Of all my friends, Sewa was the saddest to see me leave. Together, we participated more actively in American social life than most Indians. We enjoyed going to American parties and drive-in restaurants, and we liked to sit on the side of the road at an intersection in front of his apartment, drinking beer and talking. During those times, we felt the way we did back in India when nothing else was going on. I would miss all the laughs and good times we experienced together.
On the day of my departure, Sewa helped me load my belongings into my sky-blue, 1965 Catalina convertible. On weekends and most evenings, Sewa and I drove the Catalina with the top down to drive-in restaurants, blasting Indian music on a portable record player we borrowed from another Indian student. The guys and girls at the drive-in restaurant would look around, wondering where the crazy music was coming from. We ordered cheeseburgers and drank Old German or Pabst Blue Ribbon, the cheapest beer we could buy in six packs at the time.
As Sewa and I drank beer and ate curried chicken with rice at his house, we reminisced about the good times and shared plenty of laughs. When it came time for me to leave, we both became emotional. After saying our goodbyes with heavy hearts, I drove toward Nashville, wondering what the next stage of my life would be like.
The next morning, as I walked into Vanderbilt University Hospital a little before 8:00, I felt like a million bucks. My hair was combed neatly, and I wore a suit and tie, a light blue shirt, and Florsheim shoes. The secretary at the front desk showed me to Jacob Walker’s office. He was the department head of data processing within the Programming Department, and he gestured for me to sit down. As he explained the functions of the Programming Department, I nodded politely, wondering how this information related to me. I was an engineer, not a programmer.
Once he finished speaking, Mr. Walker showed me to my office, which turned out to be a dim corner in the back of the room, sectioned off by a wooden panel. What is this? I thought. After spending so much time imagining my own office, this was a punch in the stomach.
Next, I met the assistant administrator, Mr. Clark. After talking with him for several minutes about his responsibilities and the hospital’s organization, it was apparent that I would not have much to do with Mr. Clark, and when I met Mr. Greathouse, I knew I would rarely see him either. I came to like Jean Brown the most. She was the methods analyst and an enthusiastic, friendly person. Previously, she had worked as a registered nurse in the Infection Control Department. She knew the ins and outs of the hospital, and during the next few days, she told me everything she knew about the hospital and its personnel.
At the end of my two-week hospital orientation, I began my first project: investigating the shortage of clean linens on the patient floors. The Laundry Department manager was not enthusiastic about having an outsider come into his area to show him what to do. I needed to win his trust and let him know I was there to help solve the problem, not to show him how to run his department.
After shaking his hand and introducing myself, I asked him questions. It was crucial to get to know him as a person first. I’d learned this from reading articles on my new profession and also from witnessing the positive effect of it on my work at the UT Hospital. What were his likes and dislikes? How long had he worked here? What was his educational background? Seeing a picture of his family on his desk, I asked about them. Soon the manager’s face began to soften, and he talked more openly. Now I could approach him from a professional standpoint, collecting data and making observations.
The following week, I began looking for an apartment. Mrs. Brown told me about the Executive House apartment complex fifteen minutes outside of Nashville. I liked that it was in the country, away from congested city traffic. The rent was the lowest I’d seen so far—only $125 a month. The landlady, Mrs. Olsen, was warm and friendly, and after I completed the application to rent an apartment, she asked me questions about my family and where I was from. She was in her sixties and lived with her adopted daughter, Maelie, who was in her early twenties. As Mrs. Olsen gave me the key to my apartment, Maelie came out to the front and smiled shyly at me. Freckles dotted her face and arms, and her red wavy hair fell slightly past her shoulders. I smiled back pleasantly.
Looking from me to Maelie, Mrs. Olsen smiled. “All right Mr. Bedi, just let me know if you have any more questions. Remember, jiggle the lock, and it will open.”
I moved in on January 1, 1969. The apartment was a straight shot to work, a twenty-minute drive with only two traffic lights. For a month I slept on the floor and ate dinner on a sheet spread on the carpet until Mrs. Brown suggested I go to a furniture store near the mall for my bedding needs. I followed her advice and purchased a Simmons mattress and box springs, also at her recommendation.
The next day, when Mrs. Olsen let the delivery men in with my new bed, she saw how bare my apartment was. She invited me to dinner that evening, and we ate baked chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes, and apple pie. She made sure I ate my fill, insisting I take seconds. All through dinner, she and Maelie asked endless questions about my family, India, and me.
At the end of the night, Mrs. Olsen said, “Maelie, you could show Kris around Nashville sometime.”
Maelie brightened at the idea. “We can double date with Kay and her boyfriend,” she said. “Kay is my friend, and she lives in this complex too.”
I could not say no. After all, I was eating dinner at their apartment. Politely, I agreed to the plan.
Over the next few months, I grew accustomed to Mrs. Olsen and Maelie watching me. They lived on the first floor of my building and kept the drape to the sliding patio door partially open so they could see who was coming and going. My parking spot was in front of their patio door, and they could easily see me as I walked to my apartment.
