by Jodi Angel
People in the line shoo-shoo-ing. Uncle Sam know everything is what they saying. Hmmm. Suppose the embassy ask ’bout your aunt who did overstay her six months in LA? Suppose they know you lose your real job?
When your batch of twenty get call-in the embassy, you watch everything. People go up once to hand in their documents. Then again for the interview. You figure out those getting send by the post office counter is the lucky ones. Them others, who drop their eyes and slink out quick, quick, them is the rejects.
You watch five from your batch get reject—some of them real posh looking.
Shit! If they could do them that, who’s me? You feeling like you have to pee but you dare not leave your seat.
At 9:00, they call your name; 9:15, the interview start.
The lady barely watching you. She asking simple questions but you feel like she just waiting for you to trip up. When she ask, “Purpose of visit?” you amaze yourself with how you slant the lie you and Judith did practice (“vacation”). How you pull it nearer the truth.
“School purchases,” you say in your best English, “before September. The children needs plenty things.”
The lady smile. “They always do,” she say.
Your B1/B2 visa get approve.
You feel high and light—like you could reach America on your own fuckin’ wings. You stop at KFC, near City Gate, and splurge: a bucket, four regular sides, a two-liter Sprite. A nice surprise for the boys after school. On the maxi-taxi ride home, you decide how you going to tell them.
JASON RIPPING INTO his second piece. Kevin still nibbling a drumstick. You watch all their hand and face getting greasy and sticky; the ketchup plopping down on their vests. Scabby knee, shred-up elbow, Jason missing teeth, Kevin always-runny nose. Is like you recording a movie in your head, to replay later, in America. They sit, stand, climb, all over the dining-table chairs, while Judith complaining and wiping, wiping.
Finally, you say, “Boys, what if we could eat KFC every Friday?”
Not even glancing up from his meat, Jason answer, “I done ask Mummy that long time and she say we can’t afford it.”
“I know. But we could afford it now. Daddy going America.”
The boys stare at you blank, blank.
“Allyuh have to make a list of all the toys allyuh want. Because, when I go America, I getting everything.” You growl the last word, bare your teeth, like a hungry lion.
The cubs laugh.
“America far?” Jason say.
“Yes, I have to go on a big airplane.”
“We could go too?”
“No, you have school. Plus you have to take care of your mother.” You glance at Judith. She look like she holding her breath. In truth, you doing the same damn thing.
“So, Daddy,” Jason say, “when you say ‘everything’ you mean I could get a G.I. Joe watch?”
The boys call toy after toy, snack after snack—everything they know from American TV. With every yes, their excitement grow and grow. Till they fidgeting again—more than ever now—popping up like bubbles in the Sprite. They start rocking the chairs and singing, “Daddy going America! Daddy going America!” They making you feel like you’s a superhero.
“Stop it!” Judith shout. “Stop that right now!”
A FEW WEEKS later, in the purple-looking hours before dawn, you slink out your bed and into the boys’ bedroom. You tiptoe and kiss Jason, on the top bunk; you bend and kiss Kevin, his cheek wet with dribble. You want them wake up so you could hear them say, “Bye, Daddy,” but, same time, you scared they will. You might be able to bear it. Or you might just say, “Fuck America,” and stay.
In the stillness, you hear a engine purr and handbrakes jerk. Your brother-in-law, Declan, just pull up outside.
Judith with you by the kitchen table, going over everything one last time: ticket, departure card, Rufus address, virgin passport. You tuck them inside the same bomber jacket you did wear to the embassy.
Your almost-empty suitcase standing up by the door—halfway in, halfway out—like it have two minds ’bout this whole thing. You and Judith hug and you kiss her on the cheek. Then, you put her at arm’s length. Is time to go—Declan waiting—but the last seven years, they come like glue. Your palms not budging from the sleeve of Judith nightie.
You fake a grin and say, “Take care of them li’l fellas, eh.”
And you linger, hoping she say something tender; so you could say something tender too. Something like I frighten or I will miss you.
