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Every time I knocked at the door, looking for a job, the question asked by the person who opened the door was the same: "How long have you been here?" In accordance with the truth my answer was: "I've just come here," or "I've been here for a month," or "I've been here for two months." What I heard next was: "Your English is very good!" and I used to answer: "Well, thank you very much, but I am looking for a job. There is a sign displayed in your window which says that you need help. Do you think that there is anything that I can do for you?" The only consolation from the potential employer was: "Leave your telephone number and we will call you!"
From the very beginning I sensed something fishy about those "Help wanted" signs in the windows and about the answers "We'll call you!"
Brought up in the family where the truth was the only key which was supposed to open various doors in life, I found it difficult to understand why the truth seemed to be an inappropriate "tool" here, in America. Asking my friends what I had been doing wrong in my efforts to find a job, I heard: "You will not get any job if you say you have been here for one month, two or three. Begin with half a year!"
Well, why should I do that, I thought? Who would be so dumb to believe me? My English, although praised by those who desperately needed help, was a tangible proof that even if I wanted to sound veracious, sooner or later it would appear that I wasn't the one who could be trusted. But on the other hand those who could give me a chance to make ends meet lied to me; "Your English is good! You've been doing well! We'll call you!" My English was poor, I hadn't been doing well and nobody called me. So maybe I should beat them at their own game?
"Go! Talk to that guy over there!" my friend with whom I was roaming in Brooklyn pointed to a man on the other side of the street. "He is in your business and he is a Pole."
"Excuse me...," a moment later I was touching the man's arm.
"What? What do you want?" the man sprung back and eyed me up and down.
"I am sorry! I didn't mean to scare you. My friend told me that you were in the film business and I thought that maybe you might help me. You see, I was working for the Polish TV for the last twelve years and..."
"How long have you been here?" he broke in.
"Two months."
Until now we were talking Polish, but suddenly he changed the language, shedding a mass of English words from which I understood that first of all I had to know English. Without it there was nothing to talk about. Looking at his moving lips I realized how stupid of me it was to think that in America people speak Polish. He has opened my eyes and I was ready to thank him for that lesson, but he was already drifting away, talking to himself. Watching the "film-maker" disappearing in the crowd of pedestrians, I was full of admiration for his understanding, knowledge, wisdom and his willingness to help me. Damn Professor! Well, maybe I made a mistake telling him about my two months experience in America.
A few days later I went to see another potential employer who owned a photo store, hoping that we would understand each another. His ad in the paper said: "We make videos of weddings, meetings, anniversaries..." According to my knowledge everything had to be edited before someone would buy it.
"How long have you been here?" he asked after I had explained what I was up to.
"Half a year," this time I decided to bend the truth a little, "but I have twelve years experience in editing," I added quickly.
Either my half a year experience in America or twelve years experience in editing didn't make any impression on the video expert who began to talk about his sophisticated equipment and what he was able to make from the shots he had taken. This time he didn't open my eyes because I already knew almost everything he was talking about, but what I didn't know was whether he would hire me or not. After an hour or so of an insipid conversation we shook hands. "I work alone, you know," he lied to me. He lied because I saw "Help wanted" sign in his window and another person, sitting at the desk in his office.
If I couldn't get what I wanted I decided to take what I could get and noticing another "Help wanted" sign , I entered the Florist.
"May I help you?" a pair of slanting eyes of a lady from one of the Far East countries looked at me anticipatingly.
"Well, telling the truth I would like to help you," I tried to look straight into her eyes. There is a "Help wanted" sign in your window so I thought that you might need my help."
"How long have you been here?" was her next question.
"Not long, half a year only, but..."
"Leave your telephone number and we will call you!" she approached a vase full of flowers and began to arrange already arranged flowers.
Well,well,well, I talked to myself, leaving the store, people need help, they look for it, but when the help is delivered to them on a silver tray they don't need it. What a strange country this America is?
As a stubborn person, and in the matter of finding a job I had to be stubborn, I tried another help-seeker. Thumbing through the paper, I found an ad which said that a person was needed to help in repairing typewriters and that the Russian language would help. I didn't know anything about typing machines, but Russian was my second language so because of that, I thought, the possibility of getting a job was higher.
"Strastfooytye and good morning!" using two languages I greeted a man at the desk, from the very beginning letting him know that I was the person he was looking for.
"You are looking for a job?" the man surprised me with his intelligence.
"And I see that you can speak Russian."
"Da,ya zabill nyemnoschko, but..." I tried to sound convincing by mixing both languages, "but ya doomayou that we can communicate harascho."
"How long have you been here?" he killed me with his next question.
"Half a year, but..."
