"Jobs after School" - 2019
我40 年代初回来美国,得一位不认识的宗叔收容在他衣馆已有三人住宿的一个睡房后,另一位宗兄带我到一所小学报名上课,随即替我找到一份放学后的住家工作。 他带我走上在下埠一间商店楼的二楼一家细小的妇女服装店。 店主是四十来岁的白妇,她望了我几眼,和宗兄说了几句我听不懂的英语。 宗兄对我说办妥了,明天就可以工作,每月工资15 元,地址在列治文区三十多号街道。 我每天二点半放学后,坐电车到她家去,她早已说明和指导我负责的工作。 她一家夫妇有两个十二三岁的男孩。 日间夫妇上班,孩子上学,我进门的时候,他们都还没有回来。
我开始铺好他们床上的被褥,打扫地板地毯,清理浴室,然后安放餐枱上的食用餐具。在厨房里预备好罐头瓜菜和去皮的薯仔,放在炉头,等待主妇放工买肉回来烹调。烹好后我穿上白衣制服,一一端上餐厅。 主妇分給我一份食物,我拿回厨房独自食用。 收拾碗碟洗净后乘电车回到住宿的衣馆,已八点半了。 星期六要整天工作,除了日常的任务外,还要清洁沙发椅,地板上蜡,洗地毯,还要手洗他们一个星期堆积下来的襪子和手巾。 照常是八点半才回到衣馆来。 星期日休息一天。 大概當年所有的住家读书工都大同小异。
三个月后,我辞了住家工,被请到一间离衣馆不远的华人西餐馆洗盘碗,每天由五点到九点,每星期做足七天,每月工金三十元。 (后来我知道以前和以后请来的洗盘碗的成年人月薪是四十元的。)虽说是五点上班,但是上晝用过的盘碗已经在水槽那里堆积如山。 这里没有洗碗机,我四个小时不停的赤手洗下去。用的是强烈的肥皂粉,没有手套,我又不会洗完后涂上洗液保护皮肤,以至手指到处破裂,许多年后才结合起来。
虽然宗叔收留我同住在衣馆,但是那单房睡室挤满五个人,我总觉得不好意思常住下去,就算我也尽力帮忙熨衣,补襪子,招呼客人,煮饭等杂务。 我于是到华埠一间牛肉店当学徒,工金每月二十元,保住食。 那里楼上有一间睡房,已经睡了一个老板的弟弟,也是割肉师傅,他从来没有跟我说过一句话。
我早晨七点起来,洗漱后下楼帮忙配合供应订货和开店前的佈置工作。 九点开店后我学习切肉,刀很锋利,学习割开为华人杂货店长用的猪腿肉,常常割伤了手指,数十年伤痕都不隐退。 十时许,屠场货车送来刚杀的猪,半只猪还温暖的放在背上托进店去。 最吃力的是背上四分之一的牛体,我的腿几乎被压曲了,还得尽力把牛腿挂上滑动轨的钩上。 當年我不过十五岁,在祖国抗日战争中走难三年多,营养不足,瘦弱的躯干实有不支之势,也得咬实牙龈顶上去。 这里的割肉师傅整天站着工作的,我也难免,中午吃饭才有机会坐下来,真的不想再站起来了。 华埠的商店都请有厨师专理厨房的工作,我们的厨师突然解了职,老板亲自主理,我又成为煮饭的助手了。
华埠的几家牛肉店都位在北边与意大利区接近,做意大利人的门口生意,因为华人不大喜欢吃血淋淋的西式牛肉,他们买猪肉或一小点牛肉是到华人杂货店去买的。很多的时候,华人来想“铲”(免费)些猪肝,说是用来餵猫的。下午我多是站着切肉碎,以为后用。 店里一名土生师傅兼开车送货到华埠外许多华人开的西餐馆,他呼唤我上车出去兜兜风,我当然乐意,一来可以呼吸新鲜空气,更重要的是有坐下来的机会。 原来每到一处,他吩咐我把一箱肉类抬进里面的厨房,而他却坐在车里抽烟休息。
晚上六点收市,我们在店里清洁肉柜,肉枱,地面。 继而把大堆的肉碎用机器碾成汉堡肉饼的肉料,还在桶里把已藏了好几天的杂类肉碎,加上大量的香料粉,塞进肠里做成风干的香肠。大概八点左右就收工,各人离店去了。 我乘机跑去爱和堂药材铺与我在小学刚认识的好友相会,他借给我很多中国现代文艺的书籍。
九点种我得回来牛肉店,店内只有在后墙的小柜台开着灯光。 售货员已把订单带回来,我开始作簿记,居然做起会计的工作来。 后来我才悟到为什么老板“抬举”了我。 原来老板有两部记录簿,一簿英文的,一簿中文的,两本的数目记录不同,而我大概是店里唯一能写中文的人。 我从来不问为什么要写下不同的数字,就是买户所付的价钱也不一样。 例如,华埠兰亭餐厅以猪扒餐最出名,我们每磅只收一毛五,其他的餐馆却收二毛五。每夜会计的工作做完后已经是十一点,我拖着疲倦的身体上楼,倒在床上就睡去。
这样每天14 个小时的工作,我不计较20元工金少,可是的确无力支持下去。 华埠的牛肉店是南海县九江镇人的专利,他们很少教导外地人割切牛肉的技巧秘诀,我有此难得的机会,本该谢天谢地,因为学成后就有一门手艺,保证一生有好收入的工作。 可是暑假期满,我要上初中继续学业,所以不能不辞职。 老板侧头微笑,他大概知道我实在太幸苦了, 但是不知道他心里有没有想说,“这台山仔不中抬举!” 这也是我有生以来最幸苦的一份工作。
