Ever hear of a guy called Sassafras? No, not Sassafras, I mean Sisyphus. My dad is always talking about him. Said Sisyphus got himself in trouble with his boss, and the boss put him to rolling a humungous boulder up a steep hill. And then just as he rolled that thing nearly to the top, it would roll back down. And he’d run after it all the way down to the bottom and have to start all over again. I would have quit. Maybe he couldn’t.
Oh yes, I can relate to Sisyphus. Sometimes I don’t want to get out of bed in the morning, cause I’m real tired and my feet ache. And then I think hey, someone’s waiting for his coffee at table seven, and the guy who always sits at nine likes his eggs over easy and not runny, and who’ll look after them if I don’t? And that gets me moving quick. So I wonder if Sisyphus felt like that every morning. I wonder who he got up for.
Hey, Jimmy, did Sisyphus get minimum wage? What about he alth care? My dad said they didn’t have things like that in Greece, that’s why he left. So they couldn’t have had it in Sisyphus’s day. But they’d have to give him time off to sleep, eat and crap, right? My dad’s been wrong about a lot of things, so when you get a chance, you ask the net for me. But maybe the answer will be in Greek and I couldn’t read it.
You couldn’t either? Well, you could have fooled me, but not my gran.
Oh, yeah, I could do a second shift right here. Yeah, old man Petropoulos, he’s my dad, he’d put me to work like a shot if I let him. In the kitchen, serving coffee, busing tables like Carlos, but I say no way. I’m Greek, not Mexican. I got my pride. Carlos says I’m stuck up like my dad, that’s what he says. He says it’s money, that’s all that matters. But how would it look if I was in college and some students stopped in here and saw me busing tables? I’d have to be in acting school for that to be cool.
So what do you think, Jimmy? What are my chances? Slim, or none? Think Tula could be a sculptor? I like molding things. Giving them a lift so they look alive. Like my customers after coffee. It’s not much, but it’s something. Ask the net — it’s all there, isn’t it?
Okay, maybe it’s not the Delphic Oracle.
My dad told me they kept those priestesses behind the scenes, like waitresses. They always gave advice from Apollo, but didn’t anyone ever wonder what advice a priestess would have given if she was asked what she thought? Or what she would have said if she wasn’t always doped up and stoned? Anyway, she was always giving them riddles so they’d have to come back and ask some more questions — isn’t the net like that? I guess if I ever go back to school, I’ll ask it everything.
Hey, you tried the breakfast burrito special last week, right? Carlos showed me how to make it. He says we should put some Mexican dishes on our menu. I told him don’t tell Dad it’s Mexican till he tries it.
You know my dad? Guy with the bushy eyebrows? He’s always hanging around in his wheelchair — you can’t get him to go home. The summer he bought this place — he was big and strong and striding around back then — he brought me along for my education, though I shoulda been in school, and we sat in the car every day for a week. Just sitting across the street from the door. The heat was choking, but Dad handed me a wet towel and we sat there watching. He wrote down how many people were walking by, how many walked in, how many cars and how many buses drove by in an hour.
When that man gets an idea, it’s like a piece of gum stuck in your hair.
Like a few weekends ago. He got the idea he wanted to see Millennium Park, but of course he can’t drive no more. I heard him asking our pastor if he could drive him to Chicago sometime, but the pastor’s real busy. So I offered to go with him Monday when we’re closed here. I always wanted to go on a train, and we got up real early to ride the Hiawatha, and all the way, he didn’t shout or swear at me once.
Do you know you don’t have to phone for a cab in Chicago? They have so many, the cabbies line up outside the station, waiting. I sure as hell didn’t know that. Felt like a queen. And the cabbie, a dark foreign guy, put the wheelchair in the trunk for me and got Dad inside. And he was so gentle with Dad, I was amazed. I never realized there are folks who don’t speak American who care about older people — I mean, let’s face it, here’s a guy who can’t walk. He said his father was old too and needed a wheelchair, but wheelchairs were too expensive to buy wherever he came from — I forget where. Imagine that, a country where you can’t afford a wheelchair.
