Greenhorn

Yongming Wang

         Bing Yang had two hundred U.S. dollars in his pocket, when he, with a student visa, arrived in the United States of America on the New Year’s Eve of 1991. He was admitted into the graduate program at the City University of New York and supposed to enroll and to start his study at this time --- the spring semester started soon.

But he had only two hundred dollars. That was all he had! That was all the savings he managed to put aside after working for two years as an electronic engineer in China after graduating from a prestigious Chinese university. He had no financial aid from the City University. He had no relatives in America from whom he could borrow that money to pay for his tuition. And his financial sponsor – in order to get the visa he had to have someone to agree, at least on the paper, to support him while in America --- was his friend who was his college classmate back in China, and who himself was now a student at a U.S. college. Of course his friend didn’t have, and even he did, would not lend him, the money spelled out on the paper. It was up to Bing to support himself while in U.S. But Bing Yang had no complaint. He felt lucky just by getting the visa. Usually, situation like his was almost impossible to get visa from the U.S. Consulate. He was in a state of ecstasy from the time he got the visa to the day he stepped on the new land. He couldn’t believe that all these really happened to him. He felt blessed. He was young, twenty-five years old at the moment, single, with a beautiful but somehow vague American dream.

With only two hundred dollars, he couldn’t register for any class. But he needed to keep his student visa valid in order to stay legally in this country. How could he do that? He asked around and finally got the answer from someone. He went to a Chinese doctor in Chinatown, New York, complained that he was sick and needed a doctor’s note to take one semester off from the school. The doctor said the maximum time he was allowed to give the patient was seven weeks. “That’s not enough,” said Bing, “I need a whole semester, all the way to May, now it’s only January.” “That’s good enough. Believe me,” said the doctor, with an understanding smile. Bing immediately understood: he was not the first person to do this, and the doctor was experienced in this kind of business. The doctor charged Bing fifty dollars, and gladly gave him the note without asking him any more questions. When Bing started to leave, the doctor, with good intention, kindly advised him to be careful when working without the necessary working permit.

Bing started to look for job. He learned from the classified section of a local Chinese newspaper that in Chinatown there were quite a few job agencies specialized in the Chinese restaurant jobs. He set out early in one morning from New Jersey where he lived temporarily in his friend’s house. At about lunchtime he found the place he was looking for at 60 East Broadway of Chinatown in New York City. It was on the second floor of an old red brick building. He pulled open the grey aluminum door on the street. Inside it was dark and damp. There was no hallway, just the stairs staring at him coldly.

Cautiously he started climbing the stairs.  The wooden stairs under his feet made squeaking sound when he stepped on each. He came to the second floor, slowly, pushed open the office door. Inside the small room was packed with people, noises, and cigarette smoke.  It was suffocating.

Except three female employees, all were eager and energetic Chinese young folks who were squeezing with each other and smoking to each other. There was no furniture in the room except a small table and three chairs behind the counter. So everyone was just standing there. Some were reading Chinese newspaper quietly in the corner, and some were talking with each other frantically, and the rest, with their fingers pointing to the white blackboard on the wall behind the table, were shouting at the three girls who sat behind the counter. The three girls sat there, calmly and expressionlessly, like three little islands enduring the bombardment of furious ocean waves. It took quite a while for Bing to get used to such chaotic situation. He stood there, looked up at what people pointed at, and saw on the big board were written many short phrases, in Chinese and Arabic numbers; something like New Jersey, waiter, cooked-hand, 1,800.  He instantly knew that those were restaurant job positions; 1,800 meant 1,800 dollar per month, he figured, a decent number. But he didn’t understand what cooked-hand meant.

He stood there and watched the quick exchanges back and forth between those young men and three girls. Finally he made up his mind and approached the one who looked somehow friendlier than other two. “I want to find a job,” he said timidly, in Chinese, to the girl.

“Speak louder, I can’t hear you,” the girl snapped back without even looking at him.

“I want to find a restaurant job,” he repeated, louder this time.

“What kind? Waiter, cashier, or kitchen?”

“No kitchen.”

“Okay. Are you a cooked-hand?” the girl asked

“What’s that?” he asked.

“I see. You are a raw-hand,” the girl concluded. “Oh, cooked-hand means experienced, and raw-hand means otherwise. You don’t even know the term. You must be a raw-hand.”

“I did have some experience as a busboy. Plus, my English is very good.” Seeing that his hope was diminishing, Bing’s voice became more complaisant.

“For how long as a busboy?” the girl asked.

He hesitated a second, “uh, one month.” Actually he only worked for two days in a New Jersey Chinese restaurant somewhere close to his friend’s home, and during those two days he learned one useful restaurant word,  napkin, and smashed two piles of dishes to the floor in front of the customers and the restaurant owner.