我上的初中是 Marina Junior High School, 离华埠远一点,华人学生也寥寥无几,我希望可以多点学习英文,但得先要找份包住的住家工。 这种工作很多,也容易找,花园角的招工所的玻璃窗就贴满半工读的住家工告白,工金一般是每月15 元至25元,所长姓陈的,索取庸费十分公道,只收工金一乘。 我拿了一张20元的工作仅收两块钱,住家的地址是在Russian Hill 山顶一座九层大厦,每层面积很大。 一对老年夫妇(也是楼主)两人住了两层楼,还有整个天台是老人的大花园。 第八层是起居的地方,前厅对海湾,景色美丽,还有餐厅,图书室,厨房,和其他房間。 这对夫妇睡在第九层却不睡寝室,而睡在挂在樓尾突出的一间明亮的小房子。 我初见主妇的时候,在厨房里她正在辞退一个华人厨师。 我触及同胞不甚愉快发射出来的眼光,激动了我不愉快的心情。从此我除了清理的工作外,也做了她的帮厨了。他们是意大利人,早餐吃鱼的,我早上返学之前,要把早餐送到他们的床上去。
我去工作的第一天,把衣服书籍放在纸箱里,抱着坐上爬山的电车到那大厦去。 入夜的时候,管理大厦的工人带我到大厦后面一间陈旧的木屋去,是为大厦住客的仆人用的。 走进去,粗木的地板发出反抗的声音,有五六个小房間,一直排列得活像监狱里的一排狱间,最后的是一个公共浴室。 整个木屋空空如也,很久没有人住过的。那工人指给我一间就走出去了。 我看见里面只有一张简陋的单人铁床,这就是我每夜睡的家了。每夜工作完了回到这木屋来,总是觉得萧条寂寞,不免拥有由空虚而至凄凉的感觉。 为了制止眼泪流落,我放声高歌,唱着我熟识的抗战歌曲,却冲不破那苦闷窒息的死空气,驱不散活受欺负的悲哀,我沮丧的躺下床来。 几个月后我还是辞工了。
每次找半工读的住家工都是到花园角招工所看告示。 想当年西人主妇雇请我们之前,从来都不查问我们的背景,或是要看有没有前雇主的介绍书,(我第一份工作的主人给我一张很好的介绍书。) 而且他们的家门很多不上锁,返工就推门而进。 因为我随着不同学校的转换,很难在同一住家里继续长久干下去的,當然也有不愿干的时候。有一次在一家颇为华丽的住家做了一个星期就不干了,因为他们有六条狗在屋里自由走动,随地拉屎,我得不停的清理,受不了。 又有一次在招工所拿了公寓的地址,推门而进,里面没有一个人。 我就照惯例清理地方,洗了水槽堆放的碗碟后,等到六点过后他们一对年青的夫妻才下班回来。 她却对我说已经通知了招工所不用派人来的,但是我已经帮他们做了半天的工,他们走进睡房,商量了有半个钟头那么久,才出来给我六毛钱。 还有一次招工所给我一个地址,我问怎样找这条街,他说乘电车到隧道出口处,右走上街就找到。 我在隧道口下车的时候已經是黑夜了,我右转踏上山坡,两边楼房的门上或一两个窗口发出微弱的灯光,都不能推去夜的黑暗。 我看不见街牌,又没有胆量胡乱敲门询问,寻找了好一会儿,心想还是下坡回去华埠吧。 黑夜里天上挂着一钩孤零零的冷月,并不明亮的照着,使人感觉到旧金山的寒冷。 我不免想起别离的祖国,家里的亲人,眼眶润湿了,呼吸也有点困难,胸中像有东西塞着似的,我颓丧的在隧道口等着回去的电车。
我最后一份住家工离初中学校不远,大约一里路,每天走路来回。 这次应了一张是工资每月25 元的,心颇高兴,每月可以多收五块钱。 我按铃后主妇在门口看了我几眼,问我会不会煮餐。 我不是厨师就坦白说不会,她说那就要每月减五块钱了。 我也没说的接纳了,却暗暗的想, 厨师这样贱吗,25元的工资请到了houseboy 兼cook?这一家四口,丈夫好像在消防部里办事,两个青年儿子大概高中毕业不久,已工作,晚饭后开车上夜学。 我做过的住家工与男性简直没有交谈过半句,都是留在家里的主妇指导工作的。 在这家我清理的是楼下,她不叫我清理楼上的寝室,我也从来没有上过去。 我睡在底层车房旁的一间本来是储物的房間,虽然简陋,也不像从前睡在木屋的冷寂凄凉。这家厨房里的炉头还是四角露脚的旧物,他们也没有电器冰箱,每周有人送来一块大冰,放进有盖的旧式所谓冰箱里。 这主妇颇随和,但是不大跟我谈话,晚上我老是在厨房看书,等待西菜煮好然后送上餐厅和等着他们吃完收拾的时候,她走进来多次料理,只望我一眼,从来不说一句话。平常如果她家留有面包的话,我会做一个三文治拿去上学,我只自量的涂上一点果酱,从来不用他们的肉类。 如果没有带上面包,中午就在学校化一毛钱买一个热狗充饥。