Not that it’s cheap here, I gotta say.
I don’t know how that cabbie found his way, but he scooted up and around those streets and down Wabash Street under the el like he was born there. And then he pulled up on Michigan Avenue and there, right in front of my face, was Millennium Park, with the Pritzker Pavilion shining way in the back. We got out and I counted out a whole day’s worth of tips in singles into his hand. And he bowed with his hands together like he was praying, or like I was royalty.
Oh, you should have seen us, Dad sailing along past the lampposts in his wheelchair and me behind, and the sun shining down on us. Felt like payday. I looked up at the names of all the founders carved into the limestone pillars and wondered just how did these guys make so much fucking money? Did they screw lots and lots of people, and for how much? But then Dad started racing a park attendant on a lawn mower, and I had to run behind him.
Later, I pushed him over to see Cloud Gate — that’s the steel sculpture right by the open-air theatre. The sign said its sculptor came all the way from India — no shit. It has two hundred and sixty shiny plates, but you can’t see a single seam. Looks like a huge doughnut. We walked underneath, into the navel — Dad called it the omphalos. I wondered if I’d ever make anything as simple and beautiful.
On the way home, I told Dad what I felt. He said I should try frying doughnuts and selling them, what use are doughnuts made of steel? That man — can’t fight with other men like he used to, so he’s gotta pick on me. Only pays me when he has the money.
Hey Jimmy, did you try the new coffee? I switched our brand to Hazelnut Cream when we came back — Dad hasn’t noticed yet. Tastes better, huh? Yeah, it’s not much, but it’s something.
Oh, sure, I thought of getting married in my twenties. Did some serious shacking up with a Greek guy for quite a while, till I finally got tired of doing his dishes and laundry. Dad said he wasn’t good enough for me, but he said that about all my boyfriends. Then the guys didn’t come around no more. Now he says I’m Hestia — centre of the earth, without consort. Bullshit! I think he just needs me to take care of him and my mom and Gran. A husband would be one more person to feed and clean for, and where would I find a guy who’d share me with my family? I’ve got girlfriends who say their husbands are jealous of their kids. So I just have dates.
No thanks, Carlos, I don’t need no coffee. Jimmy, you want your usual now? Tomato-feta salad, rosa marina soup and a roll? I’ll put your order in in a minute.
You know, I thought of going to Greece for a bit, just before the Olympics. But then me and my mom and Gran saved up and got a ticket for Dad to go — he was still walking then, just slow. And he came back saying Greece was too much like America now, not like it used to be. Well, which place is still like it used to be after thirty years? I think he just wanted to feel he made the right decision coming to America. I’m glad we got him to fly when we did — it wasn’t much, but it was something. He’d be too scared to fly now, what with his MS and the terrorists and all. Says the government’s got info on everyone — unless we speak in Arabic.
They’ve got all kinds of info on me, Jimmy.
Okay, call it data, just like your bank and your firm have all kinds of stuff on you. And Homeland Security has Carlos in their computers. We’re all data now, Jimmy. You, me, Carlos. I don’t know how they do it, but eventually I figure they’ll come for the women first, like in Salem. Dad says they did that in Europe before anyone could stop them — he says they did that for centuries. Lose Roe vs Wade and it’ll take us the next five centuries to get our rights back.
Ain’t a lawyer that
doesn’t know that one. I don’t know any other cases, but even I know that one. They want it to be history, so I figure it must be something women need. What does your Arlene think? Is she like the Washington wives who want to ban abortion till they need one for their daughters? Naw, I bet she’s a regular nice woman or she wouldn’t have married you. Plus she’s almost a nurse, so she oughta know.
Let you in on a secret, Jimmy? I had an abortion. And you know what, I chose to have it. I walked in there and I said, here — take it out. I ain’t bringing no kid into this world. Not till women like me get a better shake. I have girlfriends who are married and might as well be single moms for all the help they get. And getting pregnant is no reason to get married. It’s bad for girls, and bad for boys too, when they see their mamas and sisters treated any old how. The guys in Washington could give us daycare, for a start. But if I had a kid and took her to daycare, who’d be working there? Women, right? You don’t see a lot of men in daycare.