“Ha, ha,” the girl started laughing, “you just came to America. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” Bing admitted, “two months.”

 “Are you a college student?”

“Yes.”

The girl stopped talking and looked up at Bing, seeming to measure his size for trying new clothes. In front of her she saw a thin and tall young man wearing a pair of glasses, with a mixture of shyness and excitement in the eyes. Apparently she was somehow touched by the image she saw. “Let me look at my notebook, there are some jobs we don’t post on the board.” She opened her notebook and started looking. Bing waited. After a seemingly endless time she looked up and said to him, “I really don’t know if this is right thing to do. You know. Our reputation is important. Restaurant owners won’t be too happy if we send them under-qualified people. And tell you the truth, not many restaurants want to hire raw-hands.” She paused. Bing’s heart started sinking. “But I’ll let you try this one,” the girl continued, “It is a cashier job, somewhere in Massachusetts. The salary is 1,200 per month. This is a very decent restaurant, a very busy one, I tell you.” The girl finished.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” in a state of rupture Bing blurted out three ‘thank you’ in no time. Then he asked, “Could you tell me what a cashier does?”

“Bring the customers to the table, receive the pay from the customers, and answer the phone. Mostly that’s it.”

“Sound not hard. What does the phone business have to do with it?”

“Some customers like to order the food on the phone and come to pick up later.”

“I see.”

“Now you pay ninety-six dollars and I’ll give you the restaurant’s phone number and the direction to get there.”

“What?” Bing was taken aback, “But I haven’t earned any money yet.”

“That’s the rule,” the girl explained. “Eight percent of the first month’s salary is the service fee we charge.”

“What if I get fired on the spot or next day?”

“You come back here and we will deduct five dollars for each day you work and return you the rest.”

“That sounds reasonable,” he mumbled. He paid the fee, got the direction and set off immediately.

“I have seven months to earn enough money to enter the school for the fall semester in September,” Bing Yang thought on the way to the Bus Authority at 42^nd street, “and I really wish I can get this cashier job. It might not earn as much as a waiter, but it will be a good start.”

On the bus, Bing took out from his pocket a copy of Chinese restaurant menu and tried to make himself familiar with it. He was confident. It was just a restaurant job. He was an electronic engineer back in China, doing scientific research. Of course he could handle a minor and insignificant restaurant job. He was very confident. His TOEFL score was over six hundreds, a very high score. Of course he could easily handle some restaurant English, even though he had never talked to any American before coming to America. He was not a total stranger to those sentences in a typical restaurant situation.  He remembered many sentences from the English study books. Can I help you? That’s the first thing to say to the customer. “Can I help you? Can I help you?” he said this several times loudly inside his mind, grinning. Wasn’t that all? All he needed to do was to memorize this piece of paper in his hands, even though he couldn’t understand the contents of most items. Curry chicken? Chicken with broccoli? And general tso’s chicken? What were these things?  They were not the Chinese foods he’d had since he was born. He only recognized a few entries, such as kong pao chicken and double cooked pork. Those are authentic Chinese dishes, at least the names are. “But I will learn fast,” he assured himself. He had total trust in his excellent memory and learning skill. Above all, he was willing to work hard.

The bus trip from New York to Springfield of Massachusetts took about four hours. It was almost five o’clock in the afternoon when they arrived. It was getting dark. The bus driver dropped off Bing at the bus station and left. He looked around, and saw that he was the only person in the station, a deserted place. Everywhere around was white snow. There was no single soul in sight. Bing never in his whole life saw so much snow. It was tranquil and beautiful, but he felt lonely.

Using the pay phone on the wall, he called the number the girl gave him. About twenty minutes later, a car stopped in front of him. Stepped out a middle-age Chinese man with black suit. “You must be the new guy from New York?” he inquired. “Yes.” Bing replied. “Come on. Let’s go. Hurry up. Today is the Valentine’s Day, a very busy day for the restaurant. You can call me Mr. Gao.” With that being said, he quickly tucked Bing’s luggage into the back trunk and drove off.

They arrived at the restaurant in ten minutes. The restaurant, a big red single building in the middle of nowhere, stood there like a lonely palace on the top of hill. “Where do the customers live?” Bing wondered. It was almost totally dark now. They walked in. It was quiet inside. Dinner hadn’t started yet. Mr. Gao led him to the counter. Right at that time, the phone rang. “Would you like to answer this one?” asked Mr. Gao. “Sure.” Bing quickly picked up the phone. Mr. Gao stood there, watching.

“Panda House, can I help you?” Bing was nervous, but he managed to get the first sentence out of his mouth.

“Blur blab blur blab ….” a long rolling of alien sounds struck upon his ear drums like bullets.

“I… I’m sorry,” Bing staggered.

“Blur blab blur blab ….” the same thing.