But it don’t happen. So you just leave Judith right there, leaning on the doorframe like she propping up the house.
OCTOBER 1, YOU touch down in JFK. The place big, big, big and bright, bright, bright. It come like you in one of them sci-fi movies where they land the plane inside a spaceship. Only shiny metal and white light.
Everybody else seem to know where they going so you fall in and follow the crowd. In the immigration line, your heart racing just like in the embassy—like you guilty of something. The officer asking almost the same questions and you give the same answers. He do so—bam!—and stamp your passport for six months. Hallelujah!
You find your suitcase in no time—thanks to the orange ribbon Judith did tie on it. Then, the crowd take you past the customs desk and through a wall of doors that just open up by itself.
You in a big, wide clearing with metal barriers all ’round. Just beyond, it have at least three rows of faces and signs, plenty handmade signs. And plenty eyes aiming at you, but looking past you—you’s not who they want. You freeze on the spot, like fuckin’ stage fright. You trying to sift through, to find that one face, the only one you know in New York City. Seconds ticking and your spit drying out on your tongue like rain on the road. What if he forget?
“Junior! Yo, Junior! Over here!” Rufus find you. He a li’l way off to the side of the crowd waving, like he signaling a plane.
“Welcome to the US of A!” he say, hugging you hard.
“Thanks, man. Thanks,” you say.
Is a long, hot drive to Queens. Why the ass Rufus don’t put on the air condition? But he saying is the last summer weather so enjoy it while you can.
The air different, kinda crispy. But you surprised how dull and dingy the place looking. Brown everywhere. And kinda factoryish—big, big chimney and pipe and lorry in every yard. A small hope start bleeping inside you—maybe you’ll find MET work here; maybe this grocery thing is just a start.
Then, the streets get narrow and you reading signs: check-cashing, car wash, Rite Aid, eyebrow threading. What the ass is eyebrow threading? And where all the damn white people? You thought New York streets would be crawling with them, but you only seeing brown faces, like yours.
Another right turn and is strictly houses now—all the same type but different colors. Rufus stop and get out to open a saggy chain link gate.
Rotting garbage sneaking up in your nose-hole. It have to be garbage. It can’t be shit, right? This is America, for chrissake. Still, you don’t say nothing to Rufus because you don’t want to embarrass the man. You get your suitcase and follow him.
“But this is one big, macco house you have here, Rufus!”
“Yeah,” he say, “Top-floor rented out to some Jamaicans. But I hooked you up, cuz. You got the whole basement to yourself.”
The basement turn out to be some pipes and pillars, a rust-bitten washing machine and dryer, a plain cement floor. But in one corner, near the stairs, it have a crooked, wooden room leaning up on the concrete wall. As Rufus unlocking the door he grin just like your son Kevin and say, “Built this myself. Used to rent it to a Paki, but I threw him out for you.”
It don’t have much in the room. A patchy old couch (Rufus show you how to fold it out to a bed), a TV, another contraption he say is a electric heater, a closet and a musty smell. But say what: you in America! That’s the only damn thing that matter.
Rufus say, “Look, I gotta bounce, kid. Shift starts at six. Take a na
p or whatever. If you’re hungry, help yourself to anything upstairs.”
“I could call home?” you say.
Rufus open his wallet and flip a card in your direction. Turning away, he say, “Just read the back and follow the instructions. Phone’s in the kitchen. You’re gonna have to stock up on that shit.”
“First thing tomorrow,” you say, running up the stairs behind him.
“And remember, the deal is . . .”
“Yeah, I know: basement free this first month; buy my own food; two hundred a month after that.”
“A’ight,” Rufus say. He point to the phone on the wall and duck out the side door.
Leg-shaking, you dial; following the voice instructions, waiting for the international beep, praying you didn’t mess up.
“Hello,” Judith answer.
Boom! You could jump for joy.
“I reach,” you say.
“Hello? Junior?”
“Yeah, is me. I reach.”
“Junior? Hello?”
You shouting in the receiver but Judith still not hearing you.