Carlos, give Mr. McKuen here some more coffee. Thank you.
I never told my dad how I used Roe vs Wade, all those years ago. He would have thought it meant different ways to cross a river, ha ha. They don’t go for that in Greece, you see. He’d have knocked me on my butt. Wouldn’t have talked to me for a year. But I did tell him if I got married I wouldn’t be like all these suburbia cuties, making their daddies pay for their weddings. I said if I ever got married I’d send out the invitations myself, buy my own wedding gown and walk down the aisle myself. He said I shoulda been a boy. He said he couldn’t wait to give me away. I said, Give away? Do I belong to you? I belong to me. Why would I let you give me away? Then he got really pissed and didn’t talk to me for weeks.
But now he’s glad cause he didn’t have to pay for no wedding. Not even a kid.
Like the new menu, Jimmy? I worked on it. Figured I could make a bit of the world more beautiful. See the green and maroon border? I did that.
Not much, I know. But it’s something.
Gotta go, Jimmy — need a smoke and pee before I put my hairnet on again. I’ll put in your order. And the Greek custard afterwards? Sure.
Say hello to your wife for me. And next time you come, ride that Harley. I’ll take a break and we can rocket over the Hoan again.
Hola, Mr. Jimmy. Coffee? I make it fresh. New hazelnut flavour.
Good salad, yes. Best tomatoes, yes? They have nice smell, yes? Vine ripe. From Mexico, like me.
When I was little boy only this high, my grandfather he used to grow tomatoes. And we all — my father, my brothers — worked on the Contreras farm. Those days, the land, she was alive. And in the evenings, I remember how they talked about the best queso rellenos we ever ate, the most wonderful escabeche we ever tasted, and who grew the hottest habaneros. I still remember, not like that Mr. Enrico. He’s Mexican outside, gringo inside.
No, the farm is gone, but still I have its name, Contreras, like my grandfather. He sold it, and we went to work for an American company. My grandfather, my father, my brothers. One time my boss said the company paid much money for research about tomato seeds, and I said, You could pay some of that money to my grandfather.
Ha, ha! My boss laughed, you laugh, I laugh. Maybe lawyers like you should make a law like that, but you’re a wills and contracts guy.
You know why I like you? Always you order the tomato salad with feta cheese, and I say to myself, Here’s a big man who cares how tomatoes taste, how they smell. Because always he comes here, where we only buy tomatoes from Mexico. And sometimes you order spaghetti, but always with the marinara sauce. And last week you ordered the breakfast burrito with double salsa. Did you see I put extra sour cream with it? Yes? Of course.
Mr. Petropoulos didn’t notice. He’s good man. He doesn’t have cameras everywhere, like in grocery stores.
These are so good tomatoes, yes? When I was young we had so many kinds. But now this tomato on your plate, he tastes the same as the tomato on his and his and hers.
You know why? Because of fertilizers. You give fertilizers to the earth, it’s like giving hormones to a cow or a woman. So this tomato grows faster and stronger than the tomatoes when I was small. Can you find one black spot? No, not one. The spots are on the hands of the sprayers — women like my wife, my Rosa.
You know, it is five years that you and I know each other. Twice a week you come here, you sit at the counter and read your paper and open letters. You come for Tula’s smile, my coffee, our tomatoes. One day, you left a big tip — a twenty dollar bill! And you said, Merry Christmas! For Carlos. So Tula gave me all of it. I sent it to Rosa the very next day and I said, It’s from mi amigo, Mr. Jimmy McKuen, a very great lawyer.
So you know what she did? See — Rosa sent this invitation, to our daughter’s quinceañera. It’s for you and your wife, Tula says her name is Arlene.
See here is written, To Mr. and Mrs. James and Arlene McKuen.
Open it! Open it!
You see here it says, Princesa de Precious Moments and Mis Quince Años. That means fifteenth birthday. And here her name, Ingrid Contreras.
Yes, she invites you. You come to Merida — to our barrio. They call it the White City because it’s very clean. All white buildings.