Bing had no idea what the lady on the phone was talking about. His face suddenly turned red; and his hands sweated. He stood there and didn’t know what to do next.

Mr. Gao quickly stepped up and grasped the phone from Bing’s hand. It was the customer ordering some food. Using a pen, Mr. Gao casually circled items on the menu while listening on the phone. When the woman finished, Mr. Gao quickly summed up the total cost in his mind and told her. It took less than one minute for him to finish the whole transaction. After that it was silence. Both of them didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Finally Mr. Gao said, “You only bring the customers to their seats. No answering phone. Remember, we have five waiters tonight. Each waiter has his own tables to wait on. You should spread out the customers equally among the waiters. Can you handle that?” Bing nodded.

It was a busy night for the restaurant. Everyone was busy. The phone kept ringing. The waiters kept running back and forth. Only Bing had nothing to do except bringing the customers to the seats. He had the easiest job the whole night but the heaviest heart. He couldn’t help worrying about his fate. “Mr. Gao looks like a very nice person. He may let me stay,” he encouraged himself.

It was almost eleven o’clock when the last customer left. They ate their dinner in a hurry and closed the restaurant. Mr. Gao didn’t say anything in the car on the way to their dormitory. When they arrived and entered the room. Mr. Gao started, “I say you go back to New York tomorrow. Okay? I can’t have you here.”

 “Could you let me stay a little longer?” He started pleading, “I learn fast. I promise. Give me a week. Just one week. I will learn everything.”

“I’m really sorry. As you can see, this is a very busy place. I can’t let you learn it here. That will ruin our business. You can go other places to learn. And you are welcome to come back in the future once you become a cooked-hand.” Mr. Gao took out some money from his pocket. “Here is forty dollars. Twenty for today’s salary; twenty for your travel expense. I’m really sorry.”

Without saying anything more Bing took the money and went to bed, but he had a hard time to close his eyes that night. Next morning Mr. Gao drove Bing to the bus station. Bing left for New York in the same bus he took the day before.

Two days later Bing was back at the same job agency. He stood in front of the same girl, looking like a defeated cock. The girl apparently remembered him.

“Well, how was it?” the girl asked. “Tough. Isn’t it?”

“Uh, yes,” He replied. “Would you find me a raw-hand position this time?”

“Let me see. There are not many raw-hand positions around. You know.” The girl started looking at her notebook. After a few minutes, the girl raised her head and pronounced, “You are lucky. Here is a raw-hand position, just coming this morning, a learning waiter position, in Pennsylvania, salary is ten dollar a day plus tips. This is a small restaurant, not so busy. You could earn about a thousand or twelve hundreds dollars per month. Would you like to give it a try? Tell you the truth. This kind of position is very scarce.” The girl finished.

“Yes. Yes. I’ll take it,” replied Bing.

“Good. We have to estimate your monthly salary by the higher range, twelve hundreds. Same as your last job. You had worked one day there. We will deduct five dollars from the fee you paid last time. Now you need to pay five dollars this time. Okay?”

“No problem.” Bing paid the money. Before leaving he asked: “What’s your name?”

“Lisa,” the girl answered.

“Oh,” Bing hesitated, then continued, “What’s your Chinese name?”

“Just call me Lisa. That’s good enough.”

“You don’t have a Chinese name?”

“Yes, I do. But I never use it. So just call me Lisa. And you are welcome to come back here anytime you want.”

“This time I hope I won’t be sent back.”

“It’s hard to say. You may fire the boss after you become a cooked hand. Who knows? It’s a free world.” The girl seemed to know everything that happens under the sun.

“That’s something new,” muttered Bing, and the conversation ended. He was exuberant. A learning position. That meant he no longer needed to lie about his experience. He was entitled to all blunders he would make. On the way he wondered loudly: “What kind of restaurant is it? Who is going to teach me to become a real waiter?” 

The Great Wall Chinese restaurant was located at the edge of a small town about ten miles to the north of Allentown, Pennsylvania. It was a small restaurant all right. It was an eat-in place with about only fifteen tables, in three rows; along two sides of wall were booths and in the middle were five stand-alone small tables. There was a big picture of Great Wall of China hanging on the wall, and a Buddha stature sitting on the wooden shelf that hanged above the door to the kitchen. Including just-arrived Bing, there were a total of five people working there. Three persons in the kitchen: the chef, Mr. Chen, who was also the owner, a fry cook whom everyone called Old Su, and a third person named Xiao Li who did everything else that included washing dishes and cleaning up garbage; in the dining hall there were Bing, the waiter, and the manager/cashier, who was Mrs. Chen, the owner’s wife.

