spend my own hard-earned money on my vices. When the dinner started, first you had to make sure that you carried enough plates of salad for the table that you were assigned to serve. After they got done with it, you had to bring in the appetizer then the main course and finally tea or coffee and deserts. Maybe that's the reason I like eating salad and I need to have coffee and brownie after dinner even today.
After wrapping things up, you had to use the dishwasher, then clean and mop the floor. I liked using the dishwashing machine and mopping the floor. Even today, I do the dishes at home and clean and mop the floor. Thank you America for such great life lessons, for today my wife is happy that she has found a man who loves to do the dishes and clean up. Somebody needs to organize a 'House Husband' pageant so that one day I can win the title and make my wife prouder.
The next summer, I went to New York. During the summer, you were legally allowed to work for forty hours a week, only if you worked at a place where they require you to show your ID and give them your social security number.
I crashed at my cousin's place in Queens. I went to look for jobs. I went to an audition for a Hollywood movie. The room was filled with guys who looked like Antonio Banderas and the girls were all blonde. They asked me to read the script. They called me back after a week and asked me to come with a portfolio. I never went back to the casting agency because the portfolio would cost me a few hundred dollars and I felt it wasn't worth it. I thought you just had to show up and they would hire you as an extra, the guy who is seen walking around the lead actor before all hell breaks loose and the extra is the first one to die when some psycho starts shooting.
My cousin advised me to go to a temp agency run by Asian folks. They had all kinds of jobs. You just had to pay a hundred dollars. Then you could choose where you wanted to work, mostly in small businesses run by Korean, Chinese, and Indian immigrants. I wanted to work in the Bronx. I thought I would be working right next to the Yankee Stadium. But I ended up at a convenience store run by a Punjabi in the most dangerous place in all America.
I started working the night shift at a convenience store in Hunts Point, New York. The neighborhood was filled with all sorts of folks. Hookers, Pimps, Drug Dealers and homeless gentlemen roamed around like zombies. The NYPD undercover officers came for coffee every two hours. Once in a while, someone would be shooting at one another outside the store.
The summer ended and I did not get shot or robbed. Maybe it was because I gave free coffee and bagels to the biggest guy in the neighborhood. I told my customers that I was from Nepal but most of them heard 'Naples' and wondered why an Italian guy was working in a store run by Indian immigrants.
After completing school, I worked for a number of companies around the country. But wearing tie and suits wasn't for me. I decided to come back home. Nobody in my neighborhood believed me when I told them that I came back because I wanted to do something in my country. Yes, it took me a year to adjust to load shedding, slow internet and shortages of everything. But home is home. It was fun to run around my house, doze off in my backyard, and play with my two dogs. Back in the states, it was definitely not fun to live in a shoe box and worry about paying your bills all the time.
Most of my high school friends are still back in America. They are doing great. All of them have settled down and have great jobs. They have their own apartments, but most still dream of coming back and doing something. Every time they are back home for vacation, they ask me if it was worth it coming back.
Well, the only thing I miss about America is going to the football games, the one where they wear helmets and run around the funny-shaped ball. I miss the weekends when all my friends met at a subway station, went for a movie and dinner and then to some bar for drinks before ending up at a diner for coffee at four in the morning. And then, met once again for brunch at 11 after catching a few hours of sleep.
But you do lose your independence once you are back. You might not make as much as you did back there. Your own earnings drop by more than 90% but you get to enjoy the vyar vyar momos for just Rs 70. Your parents will still treat you like a teenager. You are expected to be home before nine for dinner, or else face the usual lecture of 'only ghosts and criminals roam around in Kathmandu after dark'.
But like I said, home is home. And there is great comfort in that. But sometimes I wonder, what has America taught me? The answer is clear – there is no such a thing as a small job. Work hard, be tolerant of others, save some money, and also learn to have some fun while you are at it.
kalumaila99@gmail.com
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