WORK AT THE grocery start bright and early the next day. It turn out not to be in the meat room. Ahmed, the manager, save that better-paying job for a fella from his own country, Palestine. You get the $4.25-a-hour job packing shelves and swiping goods with a li’l sticker-gun.
Becky is a cashier. The only white girl. She think she down with all the other cashiers but you hear them laughing behind her back and calling her “fat white trash.”
That evening, you decide to buy some groceries. It late, the store ready to close. Becky is the only one still open. As you set down your things she say, “You don’t talk much, do you, Island Man?”
You laugh.
“Ah! See, he smiles!” she say, and you smile a li’l wider. “So, you got a family back home?” she ask.
“Two boys.”
“Lucky bastard. How old?”
“Seven and four.”
“Miss ’em yet?”
You nod.
“Married?”
“Nah.” Technically, is the truth. But a truth with plenty holes in it, like the netting on this paw-paw you buying. You smile in a guilty way. But Becky blushing, as if your smile have something to do with her. Ha, Lord! This fat-girl think you desperate or what?
She making small talk, punching in prices—mostly from memory. But then you notice she skipping over some things, just pushing them down the belt. You think is a mistake—she must be distracted with all the chitchat—so you stretch out your hand to stop the next can. Becky watch you dead in the eye and wink.
You bag your groceries and burn road home.
You boil water and make some Top Ramen. Chili-lime shrimp. The thing smelling like fuckin’ insecticide—tasting worse—but at least it warm. You eat on the edge of the sofa bed, watching the TV, but really the damn thing watching you ’cause your mind so fuckin’ far right now.
This is the first time you ever thief anything in life. Suppose Ahmed find out and call the police? Suppose they post your ass back to Trinidad? Imagine you: in a vest, short pants, and handcuffs, waddling off the plane; your boys ducking down ’cause they shame. You decide never to do this thing again—never, ever. And you decide to pay it back by working extra hard and doing anything the boss ask you to do. You will make yourself Ahmed li’l bitch.
And—shit!—you keep that promise. You punch your card every day at seven and punch out every night at nine. Sometimes you doing double shifts. Sometimes you covering for people. Still, every red cent of your weekly salary spend-out before you even get it. It have Rufus rent to pay, Judith money to send, and you trying to full a barrel with food-and-thing to ship home for Christmas. A few groceries for yourself now and then—soup, bread, cheese—but, for a fella in your situation, phone cards is Life. America over-lonely. Just work, work, work, then this empty room. So you don’t mind: you would rather starve than not hear your children.
BECKY, SHE REALIZE you don’t take no lunch break. She ask ’bout it one day and you brush her off with a weak joke: you maintaining your physique. Couple days later—lunchtime self—you taking a smoke outside with Carlos, the Dominican fella from Produce.
“Ma-a-n,” he say, “you peep that sexy new morena ’cross the street at the dry cleaners?”
“Nah, which one that is, boy?”
“Short. Thick. Tremendo culo.” He move his hands like he tracing a big, round pumpkin.
“Oh, she? Yeah, I glimpse her yesterday. But that’s not my scene, brother.”
“Whattaya mean, amigo? You don’t see that ass?”
You laugh and explain, “I not really into fat girls, you know, Carlos. Gimme the smallies, the chicken-wings. You see how I magga? I like girls to suit my size. When a woman drop she leg on me in the night, I mustn’t dead in my sleep.”
Carlos slapping his thigh and dancing around. He swear you’s the funniest man he ever meet. Chilling out like this, talking big—the way you does talk back home—and having somebody appreciate you for it. It real nice. A nice change from licking American ass whole day: Yes, the brussels sprouts is right this way, ma’am . . . No, sir, don’t worry, I’ll clean that mess right up.
A noise come from behind, inside the loading bay. You spin ’round; Becky standing up there clutching a li’l Ziploc bag with both hands.
Oh, fuck! Maybe she hear what you just say ’bout fat girls? Apart from Carlos, she’s your only friend here. You don’t want to hurt her feelings.