Mrs. Chen greeted Bing warmly. She was in her mid thirties.  Mr. Chen, a sturdy man with dark skin, in his forties, was busy chopping some meat in the kitchen when Mrs. Chen and Bing walked in. He even didn’t look up at Bing when Mrs. Chen introduced him. Somehow Bing felt uneasy but he didn’t know why.

Bing started working immediately. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. There was no customer at that time. But there were works to be done. There are always things to do in a restaurant. Mrs. Chen and Bing sat at the only round table at the back corner. They started to make wanton.  Mrs. Chen showed Bing how to make wanton, in the restaurant way. “Don’t put too much meat inside,” she told him. “And remember, the speed is most important for the restaurant work. We have to get everything done by five o’clock for the dinner time. After wonton we do string bean; or any other vegetables which don’t require using a knife; after that we set up the table, folding napkins, cleaning and filling the salt and soy source bottles on the table, laying out fork and spoon, lots of things to do. You will do most of these because I have other things to do.” Mrs. Chen asked Bing to call her Judy. That was her English name. Mrs. Chen told him in details about the basic procedure of restaurant, about the basic skill of a waiter --- she told him that she used to be a waitress for many years; she told him how to take orders, how to call in dishes in the kitchen, and how to serve the customers. She emphasized that Bing must remember all these things at once because: “it’s the unwritten rule in the restaurant business that everything only told once. So you have to remember it, firmly. Nobody will tell you twice, especially my husband, he is very hot-tempered, easily irritated. So you have to be careful. Understand?” she said this several time. Bing tried to remember all these and he nodded. But he couldn’t understand why everything was so complicated. You have to, for example, serve the soup first, and wait after the customer finishes the soup then you serve the appetizer, then the main course, and finally the dessert. Back home in China, everything you order all together, and all things served at once, one by one though, but no such things as appetizer or dessert. All these things Mrs. Chen told him confused him greatly. He didn’t understand why it’s such a big deal you have to separate appetizer from dessert, and he didn’t understand at all why the soup had to be the first. In China, the soup was always served with all other main dishes, or the last to be served. To fill the spaces between foods inside stomach, that’s the function of the soup, he was told since he was little. It was a strange western custom, he decided at that moment. But he knew he had to remember all these rules in order to survive.

Dinner time came. The customers started to come. For the first few tables, Judy stood beside him and guided him in taking the orders. Then she left him alone. Bing was lost totally. He could take the order without much difficulty because even he couldn’t understand what the customers said most of the time, he nicely asked them to show him on the menu and then he copied it down. It was slow and awkward. But he smiled hard at the customers and kept apologizing. The troubles were at the kitchen. He had to keep track of all the orders and didn’t mess them up. He had to remember that soup first, appetizer next, and then followed the main courses, and dessert last. He blundered many times on this specific serving sequence. The worst thing was that he had no way to know which dishes were matched with the name of the orders. In other words, he never saw in his whole life such Chinese food as chicken with broccoli, beef with broccoli, triple delights, and hunan chicken, etc.  These were not at all the Chinese food he was familiar with. Most of them he ever never heard of before. Even those he knew the names, such as kong pao Chicken and double cooked pork, were not what he expected they looked like. Mr. Chen only called out the dish once, and he didn’t repeat it. Many times Bing found himself standing in front of the Kitchen shelf, facing several plates with food, not knowing what they were. Every time he ventured to ask Mr. Chen, he was scorned by Mr. Chen. Finally Mr. Chen got so irritated and started to call him stupid pig head. Sometimes the other two workers came to rescue and told him in low voice --- only in low voices because they were scared of the Mr. Chen. Sometimes Bing had to find Judy in the dining hall and ask her what it was in his hand. Bing was sweating the whole night.

Finally it was over. The last customer left. It was ten o’clock. And it was dinner time for them.

Bing felt empty in his stomach but he had no appetite. He was thirsty. He kept drinking ice water, and sat there, lowering his head, not looking at anybody around him. Nobody spoke for five minutes. Then Mr. Chen started.

“I say, pig head, it was hard, uh?” Chewing a big piece of roasted duck, his voice was muffled. “You think you can stay? You think you are smart?”

Bing was silent. He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to protect, to say sorry, and to plead. But he didn’t do any of that; he just sat there saying nothing. He was afraid that Mr. Chen would fire him on the spot.  Mr. Chen continued:

“I see you are a college student. So you think you are smarter than all of us? Eh. Then why you made so many mistakes tonight. I say you have a big stupid pig head.”

“It was stated that this is a learning position,” mumbled Bing.

“Yeah? But are you learning?” Mr. Chen raised his voice, “then why after I called out the names of dishes and you still kept asking me. Remember, I called out the dish name only because you are a learner. No chef would call out any dish in the kitchen, otherwise.”

“I couldn’t remember the first time.”