在我开始做住家工的时候,衣馆的宗叔指导我说,如果吃西餐不饱,可以问主人要点钱买米自己煮食的。 我没有这样做过。 我做的住家工每处都不出几个月的短少时间就辞退,在每处都很少和雇主交谈,就是常在一起的主妇也没有多说些不是有关工作的话,她们从来没有问及我个人的事,所以我连他们的名称也早忘掉了。 后来我在一家餐馆做收盘碗(busboy)的时候,我最后的那个主妇认得我,而我却不认得她。她从与丈夫坐在的桌子走到厅中走动的地方,很亲切的告诉我她的两个儿子的近况,都已从军,大的海军陆战队,小的空军,滔滔不绝,活像我是久别的亲属很关心他们的情况似的。 她却没有问及我的好坏,大概看了我在餐馆里穿的白色制服也就不需要问了。 这是我和主妇交谈唯一的一次,不知道是种族还是阶级的分别,以至人与人之间不可以接触。
1941年末美国参战以后,年青人被征入伍,华埠外的营业人手不足,一个朋友的弟弟认识一个白人餐馆侍者(waiter), 他介绍我去做收盘碗的(busboy)。 这是一家著名的老字号餐馆,侍者都是上了年纪的白人职业侍者,收盘碗的以前也是清一色的年轻白人,现在有些已被征入伍,所以由我们华人青年填补。 每个侍者管理五张大小的餐桌,我们每人帮助三个侍者。我们助理侍者的任务不是收盘碗的,因为只有职业的侍者才可以在桌边服务食客的,我们只是换枱布,放好食用餐具,安放有冰水的玻璃杯和牛油与麺包。 但是战时生意兴隆,因为在餐馆吃肉不需要粮票,食客涌来排队等候吃牛扒。 因此送餐桌上和食后清理越快越好,有了多一轮食客,这样侍者可以多拿小费,一般两人共餐留下五毛钱小费,当然要看服务好坏 而定。 侍者一般从他获得的小费分给我们十分之一,这也要看侍者是否慷概了。
我们华青十分卖力,做了许多不是份内必须的工作,我们代收盘碟,叠在弯曲的左手臂上,高至下巴,喝声讓路就衝进厨房里去,好像我们存心比赛一样,看谁叠得最高,走得最快。我们还帮忙送上咖啡和甜品尾枱(dessert)。 但是白人houseboy 就不做这些份外的工作,却照通例拿小费的。我们每天工作由六点至八点半,两个半钟头,每天两块钱,还加上侍者給的小费。 侍者通常給六毛钱,一共一块八毛,也有侍者只给二毛半的,可是我们落力帮助的侍者会多给些,多至元半的,所以小费平均与工金相等,确是一份收入很好的工作。
餐馆里工作是包食的,歧视的问题出现了。 这家餐馆是意大利人和法国人合办的,头厨是意大利人,只有一个华人专管最忙的烧牛排的工作,两个大点年龄的华人是洗盘碗的。 差不多每天头厨和大老板在厨房里大吵大闹,他拿着大刀面对老板,一边挥动大刀,一边又大声又快的吐出我听不懂的意大利话。 所有工人的晚餐是以两块钱上簿报税的,白人的侍者,连同白人busboy 都吃着菜单上的菜,正式的西餐, 但是我们华人busboy吃的与他们的不一样,都是杂乱的,说不清楚的东西,后来每晚吃火鸡颈, 差不多是吮骨头,连薯仔都没有,只得嚼麺包。 我也得忍下去,这到底是一份难得的工作。 但是有一天,厨房给我们吃的是从汤里捞起的渣滓。 我受不了,就跑出门到隔壁的小餐馆,自费吃了正常的餐才回去上班,已经六时二十分钟,我迟到二十分钟了,食客已在门内排队等位。我刚走进去,厅内早已满席,老板从后面一边走来,一边气冲冲的骂起我来,跟着说,“你今天回家,明天再来。” 我大声的反驳,“你给我们吃垃圾。 我不做了!” 餐厅的噪声好像静了下来,众目凝视过来,我慢慢的走出门外,头也不回。
我想不到自己会有这样的勇气说出这样的话来,以后他们有没有改善留下来的华人busboy的餐食,那我不知道也不管了,我是“牺牲”了这份好收入的工作的。 随着我到招工所找到在一间中型旅馆的餐室里的busboy 工作。 这餐室不大,两个女的侍者,就只有我一个帮手。 每晚工作三个小时,工金三十元,而女侍者每人每星期只給小费两毛半,与以前那份工相比,真有天渊之别,但我不后悔。 因为厨房是同乡台山人包办的,他们看见了餐室来了一个十六七岁的华人青年,又会讲广州话,又会讲台山话,真的喜出望外,好像看见了自己亲生的儿子一样,非常亲切。 我想吃什么都可以,连當年外间受管制的肉食在内。 我永远不会忘记厨房所有叔伯给我的笑容。
