Hello dear reader, I hope you are well today.
I'm sitting at a Starbucks, remembering how sad I was when I had to leave "Chevy's" behind so many years ago.
Back then I would call myself "Andrew" because I didn't like my first name (Luis) and my second name (Andres) sounded like the word "undress".
Grandma and I had moved to our own place near Ave. M and East 17th Street by then. We lived in the 2nd floor of a small building (3 floors). It was a 2 bedroom apartment with one bathroom, a large living room and kitchen.
My bedroom was very very small, but I didn't mind. It was far better than the sofa I had slept on. We made friends with our neighbor upstairs. Funny enough the first floor was a real state office. Like in Peru, the front door lead to stairs going straight to the second floor. I never thought about that coincidence until just now.
We had a new home, and thanks to developing a fast friendship with our neighbor upstairs (Jessica) I got hired by her husband.
He was a professional carpet installer and needed a "helper". The job was simple. I would help him load the rolls of carpet from the place which contracted him, unload it at the customer's place and then coordinate to cut the carpet for each room.
His knees were in bad shape, because to install carpet he needed to use a device to stretch it out so it's flat evenly on the floor. The device required him to kick using his knees while on the floor. I also laid down the wooden strips and padding in preparation for the carpet being placed. I worked 5 days a week and got paid $5 per hour which was decent then.
Jack was a hard working man, but he was also the jealous type, many nights they would argue quite loudly. Jessica had given him 2 beautiful kids, a boy and a girl. The boy was Jesse, the younger of the two which was around 10 years old while his sister Diana was 12 years old.
I'd be trusted to babysit them on occasion. They were a unique family, with a large dog and exotic animals which including a very large lizard and a coral snake. I was always freaked out to see the snake in the large fish tank, and seeing Jesse feed it white mice.
Things slowly began to deteriorate which affected my job. Jack moved out and to this day I don't know if he decided to leave or if Jessica asked him to leave. When it happened we had already worked together over 6 months. After splitting with his wife he would pick me up every morning for a few weeks. Then one morning he informed me that he no longer could pick me up and that he had hired someone closer to him.
I understood and didn't take it personal. Jessica didn't react as well as I did, by then we were good friends and she was angry at Jack for firing me. She insisted that he let me go out of jealousy even though nothing was going on between us besides a good friendship. Jessica was a beautiful women in her late 30's that treated me like a little brother and I was glad to accept her kindness.
She did help me find a new job though. Through a girlfriend of hers that lived in our neighborhood, I was hired by a delivery driver. He was her friend's husband that worked mainly in Manhattan for an international company. His name was Lou, I totally forgot his wife's name.
My job was far easier. I would pick up or drop off packages or envelopes while Lou would drive like a maniac to get us to and from places. He was the most insensitive, crude and temperamental individual I even met.
And that was before the fist fight, and me hanging onto the van door while he was driving away at high speed.
I'll explain further next time.
May you walk in the light of God.
Sincerely.
Luis
Showing posts with label Job. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Job. Show all posts
Friday, November 4, 2016
Monday, October 31, 2016
From Peru to a Night Club in NYC
Hello dear reader, I hope you are having a wonderful Halloween with friends and family.
Funny enough I had no idea that Americans also celebrated this holiday until I got to NY in 1987. I remember when I saw people dressed up and was happy to see that there was something in common between both countries.
To continue my story; I slept on the sofa for a few months. My Grandaunt's son Xavier worked at "Chevy's" in Manhattan. It was a 50's theme night club owned by a Latino. He was a Bar Back; in charge of getting the bar stations ready before opening and assisting bartenders once they were open for business.
He filled my application with bogus information and I became a dishwasher. I got paid every week with a check; Xavier got me a fake ID so I could cash the checks at a check cashing place that didn't look at ID "too closely".
Those were some of the happiest days of my life in America (before I got married). The bartenders shared their tips with bar backs and dishwashers so I was thrilled to get a bit of cash at the end of the night. Sometimes it was a bad night and I'd get $5 and some nights it was insanely good and I'd go home with over $50.
I was treated well, almost the entire staff helping me learn English, which I was picking up at a good speed. I must mention that at the time I decided that to learn the language at a fast pace. I would only watch TV channels and listen to Radio stations in English, avoiding Spanish programming. This somewhat alienated the family, I think they assumed that I was being.. a snob of some kind. I didn't care of course, their feelings made no difference to me whatsoever, except when it came to my Grandma's. She never criticized me about it.