“Ha ha, so you are not smarter,” Mr. Chen suddenly changed the subject. “So do you want to stay? Or you think my place is too small for you?” he demanded. After a long pause, Bing managed to squeeze the difficult word out of his mouth. “Stay.”

“Ha, stay. You think I’ll let you stay.”

“That’s enough,” Mrs. Chen finally intervened. “Let’s finish here and go home. It is a tiring day. I’m tired.”

Mr. Chen still wanted to say something but Mrs. Chen stared at him. He shut up unwillingly.

It was a thirty-minute drive to Mr. Chen and Mrs. Chen’s house at downtown Allentown. When they arrived, it was almost midnight. Bing found himself and other two workers in the unfinished basement. The ground even didn’t have concrete, just dirt; the whole basement was damp and humid and full of old and smelly furniture. In the middle there were three beds next to each other. Actually they were not beds; they were sleeping cots. He was surprised to see them in this new world in which he just arrived.  From his luggage bag he took out the blanket he brought with him from China. He lay down on the bed, very tired and sleepy but couldn’t go to sleep. He was sad, angry, and miserable. Lao Su and Xiao Li tried to cheer him up. But he just lay there, stared at the ceiling. After a long time, he sat up and reached for his jacket. He took out the menu he brought from the restaurant and looked at it. This time, the menu started to make some sense to him. He even recognized several dishes as he crossed their names. It somehow was no longer abstract to him.

Next day, Bing discovered that the lunch was easier. There were only a few customers coming for lunch and almost all of them ordered by the quick lunch menu on which a dozen entries were listed and each with a number next to it. Each person ordered one entry, and the soup and rice came with it. Simple and easy. And Judy told him, “You can just give them the soup, and immediately the main course. You don’t need to wait for them to finish the soup. They are in a hurry. No need to follow the dinner rule. And also you can give them the check anytime you want.” Bing loved it. All that he needed to constantly remind himself was “soup first, soup first”.  After lunch came the time to make wanton. Judy sat with Bing. The restaurant was quiet. Only they two were there. All other three people were at kitchen busy preparing for the dinner. Bing noticed that Mr. Chen rarely came to the front hall. He always shouted from the kitchen when he wanted to talk with his wife, and Judy would get up and went back to the kitchen.

It was a cold day. It looked like snowing. Inside was warm. Bing and Judy were making wanton and neither spoke. Bing lowered his head, concentrating on the work. Judy occasionally raised her head and looked at him, but said nothing. Finally Judy started the conversation.

“Do you like it here?” she asked lightly.

“Yes,” he hesitated and answered.

“Are you afraid of my husband?” 

………

“Don’t be afraid,” she continued. “He is like that all the time. He constantly yelled at the two other workers. And you know what?” She paused for a while and went on, “He used to be one of them, an illegal immigrant, working at the lowest rank in the restaurant, to be yelled at by everybody.”

Bing lifted his head for the first time. He looked at Judy, wanting to hear more. But Judy stopped right there, brooding, obviously she sank back onto some past memories.

The dinner period of the second day for Bing was no better than the first. Worse, it was a Friday. The restaurant was busier than yesterday. But he got no extra helping hand. He still constantly made mistakes. He definitely hated the eating custom of this new world. Why do the Americans have to drink soup before everything else? Is it because they don’t have enough food so they use soup first to fill up their stomach? Why do they have to have some dessert after they’ve already done with their meal? And oddly enough, why do they have to use two forks and two spoons for every meal and the forks and spoons have to be put in the correct sides of left and right? That complicates everything. “We use one pair of chopsticks for everything. That’s it. Simple and easy.” Bing thought gratefully. Everything seemed coming to a halt. The time seemed stopping. He was running all the time. People were calling him from all directions. He was like a spinning toy. The sweat was dropping down from his forehead and running down along his spine. The only good thing was that Mr. Chen himself was a slow cook. That gave Bing some time. But the customers were waiting too long. When they waited too long, they were not happy. They left little or no tips for Bing. But Bing was not mad at all at those customers. He was happy that they got their food proper, no matter how late, and they didn’t complain openly, and they left. Whenever some customers left, Bing gave out a long breath and felt a little pressure lifted off his back. And that night, the most people he didn’t want to see were the customers. He just wished all of them stayed at home. “Where do all these people come from?” He wondered. He certainly didn’t see much houses and people around during the day time. When they went back to their home that night and Bing counted his tips of that day, it was a merger 26 dollars. Adding ten dollar base salary, he earned thirty six dollars that day working for more than twelve hours.

One week past. Bing found Mr. Chen more tolerable, though Mr. Chen still derided and yelled at him a lot. Sometimes for no reason. Mr. Chen seemed forgetting that Bing had a name, and always called him pig head. Bing never protested. He didn’t care what Mr. Chen called him. Only Judy sometimes protested to his husband. Mr. Chen seemed afraid of his wife. Mr. Chen complained about his wife loudly at the kitchen, but he never confronted her openly.