Becky just giggle, “Oops! Male-bonding,” hand you the sandwich, and walk off, back to her register. Each half of her bottom trembling to a different beat, like they suffering from two separate earthquakes.
You like Becky. She real easygoing. Always happy, always joking. When she laugh, she does make a noise like hiccups and her freckles does bounce like they in a Carnival band. But, you starting to get the vibes that Becky want you to love her.
She say she from Pennsylvania. Thirty-five, never married, no kids. She living with roommates, a bunch of other “ex-Amish girls” catching up on life. You don’t know much ’bout Amish people except what you see on TV: they does pray plenty, farm plenty, and they don’t like outsiders. You must be as outsider as it get, so you very surprised that Becky always squeezing in a line or two ’bout how black men are so hot and how the Caribbean accent is so sexy. Like is only one fuckin’ accent for everybody in the whole Caribbean Sea. Steups!
One day, Becky come out plain, plain and ask, “So, you’re not married, but is there . . . anyone? Special, I mean?”
You hear yourself say, “Special? Nah. Just my children-mother.” And you almost expect a cock to crow because you feel like Judas Fuckin’ Iscariot. You don’t know why you keep doing this shit! Hiding Judith. But you just have this gut feeling things will go better for you, in America, if you hang a sign round your neck: COME IN. I OPEN . . . TO EVERYTHING.
RUFUS HOME ON his off night and y’all watching Die Hard with a Vengeance on his illegal pay-per-view. You tell him ’bout Becky. “My man!” he say. “That’s your meal-ticket, yo!”
When you look confuse, he spell it out in neon. “Nigga, you better fuck that white heifer and get yourself straight. Yeah, they gave you six months. But you can flip that into a lifetime, with a green card.”
Frowning, you wonder if you hear right. Rufus know Judith; he does stay by your house every Carnival; he’s eat her food; and she does much-him-up. They kinda close. You start to wonder if Judith set him up to test you or something.
“The fuck you looking at me like that for?” Rufus say. “I ain’t telling you fall in love with the bitch. I’m saying: make her love you. Opportunity’s knocking and you need to respond, nigga. Think about your family.”
You still gaping at Rufus like you no hablas ingles. He shrug and done the talk, “People get married for papers all the time, cuz. This the US of A, remember.”
Your mind sign off from Bruce Will
is problems. You glimpsing now that you been thinking way too small ’bout yours. Why keep sending your family sandwich money when you could bring them to a fuckin’ banquet?
Rufus damn right: being here in America ain’t about your preference. What kinda girls you like or what kinda work you qualified for. Is about keeping yourself ready: knees bent, palms cupped. And juicing the fuck out of every opportunity that drop down.
Make Becky love you, Rufus did say. Make she love you till she would do anything to keep you. Sign on that dotted line, even. Yeah, you could do that. But you have to work quick—only five months left.
Later that night, you start feeling shaky ’bout your decision, so you call home.
Judith hear the beep and bawl, “Boys! Come quick! Is allyuh father.” The connection real good this time: you actually hear their rubber slippers going plap, plap, plap. Some rustling; a couple thuds—they fighting for the phone. Jason win and Kevin start to cry. While Judith petting him, you ask Jason ’bout school, if he behaving himself.
“A boy did push li’l Kevin down in school,” he say. “But I find the fella and push him back harder.” He singing the whole story in his high-pitch voice.
“Good,” you say, “stick up for him, eh. Always. You name Big Brother.”
Then you talk to Kevin. He parrot everything his big brother just say, only with a lisp. As you listen, you close your eyes. Rufus right: is not about just feeding them. If you bring them to America you could give them what Luther Sr. and Janice never give you and Gail: a head start in life.
Then, Judith come on. She do a quick run-through: your mother and sister doing good, light bill and cable bill paid up, no water because the landlord didn’t pay the bill, send the money Western Union next time (MoneyGram line always too long).
She on top of everything. Super-capable. That’s how it is with Judith. She don’t neglect a single duty, but she does make you feel bad for making her do it—like you’s not enough man. Before you fly-out, she did open her legs for you, but she never make a fuckin’ sound. She hard.