暑假期间,为了多赚点钱汇回在祖国的家人,我于是在晚上工作之外,另找一份八小时的整天busboy工作。 白天做的是普通的所谓咖啡餐馆café,这种餐馆一边是坐客的长柜台,一边是小间座位,卖的是廉价餐食,战时每天开足24个小时。 全馆只用一个busboy, 杂务很多,整天忙过不了,工金每天五块钱,没有小费,一般侍者都是女的。 这样两份都是 busboy 的工作,每天11个小时手拿重物不停地走动,就是年轻也顶累的。 有一夜放工后和一位朋友去看电影,战时有些电影戏院通宵放映。 完场后,我站不起来,双腿又累又麻痹,朋友把我扶起,站了许久才依着朋友慢慢的回华埠去。
西人餐馆起用我们后,知道我们肯卖力尽责,而且我们如果不能上班的那一天,总会自动请朋友代劳,这样对管理的老板有莫大的帮助。但是也会有例外的情形,我跟一个好说理争辩的朋友同在一家大点的café工作,有天在我休息的那天,管理人吩咐我的朋友扫地,我的朋友说“扫地不是busboy的任务.” 管理人发怒,我的朋友说他辞职了,还说我的朋友也辞了。 他回来告诉我,他已经替我辞了那分工。 第二天,我又到花园角招工所看告白去。
不久,我半工读的半工工作有了转变,40年代上期华埠青年相当典型的houseboy和 busboy 的工作,已渐渐的成为历史陈迹,也就是华埠青年的自我努力上进,和华埠外社会歧视渐作表面上的隐退。 可喜的是,40年代的折磨没有摧毁我们的理想,讓我们能够继续努力为后代打出一条比较平坦的出路。
I returned to America in the early 40’s. After an uncle of our clan whom I don’t know settled me in his bedroom behind the laundry, which already had three people there, another uncle took me to register in an elementary school. He then immediately found me an after school job, a houseboy. He led me to a small women's clothing shop located on the second floor of a downtown commercial building. The owner was a white woman in her 40’s, and she looked at me a few times and spoke to my uncle in English, which I didn’t understand. My uncle told me that it was done, and I will start working tomorrow. I would be paid $15 per month, and the address was on 30th plus Avenue in the Richmond district. Every day after school was at 2:30 p.m., I took the street car to her house and did the work she had explained to me earlier. The couple in the family had two twelve-to-thirteen year old boys. The parents went to work and the children were in school during the day, and they hadn’t returned when I entered their home.