The second week was much better for Bing. He could almost remember the whole menu; could tell a lot of dishes by the correct name; and finally could remember the correct order of serving: soup, appetizer, main entry, and dessert. He started to talk to Judy during the afternoon wanton making time. He learned from Judy that long time ago the restaurant was owned by Judy’s father who came to U.S. in 1950s from Taiwan as a foreign student like Bing himself. Then his father got married, had Judy, their only daughter. After worked as an engineer at the corporations for many years, her father quitted, and bought this restaurant. When Judy graduated from high school, she became the waitress in her father’s restaurant. After her father died ten years ago, and her mother returned to Taiwan, leaving the restaurant to Judy. Judy married Mr. Chen, then one of the workers at the restaurant. They fired the chef, and Mr. Chen became the chef and the owner, at least namely, of the restaurant. But Bing suspected that Judy was still the actual owner of the restaurant. She was in control of the business, counting money everyday, going to bank, dealing with bills, etc. Mr. Chen still knew little English, though he came to the country for more than twenty years. He never talked to customers at restaurant. At home he never read English newspaper, never watched English television, and never went to shopping alone. He totally relied on his wife for everything that had anything to do with English.

The weather suddenly became warm. Bing expected that the tree would turn to green soon. He didn’t know that --- it was his first winter in the new world --- there would be another two months to see the green. Feeling the warmth outside, he seemed to become stronger inside everyday. He would venture speaking back to Mr. Chen. He made fewer and fewer mistakes now. Then the busy Saturday night came.

This Saturday night was extremely busy. People just kept coming. Most seats were occupied; it was not an easy job even for an experience waiter to handle more than ten tables at the same time. Bing could hardly manage at all. Judy was too busy to give him a hand. Mr. Chen was especially hot-tempered that night. Bing since long found out that the more customers in the restaurant, the worse of Mr. Chen’s temper. It was just not right. Usually owners are happier when more customers come. But not for Mr. Chen. It seemed that the restaurant was not his business. That night he was yelling at everybody, even his wife. The order piled up in the kitchen. Now it would take forty minutes to one hour to get one table ready. Bing knew that his tip today would be very much diminished due to the delay. He started to complain to Judy. Judy would not say anything to her husband. She knew better not to irritate him in such situation.

Bing was sweating hard. He kept running back and forth. And he forgot things for the customers. He kept saying “sorry” to everyone. But nobody was happy. Nobody likes to wait long, even the waiter had the sweetest smile in the world.

Suddenly Bing slipped. All plates and dishes in his hands dropped to the floor and smashed into pieces. He froze. He didn’t know what to do. He hopelessly looked at the ground. Judy came over to help him pick up. An American girl sat next to where he stood. She smiled at him. She said: “Don’t worry. I am a waitress myself. Sometimes I do that too.”  Bing tried hard to smile at her. And she continued, in an encouraging tone. “I’m sure someday you will become an excellent waiter.”

Hearing that, Bing felt his eyes suddenly became moist. He looked up at the girl, didn’t know what to say except a thank you from the bottom of his heart. He knew he would never forget that sentence.

That night at their dinner, Bing protested to Mr. Chen.

“Could you please be a little faster next time? The customers waited too long,” said Bing.

“Who do you think you are? I’ll do as I please. Mind your own business, you pig head. How many mistakes you made tonight, uh?” Mr. Chen retorted.

………

Bing didn’t dare to say anything.

But Mr. Chen obviously didn’t finish. “You think you are better now? And you are entitled to order me? I can let you walk out of here right now. Remember that.”

Judy interrupted. “Bing is right. You are too slow; and it will ruin our business.” And she turned to Bing. “How much tips you earned tonight?”

“I didn’t count,” Bing replied.

“Count it now,” Judy asked.

Bing took out his money from his pocket, counted it.

“Forty eight,” he said.

“See,” Judy turned to his husband. “Such a busy night. More than thirty tables. The tips are not even fifty dollars. That’s bad. Very bad.”

Mr. Chen didn’t say anything.

Next day at the wanton making time, Bing and Judy were chatting idly.  Bing was telling Judy about his past before coming to America, his job back in China, and his college life in China, and his family in China; and suddenly Judy got up and walked to the register machine and took some money. She walked back, sat down, handed the money to Bing. It was forty dollars.

Bing was startled. “What is this?” he asked.

“I want to make up for your lost tips last night,” Judy said slowly. She looked at him. “In the future, we will average three dollars per table. If you don’t get that much, I’ll make it up for you.”

“You don’t need to,” Bing mumbled. He didn’t know what to say. He was much moved by this kind and generous action. He wanted to say more and Judy stopped him.