"You see, I am just opening my store and I don't need any help right now, but maybe in the future. Leave your telephone number." He didn't show any mercy, turning his knife in an already dead body.
"Well, spaseebo and thank you!" I left the store, cursing like hell but this time I was using only one language - Polish.
The job situation looked gruesome, but I didn't wring my hands and a few days later a lady at the Skin Care Cosmetic Salon on Madison Avenue in Manhattan was willing to check my experience as a masseur. I was very glad and at the same time surprised that she didn't ask "How long have you been here?" It seemed that more important to her was what I was able to do.
Before I came to America I took a course of patting different bodies and now came the time to show my abilities in that matter. I was led to a small room where the show was going to take place. A few minutes later a man showed up, introducing himself as Howard and without any further explanations he began to undress himself. Horror-strucked I looked at the naked body, thinking that he must have entered the wrong room; I wasn't a doctor, but masseur. Having noticed my consternation, Howard asked politely in a soft voice.
"Which part of my body would you like to do?"
"Well..., Err..., Hmmm...," for a moment I didn't know what to say, feeling that I was blushing up to the ears. "Well...er..., maybe your back, please." I stammered out.
Using a special cream to moisten my palms, I began to follow the instruction I had learned at the course in Poland. Howard was lying flat on his belly with his eyes shut, uttering some kind of groan, neither from a pain nor from a bliss. After half an hour of my struggle with his hairy and slippery back, Howard dressed up and without even saying "thank you" left the room.
"Leave your telephone number and we will call you!" was the Salon's manager request when I showed up at her desk. "It was nice meeting you." She shook my hand good bye.
Going back home, I tried to summarize my today's efforts and I came to the conclusion that probably I had massaged the wrong part of Howard's body.
"We will pay you $ 3.25 for an hour," a manager of a hardware store looked at me anticipatingly.
"Sure, I take the job." I didn't want him to see my excitement, but everything inside me was singing from a joy that at last I didn't hear: "How long have you been here?"
"Be here tomorrow at nine in the morning," said the manager and returned to his duties.
After five days of hard work I was handed an envelope with some writing on it. Glimpsing inside, I noticed green money. It was the color that made my heart jumping like crazy. At last! At last! At last! But counting presidents, I couldn't figure out why there was 54 dollars and 50 cents instead of 81 dollars and 25 cents. Something was wrong. I worked five days and five hours a day. Looking closely at the envelope, I noticed sounded strange to me English words: New York Tax, Federal Tax, Social Security Tax and some numbers following those words. It took me a while to solve the puzzle but when I solved it, it appeared that I was paid 2 dollars and 18 cents for an hour! I couldn't resist cursing but better half a loaf than no bread, I thought, and I decided not to ask questions.
Instead, that strange situation gave me a reason to look for something else and soon I was working 16 hours a day, taking care of clients at the hardware store in the morning and at the deli in the afternoon and night.
Days, weeks, months passed by and after half a year of acquainting myself with America which was entirely different from the picture of it I had in my mind, I got a chance to work as a butler. Although cooking, cleaning, pressing, driving, shopping etc., wasn't anything new to me, it seemed that my approach to do such simple things was the wrong way of doing them here in America. In a process of reeducating I was taught how to peel potatoes, how to cook frozen green peas, how to cut the right size of bread and make a toast from it, I was explained that one dollar for a pound of tomatoes was a ridiculous price for it and that 99 cents was a decent one, that the dust from the floor should be swept on the dustpan and not under the sofa... that the way I was thinking was wrong.
In order to express my thoughts and feelings I tried to find a way to speak them out loud. And although brushes, paints, canvas and easel weren't the tools I ever used in my life, I was able to create pictures that reflected what I had on my mind. Letters like poppy seeds covered white sheets of paper when I was writing about my "adventures" in America.
Plucking strings of a guitar, I sang songs to the joy of my friends and casual listeners. And I didn't hear a question "How long have you been here?" or "Leave your number and we will call you!" People had been taking what I was offering them. My paintings were exhibited at the gallery, my writing was printed in the paper, my performances were applauded and I was asked for more.
One day I talked about my achievements to an owner of a Beauty Salon for dogs and cats who had a "Help wanted" sign displayed in her window.
"What will you do if you lose your job?" she asked.
"Well, I will come to work for you," I said.
"Oh, nooooo!" she exclaimed. "You are too smart to work here!"
When I came to America, at the beginning, although experienced in some kind of jobs, I couldn't get one because the time of being here was too short. When it happened that I got a job it was better to play goofy because it made people think that they knew everything and that I was born just yesterday. When I became accustomed to the new situation and nothing would surprise me - I was too smart.
There is really something fishy going on here and still I don't understand the meaning of the sign "HELP WANTED."
Do you need help America, or what?
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