Taking the subway from Brooklyn to Manhattan was always an event for me those days, because I would see the Statue of Liberty. For many years I identified with the statue, it made me feel welcomed in my new country. I didn't want to feel Peruvian, my entire life there was the source of all my pain and suffering. I wanted to be an American.
Working at the night club as a dishwasher I was able sometimes to sneak a few drinks at the end of the night. The manager never caught me, and the few staff that saw me drink, just grinned and smiled. I got away with many things during my time there. There was a door leading to the alley behind the club where the dumpster was. On occasion I'd smoke with a bartender back there whenever I could get away with it. Hint: they were not cigarettes.
About half the bartenders were female, and they taught me to be a bit more confident and social. They were beautiful, kind and always smiling. It was one of the few jobs where I had female coworkers that treated me decently.
Unfortunately my time there didn't last long, in less than a year it was sold to a corporation which wanted to verify all employee identity. Xavier had no problem keeping his job, I had to quit the first week it was under new management.
Well, that is all for tonight. Until next time dear reader.
May you walk in the light of God.
Sincerely.
Luis
Funny enough I had no idea that Americans also celebrated this holiday until I got to NY in 1987. I remember when I saw people dressed up and was happy to see that there was something in common between both countries.
To continue my story; I slept on the sofa for a few months. My Grandaunt's son Xavier worked at "Chevy's" in Manhattan. It was a 50's theme night club owned by a Latino. He was a Bar Back; in charge of getting the bar stations ready before opening and assisting bartenders once they were open for business.
He filled my application with bogus information and I became a dishwasher. I got paid every week with a check; Xavier got me a fake ID so I could cash the checks at a check cashing place that didn't look at ID "too closely".
Those were some of the happiest days of my life in America (before I got married). The bartenders shared their tips with bar backs and dishwashers so I was thrilled to get a bit of cash at the end of the night. Sometimes it was a bad night and I'd get $5 and some nights it was insanely good and I'd go home with over $50.
I was treated well, almost the entire staff helping me learn English, which I was picking up at a good speed. I must mention that at the time I decided that to learn the language at a fast pace. I would only watch TV channels and listen to Radio stations in English, avoiding Spanish programming. This somewhat alienated the family, I think they assumed that I was being.. a snob of some kind. I didn't care of course, their feelings made no difference to me whatsoever, except when it came to my Grandma's. She never criticized me about it.
Taking the subway from Brooklyn to Manhattan was always an event for me those days, because I would see the Statue of Liberty. For many years I identified with the statue, it made me feel welcomed in my new country. I didn't want to feel Peruvian, my entire life there was the source of all my pain and suffering. I wanted to be an American.
Working at the night club as a dishwasher I was able sometimes to sneak a few drinks at the end of the night. The manager never caught me, and the few staff that saw me drink, just grinned and smiled. I got away with many things during my time there. There was a door leading to the alley behind the club where the dumpster was. On occasion I'd smoke with a bartender back there whenever I could get away with it. Hint: they were not cigarettes.
About half the bartenders were female, and they taught me to be a bit more confident and social. They were beautiful, kind and always smiling. It was one of the few jobs where I had female coworkers that treated me decently.
Unfortunately my time there didn't last long, in less than a year it was sold to a corporation which wanted to verify all employee identity. Xavier had no problem keeping his job, I had to quit the first week it was under new management.
Well, that is all for tonight. Until next time dear reader.
May you walk in the light of God.
Sincerely.
Luis
Wednesday, October 26, 2016
A life of shame and regret
Hello dear reader, I hope you had a blessed day.
It's taken me a few days to get the courage to continue recalling a most painful part of my life. I usually share the link to a new post here, but I felt so much shame that I couldn't. I will try to do it this time. I hope that people can learn from my experience, how being abused can affect a person, for years.
While mother was pregnant my behavior towards it was mixed. A part of me was happy, yet another was full of hatred. The child would be Manuel's kid, his flesh and blood. The son of the man who abused me.
Sometimes I would honestly be glad when my mother would ask me to touch her belly, to feel the baby move. But many times I would have to pretend, to act as if I was happy when all I could feel is hatred.
After he was born, mother entrusted me to help her take care of him. Back then I dropped the kid a lot, and to be honest I have no idea if it was on purpose or accidentally. What I do remember was that I felt a lot of resentment towards him.
During the pregnancy and his birth my grades dropped drastically and I started to drink in secret when I was out of the house. I didn't become a drunk, but it gave me a buzz that made me forget how miserable I felt.