I started with tidying up their beddings, swept the floor and rug, cleaned the bathroom, and set the dining table. I then prepared the canned vegetables, peeled the potatoes and placed them on the stove, waiting for the homemaker’s return with the meat for cooking. After the food was done, I put on a white jacket and brought it to the dining table. The homemaker would fill my plate, and I returned to the kitchen eating by myself. After clearing the table and washing the dishes, I took the streetcar back to the laundry and it was 8:30 pm. I had to work all day on Saturday. Beside the regular daily duty, I also had to clean the sofa, wax the floor, shampoo the rug, and hand-wash the pile of socks and handkerchiefs they had accumulated all week. As usual I returned to the laundry around 8:30 pm. Sunday was my day off. The houseboy jobs for us young Chinese after school during this time were almost alike.
Three months later I quit the houseboy job because I was recruited by a Chinese American restaurant not far from the laundry to wash dishes. The work hours were from five to nine every day including Sunday, and the pay was $30 a month. (Later I learned that the adult dish-washer before and after me was paid $40 a month.) Even though my job started at five, the dishes used earlier in the day were piled up mountain-high in the sink. There was no washing machine, and I had to wash the dishes with my bare hands for four hours. The soap was strong powder soap and there were no gloves, and I didn’t know about using cream to protect my skin after washing, so my fingers were all cracked and it took many years before they closed up.
Although my clan uncle let me stay at the laundry, I felt embarrassed to stay in with five people packed in a single bedroom; meanwhile, I did my best to help ironing, mending socks, greeting customers and cooking. So I went on to be a butcher apprentice at a meat market in Chinatown. The pay was $20 a month, but meals and board were included. There was a bedroom on top of the store and the brother of the boss was sleeping there. He was also a butcher, and he never said a word to me.