“That’s it. Just don’t let my husband know.”

After a long pause, Judy changed the subject. “You stay here. I’ll teach you all I know about waiter and restaurant business. Remember that American girl? She is right. You will become an excellent waiter someday because you have the brightest smile and nicest attitude to the customers. That’s number one important in order to be a good waiter.”

But did he want to be a waiter forever? He knew that some foreign students, after working in the restaurant for a while, preferred to stick around in the restaurant business, didn’t want to go back to school. It was understandable. Once you got used to the waiter’s life, it was fairly easy, and the money was not bad. All the money you earned you could save it because you didn’t spend a penny on food and bed. Every night after coming back from restaurant, almost eleven o’clock  -- if it was a weekend, it would be midnight -- you just threw yourself into the bed, fell to sleep, not worrying about a thing in the world; next morning you got up at ten o’clock; the whole crew then would drive to the restaurant. Day and night. Night and day. Every day. Every night. Day after day. Night after night. It was the same. Though he had been there for only two weeks, he had forgotten what date it was. He only knew it was a Monday, or Tuesday, or Saturday, and so forth. He started to feel relaxing, to live into the pattern of a waiter’s life. Because he had no place to go, he worked seven days a week. He didn’t mind working seven days a week. He could earn more money, could save more money. The school, the classroom and the textbooks started to fade away from his mind. But sometimes, when he woke up in the morning, before realizing the surrounding, before realizing that another day of the waiter’s life waiting ahead, he reminded himself that he was a student. He was supposed to go back to school after earning enough money for tuition and living expenses.

March came and gone; April was here. The long winter was supposed to leave and the spring to come. But the air was still chilly; the land still gray and yellow, with little green in sight. In the morning on the way to the restaurant, sitting in the back seat of the car, he looked outside; but in his mind he was picturing his hometown, a small village in southern China, where, during this time of the year, the flowers blossomed, the leaves were all green and beautiful. And if it was a hot day, some children eagerly jumped into the river to swim. He missed all those things.

He had been a waiter for nearly two months. He became, he thought, pretty good at it now. All the items on the menu he remembered; all the dishes put out on the kitchen shelf by Mr. Chen he identified, no need to call out; even some of the customers he was acquainted with: his memory proved itself one more time. Judy was very impressed. She kept telling him, “You are doing great. Everyday I see you better than yesterday. You are excellent.” Mr. Chen obviously felt the same way, but he didn’t say anything, still scorned him from time to time, no matter how good he was, and how hard he worked. Judy quarreled with her husband more and more. Many times, when she heard the noise rising up in the kitchen when Bing was in there, she would rush into the kitchen to confront her husband, asking him to shut up, calling him the crazy. She told Bing, “Don’t go into there unless you have to.” Bing gladly obeyed. So most of the time he and Judy were together in the dining hall. That made Mr. Chen even madder.

Then came one of the busiest days of the year: the Mother’s Day. Everybody in the restaurant knew it was a big day. Judy even hired a busboy to help him. But when all the tables were seated, and more customers were waiting to be seated, he felt the pressure pressing. He ran back and forth like crazy, shouted the orders in the kitchen in the highest voice; the large food carrying tray was full every time he came out from the kitchen. Meantime he kept smiling to every customer, kept apologizing for serving late. His temper inside was flaring up. Mr. Chen tonight was especially slower than usual. When he cooked, usually he tasted only once during cooking; but tonight he tasted at least three times, or even more. That slowed everything down. Bing complained to Judy and Judy went to the kitchen to complain to her husband. Mr. Chen got really agitated. He yelled back, “I’m the boss. It’s my business. I can do whatever I want to do. Let them wait. If they don’t like to wait, don’t come. I don’t care.” Judy’s face turned to red. She snapped back at Mr. Chen, “You are the boss? You are? Don’t forget who made today’s you. What were you ten years ago? Nothing. Nobody. A mere oil pot tender, who only knew how to fry chicken wings. You are ruining the business. Eh, your business. Remember, if I can make you, I can also destroy you. I can divorce you tomorrow and make you penniless. You are not as half good as him.” Judy pointed to Bing who stood next to her, and with that said, Judy left the kitchen.

Bing heard all that. It was first time he saw Judy in such a rage. He was scared. Mr. Chen was obviously scared too. He lowered his head, didn’t say a word. The whole thing became faster.

When lying in bed that night, Bing’s mind was still playing back what happened  in the restaurant. He foresaw what was coming. If things kept going on like this, Judy would sooner or later divorce her husband and kick him out of the place. Bing was lying there, biting his lower lip. He foresaw that some day in the future he might become the owner of the restaurant. He knew Judy liked him, and he liked her too. But was this what he wants? Was this the life he wants to live? Was this his American dream? He couldn’t close his eyes that night, and tossed in the small cot. It was quiet the whole house, except the loud snoring from Lao Su and Xiao Li. Finally he dozed off when the small windows on the wall became gray. It was dawn. Before he fell into sleep, he made the decision.