I ended up being expelled out of my school, and the two schools after that. My imagination and day dreaming was partly to blame. Sometimes I would imagine being someone else, at peace, with family that truly loved me, that would protect me. Once in a while I would imagine Manuel dead at my feet. Yeah, those were dark days.
Mother eventually told me to get a job or else. So at 15 years old, without finishing what would be equivalent to high school; I got a job.
I had a friend who worked at the local Pilsen brewery that got me a job there. My task was quality control. The beers would come out on an automated line and I was to make sure no damaged or defective bottle went past my station.
The bonus was that I could drink as much beer as I wanted at work, as long as it didn't affect my performance. Everyone, even the supervisors would drink all day long. It was a great job for me at the time, every day I would leave work with a nice buzz.
Back then all my friends drank liquor and/or got high. Mother didn't know because I never invited anyone to come over. She had no idea how out of control I was when I was out of her sight.
At the time my definition of friend would be someone to drink with or get high with, or do something stupid (illegal) with. I never told any of my friends about the anger, shame and pain I carried every day.
On occasion I would see Manuel at home, playing with my half-brother. Every time I wished him to drop dead, I didn't care how it would affect his son. But I had to pretend that he was a good man, for my mother and my half-brother.
I should have told everyone what he had done, I'm certain that everyone in our building would have beaten him to a pulp, probably killed him and gotten away with it. Child molesters who get killed by a mob usually don't do time in South America, justice works like that sometimes there.
Within a few years I became reckless, but I was never caught during any of my stupid stunts. I was smart and got away with it every time. My friends encouraged me, some became accomplices.
At 18 years old I felt I could get away with anything. I was proven wrong soon after. I had crossed the wrong man, who wanted me dead and had the position and power to get away with it.
My mother found out about it, and feared for my life. She convinced some relatives to hide me, I could not be seeing in public. I spent a few weeks in the house of one of her cousins, then was moved one night to her aunt's home.
There was no way out of the situation, mother tried talking to the man I had betrayed and he told her he would shot me himself if he saw me. Realizing that I had to go somewhere, one night she sat me down at her aunt's and told me I was leaving the country.
I was surprised, since I knew we had no money to make that happen. Then she said I was going to the united states to join Chila, my grandma. I was happy but also scared. Mother told me I was going to be smuggled into a ship a night, and then I would spend two weeks at sea and then meet Chila.
What she didn't mention at the time, was that she had pretty much lied to the smugglers. Promising $2,500 dollars which we didn't have. She also didn't tell my grandma I was coming until after I had left, forcing her hand. I only found out about it later on.
Chila, didn't have that kind of money. She lived paycheck to paycheck. Chila had to borrow money from everyone she knew, asked her church for help to find someone to take me in when I arrived in California; because she lived in New York and didn't know anyone there.
As mother described, I had been smuggled onto a ship. Moved into a cabin where I was locked in, and given two meals a day. I was treated well, but more than once I had been told that if they didn't get their money, my body would never be found. I had assumed grandma had the money so I wasn't worried.
In the last day two sailors showed up and took a wall apart, and put me and two other men inside the wall. They explained that there was random checks at the port and that this was the only way to avoid being found.
All three of us were sweating for hours until finally at night they opened the wall back up. We were given clothes to make us look as we were part of the crew. Waiting until late at night we all got off the cargo ship and were told to act as if we were joking around and laugh every few minutes.
Everything went smooth, we got in two cars. I thought I was going to be dropped off, meet my grandma and be safe. Instead the cars go to a dark place in the back of some large building, meeting another pair of cars. First I was confused, then I saw one of the sailor pull packages out of the trunk.
They also had smuggled drugs. I was at a drug exchange, which if anything went wrong, I could easily get killed. So from being in danger in Peru, I went to being in danger in an entirely different country. Now I can see the humor in it, of course at the time, I didn't.
I'm a bit tired, I'll continue next time dear reader.
May you walk in the light of God.
Sincerely.
Luis
It's taken me a few days to get the courage to continue recalling a most painful part of my life. I usually share the link to a new post here, but I felt so much shame that I couldn't. I will try to do it this time. I hope that people can learn from my experience, how being abused can affect a person, for years.
While mother was pregnant my behavior towards it was mixed. A part of me was happy, yet another was full of hatred. The child would be Manuel's kid, his flesh and blood. The son of the man who abused me.