Rosa knows you, I tell her all about you. Rosa, I said, I have one friend in America who is not Mexican. He’s white, white, like an over-sprayed tomato. He has no cracks, no scars, no blemishes. He’s tall, big. Much taller than me. I said, He is Irish, and you know they had the English same as we had the Conquistadors. But I think maybe the British were more like Americans, yes?
I said, Mr. McKuen’s family ran here from Ireland because all the potatoes died. His Irish people, they were starving, I saw it on my TV. He never speaks of it, but it’s nothing to be ashamed of. You never told me, but I understand.
Rosa, she understands, she says, Oh, sometimes when I get so tired, I wish all the tomatoes would rot, but now I hear about Mr. McKuen’s family, I will never wish that any more.
Rosa works, sometimes in a greenhouse, sometimes on the land. Not in Merida, no. She goes in a truck two hours. She plucks the shoots, ties the vines to hold them up, picks the tomatoes, yes, by hand. From seven-thirty in the morning till two-thirty in the afternoon. Forty pails a day for twenty-eight pesos. Five dollars, maybe less.
She’s very gentle, very quick like I am with the coffee and the dishes, so sometimes she makes more. I used to work on the same farm, driving a tractor, taking the tomatoes to the plant. That’s how we met.
What happened? Oh, you mean why did I leave?
Tula says if you talk to a lawyer, it’s like talking to your priest. So I can tell you why I left, my friend. No one can make you tell them what I say, right, Mr. Jimmy? Not even the Homeland Security — right?
Okay, so one day my boss says to me, Women are best. They come to work on time, they come every day, they don’t get drunk, they don’t steal. I don’t have to teach them how to plant and care for seedlings. They are patient. Their fingers pick and pack better. They keep the count better. When they put stickers on the tomatoes, they are never crooked.
I say, Men are good too. We look after your machines. We clean and plow the land with tractors. We dig holes for stakes. We mix and spray insect killer, weed killer. Look how strong are my muscles from carrying boxes from the field to the plant. One day I will be a production manager.
But my boss, he acts like he don’t hear me good. He says, Carlos, you know the best thing ever happened to you and me? Betty Friedan.
I say, Who is this Betty Friedan?
An old woman in Al Norte who says women are equal to men, women can do every job men do. She taught this to women in a book, and now any time a woman doesn’t do as much as a man, you just have to whisper that she is not as good as a man, and she will work three times as fast.
And he laughed.
I say to him, Maybe you are right, boss man. Because I didn’t want him to fire Rosa, but after that, when I think of what he said, I start burni
ng inside, I don’t want my Rosa working three times as hard as me. Our Ingrid was four years old then, and we had two more, even younger. When I get my pay that week, I go home and tell Rosa, Tomorrow I’m going to al otro lado. You tell him I left you, I’m gone, you don’t know where. Tell him you hate me so he will keep you working. I’ll send money as soon as I can, and maybe one day you don’t have to work here.
Rosa says, Carlos, los Americanos, they want our tomatoes, not our people. For you they say come here, come here with one hand and go away, go away with the other.
But I tell her, A gringo company made people like me, so America should help me. I’m export quality. I believe in capitalism. I work hard.
It’s dangerous. And you can’t miss Ingrid’s Primera Comunión, she say.
I say, No danger, I have a friend. And I will find work, I will send money home. We will save. Ingrid, she is so small, but she’s smart like you — she will understand.
This way, I finally persuaded Rosa. She gave me all the money she saved for us, and I paid it to a man — ah, you have heard many stories like mine. But my story, it’s not like any other man’s story.
You want to know how I came? I became a tomato. Sí, a tomato!
For a little while, I worked in a grocery store — I can still say all the PLU numbers of the vegetables I rang up. But even that — I was working like a machine. Hello, how are you, paper or plastic, have a nice day.
Then I worked in McDonalds, temporary, three years. Then one day I see Help Wanted in Mr. Petropoulos’s window. I look. And there behind the sign, Mr. Petropoulos in his wheelchair. He is shouting and shaking his fist at someone. I say to myself, That is a real boss!
We Are Not in Pakistan Page 8