Although work and school kept me busy, I made time to drive to Knoxville every three to four weeks to visit Sewa Singh, have dinner with Paul and Arlene, and discuss my thesis with Professor Buchan. For the winter quarter of 1969, I only signed up for one class, Principles of Organization, which I took at Nashville’s UT satellite campus. The professor was a kind, older man in his sixties, and after the first class, I explained to him that I needed to raise my GPA to a 3.0 in order to graduate.
“Okay,” the professor said noncommittally.
“I really need an A in this class,” I said, hoping for a more sympathetic response. “I am writing my thesis, and I work full time at Vanderbilt University Hospital.”
“I understand,” he said.
I hoped he did understand. Mr. Clark told me that the hospital would reimburse my tuition if I received at least a B in the course, increasing the pressure to make good grades.
A number of things bothered me about my job at Vanderbilt University Hospital. I secretly resented my tiny desk in Jacob Walker’s office in the Programming Department, and I only saw Mr. Clark when he attended the meetings to discuss my project. To my disappointment, he never contributed to the subject. The meetings are a waste of his time, I thought. Why should he come at all if he does not intend to provide any feedback?
Most of all, I could not stand working for Mr. Walker, a guy with a physical education degree. He became director of programming because of his data processing experience, and I couldn’t help feeling superior to him since I was almost finished with my master’s in industrial engineering and had experience at the UT Hospital. I wanted to improve every aspect of Vanderbilt University Hospital, and I could hardly wait to “change the world.” They were lucky to have me. I didn’t hide the fact that I thought I deserved more, and Mr. Walker started calling me “hot shot” when talking about me to other staff members. There was nothing I could do about the situation, and my work always remained on the back burner, because Mr. Walker’s secretary always gave preference to his work and instructions, leaving my notes to be typed up last.
In a way, I blamed Professor Buchan for placing me at this hospital. After discussing my concerns with him, he apologized and said he had not been aware that Mr.
Clark would treat me so poorly. He had assumed I would report directly to the assistant administrator.
“Kris, once you receive your degree, I will help you find a better job,” he said. “For now, stay where you are until you finish your degree requirements. It is beneficial for you to stay in this job at least a year.”
Reluctantly, I accepted his advice.
Soon the time came to present to Mr. Clark and Mr. Walker my study findings for the laundry project. During my observations, I discovered the Laundry Department did not keep inventory for the linen, nor did they keep records of discarded torn linens. They also purchased new linens sporadically. Happy with my report and recommendations, Mr. Clark told me to proceed.
One summer day, as I was washing my car and had begun to wax it, Maelie saw me through the patio door and came outside to ask if she could help. I gave her a rag and let her wax the hood of the car. She seemed to enjoy it and acted as if it were her own car. It took a long time to apply the paste, let it dry, and then rub it into the car with a clean soft cloth. After a while, we grew tired. It took longer than I expected, and the sun was already low in the sky before we even finished half the car. As I folded the rags and put the lid on the paste, Maelie said, “Kris, I can finish waxing your car while you are at work.”
“I don’t know,” I said, hesitant to accept her offer.
“Please let me, Kris,” she said. “I would love to do it, and it would save you time.”
I couldn’t say no to her, and for the rest of the week, I hitched a ride to the hospital with a guy from Franklin, the nearest town to the apartment complex, while Maelie waxed a portion of the car each day of the week. Knowing she had a crush on me, I was amused.
At work, I often talked to Mrs. Brown, and she enjoyed telling me about her daughter. One day, while she helped me look at furniture for my apartment, she mentioned her daughter was coming to Nashville to attend a formal dinner.
“There will be good food and dancing,” Mrs. Brown said. “Would you be interested in going with her? She just graduated from an out-of-town university and doesn’t know anyone in Franklin or Nashville.”
“Sure,” I said. “But I’m not a good dancer.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter. Since we are near the mall, I’ll help you pick out a suit to wear.”
With Mrs. Brown’s help, I chose a formal, black, double-breasted suit with a bow tie and a pleated, sky-blue shirt with French cuffs.
Later that evening, I mentioned my dinner date to Mrs. Olsen. “Hmm,” she said quietly, looking thoughtful. Maelie was in the room, and her eyes flashed. “Oh really,” she said. Her voice choked, and her face showed a strange mixture of anger and disappointment. Then she muttered under her breath, “Who is she to go out with you? You were mine.”
Maelie couldn’t look me in the eye after saying this and quickly went to her room. Mrs. Olsen watched Maelie leave, and I could tell she was dissatisfied about something. I went back to my apartment, deciding to ignore Maelie’s comments. We were friends, that’s all, and only because we lived in the same apartment building. Unfortunately, Maelie wanted us to be more than friends, and as the months passed, her feelings for me became clearer.
The evening of the dinner, I picked up Mrs. Brown’s daughter in my Catalina. At the party hall, we enjoyed dinner and conversation with the other guests. Afterward, there was dancing to several slow songs as well as more upbeat tunes. I watched while everyone did the twist and a few other popular dances. Peggy Sood had taught me the twist, but that was years ago, and I did not feel comfortable attempting it in front of Mrs. Brown’s daughter and a bunch of strangers.