Sometimes I would honestly be glad when my mother would ask me to touch her belly, to feel the baby move. But many times I would have to pretend, to act as if I was happy when all I could feel is hatred.
After he was born, mother entrusted me to help her take care of him. Back then I dropped the kid a lot, and to be honest I have no idea if it was on purpose or accidentally. What I do remember was that I felt a lot of resentment towards him.
During the pregnancy and his birth my grades dropped drastically and I started to drink in secret when I was out of the house. I didn't become a drunk, but it gave me a buzz that made me forget how miserable I felt.
I ended up being expelled out of my school, and the two schools after that. My imagination and day dreaming was partly to blame. Sometimes I would imagine being someone else, at peace, with family that truly loved me, that would protect me. Once in a while I would imagine Manuel dead at my feet. Yeah, those were dark days.
Mother eventually told me to get a job or else. So at 15 years old, without finishing what would be equivalent to high school; I got a job.
I had a friend who worked at the local Pilsen brewery that got me a job there. My task was quality control. The beers would come out on an automated line and I was to make sure no damaged or defective bottle went past my station.
The bonus was that I could drink as much beer as I wanted at work, as long as it didn't affect my performance. Everyone, even the supervisors would drink all day long. It was a great job for me at the time, every day I would leave work with a nice buzz.
Back then all my friends drank liquor and/or got high. Mother didn't know because I never invited anyone to come over. She had no idea how out of control I was when I was out of her sight.
At the time my definition of friend would be someone to drink with or get high with, or do something stupid (illegal) with. I never told any of my friends about the anger, shame and pain I carried every day.
On occasion I would see Manuel at home, playing with my half-brother. Every time I wished him to drop dead, I didn't care how it would affect his son. But I had to pretend that he was a good man, for my mother and my half-brother.
I should have told everyone what he had done, I'm certain that everyone in our building would have beaten him to a pulp, probably killed him and gotten away with it. Child molesters who get killed by a mob usually don't do time in South America, justice works like that sometimes there.
Within a few years I became reckless, but I was never caught during any of my stupid stunts. I was smart and got away with it every time. My friends encouraged me, some became accomplices.
At 18 years old I felt I could get away with anything. I was proven wrong soon after. I had crossed the wrong man, who wanted me dead and had the position and power to get away with it.
My mother found out about it, and feared for my life. She convinced some relatives to hide me, I could not be seeing in public. I spent a few weeks in the house of one of her cousins, then was moved one night to her aunt's home.
There was no way out of the situation, mother tried talking to the man I had betrayed and he told her he would shot me himself if he saw me. Realizing that I had to go somewhere, one night she sat me down at her aunt's and told me I was leaving the country.
I was surprised, since I knew we had no money to make that happen. Then she said I was going to the united states to join Chila, my grandma. I was happy but also scared. Mother told me I was going to be smuggled into a ship a night, and then I would spend two weeks at sea and then meet Chila.
What she didn't mention at the time, was that she had pretty much lied to the smugglers. Promising $2,500 dollars which we didn't have. She also didn't tell my grandma I was coming until after I had left, forcing her hand. I only found out about it later on.
Chila, didn't have that kind of money. She lived paycheck to paycheck. Chila had to borrow money from everyone she knew, asked her church for help to find someone to take me in when I arrived in California; because she lived in New York and didn't know anyone there.
As mother described, I had been smuggled onto a ship. Moved into a cabin where I was locked in, and given two meals a day. I was treated well, but more than once I had been told that if they didn't get their money, my body would never be found. I had assumed grandma had the money so I wasn't worried.
In the last day two sailors showed up and took a wall apart, and put me and two other men inside the wall. They explained that there was random checks at the port and that this was the only way to avoid being found.
All three of us were sweating for hours until finally at night they opened the wall back up. We were given clothes to make us look as we were part of the crew. Waiting until late at night we all got off the cargo ship and were told to act as if we were joking around and laugh every few minutes.
Everything went smooth, we got in two cars. I thought I was going to be dropped off, meet my grandma and be safe. Instead the cars go to a dark place in the back of some large building, meeting another pair of cars. First I was confused, then I saw one of the sailor pull packages out of the trunk.
They also had smuggled drugs. I was at a drug exchange, which if anything went wrong, I could easily get killed. So from being in danger in Peru, I went to being in danger in an entirely different country. Now I can see the humor in it, of course at the time, I didn't.
I'm a bit tired, I'll continue next time dear reader.
May you walk in the light of God.
Sincerely.
Luis
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