He was waked up by the noise of Lao Su and Xiao Li.  He immediately remembered his decision he made last night. No, this was not what he wanted. He didn’t want to work and stay in the restaurant for the rest of his life. He knew that now he had to leave, before it got too late. It was bad because he planned to stay to the end of August, before next semester began. Now was only middle of May. That meant he had to go back to that job agency again. On the other hand, he was happy he could leave this place, could get away from this hot-tempered, bad-mouth Mr. Chen. He had endured enough of him.

Next day afternoon. Wanton time. When Bing was alone with Judy he told her that he was leaving, Judy was astounded.

“Why do you want to leave?” She asked.

Bing didn’t answer.

“Is it the money issue? I know we are a small restaurant and you are not earning much tips. But I can increase your base salary. Let me see. How about to twenty dollars a day? And still, if you don’t make three dollar tip on one table, I’ll make it up for you.” She pressed on.

“No. It’s not about the money,” Bing tried to explain. “Money is important. But I’m not crazy about money. You are already too generous. I really appreciate it.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s your husband. I can’t stand him anymore,” he finally said.

“But you don’t need to pay any attention to him. You heard me last night. It’s I who make decisions here. Not he.”

“I know. But I don’t want to be the cause you two fight for. He hates me; and the more you help me, the more he hates me. I don’t like that,” he finished.

Judy sighed. She saw that he had made up his mind. “Okay, here is America. You are free to go anywhere you want. But remember, I’m your first teacher. You learned all your skill from me.”

“I’ll never forget that,” he said. “I really appreciate what you have done for me.”

“You are very smart. But a mere three months is not enough for you to learn all. You still have a lot to learn. I had thought I would spend a year to teach you all I know. With your excellent memory and your diligence, you might have been able to master all that in six months. But…” Judy stopped. She looked at him, tried to say something in her mind, but stopped short of it. At last she said, “Take the phone number with you. If you ever want to come back, just give me a call. You may come back any time.”

“Thank you so much. I don’t know how I can pay you back. I own you too much.” Bing suddenly felt a little wet in his eyes. He lowered his head, looked at the wanton in his hand.

“Then don’t leave here; don’t leave me,” Judy smiled.

“I… I…” Bing staggered.

“I’m joking. You idiot,” Judy scorned him lightly, still smiling. “Rest be taken, Bing, I won’t be a hurdle in your road to your American dream. I just wish that far in the future when you work as a white-collar engineer in some big corporation, you can still remember me once or twice. That’s enough.”

“I won’t forget about you for the rest of my life.” Bing raised his head, and saw the smile still on Judy’s face, but her eyes seeming to glow with moist too.

Both of them resumed their work without any more talking. After a while Bing said, “Judy, I have a question.”

          Hearing that, Judy looked at him for several seconds; then looked away at the giant Great Wall picture on the wall. Finally she spoke, lightly, as if talking to herself: “I guess it’s because I sympathized him. He was so pitiful, so miserable at that time. My parents were very disappointed when they heard my marrying him, but after that they were strongly against any mention of divorce. You know, they are upright traditional Chinese. They still believe in the old Chinese doctrine that, for women, it’s only proper to marry once for the lifetime”

“Do you think I’m a cooked hand now?” Bing changed the subject.

“That’s hard to say,” Judy replied. Suddenly she uttered a Chinese idiom which both of them were familiar with, “Ban sheng ban shou.” That means literately half-raw half-cooked. After hearing that, Bing started laughing. Looking at him for a while, Judy couldn’t help laughing herself too. Then she stopped, looked at Bing, said, “You don’t believe me?” She went to the kitchen and came back with a tea tray and five glasses, all full of water. Bing watched her, didn’t know what she wanted to do. Judy said to Bing, “Show me how many glasses you can hold in one hand.” Bing quickly put three glasses in his left hand and, without saying anything, proudly looked at Judy. Judy smiled, took those three glasses from Bing’s hand and put in her left hand, and then, using her right hand, one by one she took the rest two glasses from the tray, put them in her left hand. Now she had all five glasses in one hand. Bing stared at her, month wide open; suddenly Judy turned around and started walking; she walked quickly and easily among the tables and chairs, and came back in front of him. “Now you understand?” she asked. “Yes.” Bing said admiringly, “I’m really half-cooked.” Both of them started laughing again.

One week later, Chinatown, New York, in that same shabby, smoky second floor room, a young man, whose whole body radiated confidence, stood in front of Lisa, and called her name in low but firm voice. Lisa quickly raised her head and started smiling.

August 2008