At the end of the night, we drove back to Franklin, stopping at my apartment on the way so she could see the furniture her mother helped pick out. I offered her a cup of hot tea or coffee, and after a few minutes, I drove her home. Before entering her house, she gave me a light hug and a kiss on the cheek. As a courtesy, I wrote down her phone number, but I never called her.
Later, when talking to Mrs. Olsen, she said casually, “Oh, Maelie and I saw you and your date coming and going last night. Pretty girl. Didn’t stay very long, though.”
I sensed resentment in her tone, but with other things on my mind, I didn’t think much about it.
When I’d worked at the UT Hospital the previous spring, Mr. McFarland and Professor Buchan often talked about a big national convention for the Hospital Management Systems Society (HMSS) that was to take place in Tampa, Florida. They came back with many stories about the good times they’d had. I hoped one day I could go to the convention too.
When I started my job at Vanderbilt University Hospital, I became a member of the HMSS. In May 1969, the HMSS held its convention in Houston, Texas. The hospital administration encouraged me to go and paid for my travel expenses. The convention lasted five days and five nights. One night, the society held a formal dinner with a keynote speaker, and every other night, Professor Buchan and I wined and dined at a different restaurant. My favorite was Trader Vic’s, where we sat in a tropical island atmosphere and drank mai tais. The trip was a continuous party for five days.
When the convention ended, I was sad to go. I flew back to Nashville, and Maelie picked me up at the airport. I swaggered to the gate, a straw Texas cowboy hat hanging at the back of my neck and a small glass flask in my hand. I wasn’t drunk, but I was still in high spirits from the excitement of the trip, and I spoke loudly and with more enthusiasm than usual. Maelie looked at me with a shocked expression. I was not the same Kris, and she stared at me as if I had sprouted two heads. She drove me back to the apartment in silence, not even asking about my trip.
While refusing to let Maelie bring down my spirits, I focused on doing well in my satellite course. On the last day of class in June, I reminded the professor that I had taken his class in order to improve my GPA. “Yes, I understand,” he said in the same tone as always, not giving me any clue whether I would pass or not. In the end, I received an A in the course.
In July, I met an Indian at the mall named Mr. Talele. He lived in Columbia, Tennessee, thirty-five miles west of Franklin, and he taught physics at Columbia State Community College. He was taking a break from his PhD program at the University of Wisconsin in Madison to teach and earn more money. Before parting, he invited me to a party at his apartment. At the party, Mr. Talele served moderately spiced Indian dishes so everyone could taste them. Because it was so late, he let me sleep at his apartment, and the next morning, he told me that an astronaut was attempting to land on the moon.
We settled in front of the TV and watched until late in the afternoon as the rocket circled the moon and finally landed at approximately 4:17 p.m. “The Eagle has landed,” the man reporting from the Houston airbase announced. Six hours later, Neil Armstrong emerged from the Apollo 11 to take his first step onto the moon. The announcer stated, “That’s one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind.” The date was July 20, 1969, a historic and joyous time in history, because an American was the first to land on the moon, a great victory over their Cold War enemy, the USSR.
One day, Mrs. Olsen called. “Maelie isn’t feeling well,” she said. “Can you come talk to her, Kris? She has been in bed the whole week.”
“What is the problem?” I asked. “Has she seen a doctor?”
“She is just down, a little depressed, that’s all.”
When I entered Maelie’s bedroom, she was propped up on some pillows and looked like she hadn’t left the bed for days. She smiled at me weakly. I noticed her face was pale, and her thick, wavy hair was a mess.
“How are you doing?” I asked as I sat on the edge of the bed.
“I’ve been better,” she said in a soft voice. “How was work?”
I told her about my project, and how it was going, but as I talked, Maelie looked at me tearfully. “I love you, Kris,” she said softly.
I stared at her, completely taken aback. She loved me? Knowing she had been in bed for almost a week and hoping to cheer her
up, all I could say was, “I love you too.” Besides, my American friends told me that if a girl says she loves you, you are supposed to say it in return.
Immediately, Maelie perked up. Her voice changed from speaking softly to a normal tone, and a bright smile lit her face, almost like a sigh of relief. Leaning forward, she gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Oh, I am so glad!” she said.
Now that Maelie was feeling better, I got up to leave. She followed me into the living room where her mother was sitting, and before I knew what was happening, Maelie said, “Mother, we are engaged!”
Stunned, I stared at Maelie with my mouth hanging open. I did not know what to say. I’d just told her “I love you,” so I couldn’t contradict her in front of her mother. Besides, she seemed happier than I had seen her in a long time. Mrs. Olsen congratulated us. “I am so happy for both of you!” she said, as if she’d hoped this would happen all along.
I could not think straight. All I knew was that I could not contradict Maelie, so I accepted it, not wanting to hurt her feelings and cause her to go back into a deep depression. Besides, it happened so fast, and I didn’t know how to stop the excitement. Maelie rushed to the phone and began calling people, saying, “I’m engaged to Kris!” I couldn’t stop her, and my mind seemed to accept the situation. I guess this is how it must be, I thought. This is it. How am I going to tell my parents?
Engineering a Life Page 12