I got up at 7 a.m. in the morning. After washing up, I went downstairs to help fill orders and make preparation before the store opened at 9. I learned how to cut meat with very sharp knives, cutting open the pig thigh which was the product most favored by Chinese grocery stores. I often cut my fingers and the wound marks had remained visible for decades. At 10 a.m., the truck from the slaughter house brought in the pigs that had just slaughtered. I carried half a pig, still warm, on my shoulder into the store. Carrying a quarter beef on my shoulder was the most strenuous; I felt my legs were going to buckle, but I still had to try hard to hook it up to the railing. I was only 15 years old, after escaping the anti-Japanese war in China for more than three years and under nourishment, my weakening body was really unable to sustain the load, but I had to grit my teeth and keep going. All the butchers were standing during work, and I was no exception. Only during lunch time did I have a chance to sit down, and I really didn’t want to get up again. All stores in Chinatown hire a cook to take care of the kitchen, but our cook suddenly quit, and the boss had to take over and do the cooking himself, so I also became a kitchen helper.
The few butcher shops in Chinatown were located on the north side adjacent to the Italian district, and they were doing the Italian walk-in business. The Chinese would buy their pork or a little bit of beef at the Chinese grocery stores, because Chinese didn’t like to eat bloody beef steaks. Often a Chinese would come in to mooch a piece of pig liver, saying to feed his cat. In the afternoon I was usually trimming meat to be used later. A native born Chinese butcher in the store was also the driver delivering meat to the many Chinese American restaurants outside of Chinatown. He asked me to get on the truck to go for a ride, and I, of course, was more than willing. Not only would I get some fresh air, but more importantly, I would have a chance to sit down. As it turned out, when we got to a restaurant he told me to carry a box of meat into the kitchen while he sat in the truck smoking and resting.
The store closed at 6 p.m. We washed up the meat cases, meat cutting tables and the floor. Then we grounded the pile of cut–up odds and ends for Hamburger meat, and took the scraps of meat accumulated several days from a barrel, added a large amount of pepper, and stuffed them into intestines to air for sausages. We finished around 8:30 p.m., and everybody left the store. I took the opportunity and went to the herb store Oy Wo Tong to meet with my good friend whom I just met in elementary school. He lent me many books of contemporary Chinese literary fiction.
I returned to the meat shop at 9 p.m. In the large store there was only a little light hanging over a small, tall desk at the back wall. The salesmen had already returned with their orders. I actually began doing bookkeeping and accounting work. Later I finally realized the reason my boss “promoted” me; it was because he kept two record books, one in English and one in Chinese, but the figures recorded in the two books were not alike, and I was the only one in the store who could write Chinese. I never asked why I had to write down different numbers. For example, Lan Ting Restaurant in Chinatown was known for its pork chop meals, and we charged them only 15 cents a pound, but 25 cents for the other restaurants. I finished doing the accounting each night around 11p.m. and dragged my tired body upstairs; I fell to the bed and slept immediately.
As I worked 14 hours a day, I didn’t mind the $20 low wage, but I actually did not have the strength to continue. The butcher shops in Chinatown were the monopoly of the people from the town of Jiaojiang in Nanhai county of Guangdong Province. They seldom taught outsiders the secret of meat-cutting skill. But summer recess is over and I had to continue my schooling at a Junior High school, so I had to quit the job. The boss slanted his head and smiled, I was sure he knew that it was too much of a hardship on me. But I didn’t know whether in his mind he wanted to say, “This Taishan kid is not worth promoting.” This was the hardest job I had in my life.
I attended Marina Junior High School located a little far from Chinatown, and it only had a few Chinese students. I hoped to learn more English this way, but I had to first find a houseboy job which includes room and board. This kind of houseboy job was plenty and easy to find. There were many bulletins for after-school houseboy jobs sticking on the glass wall of the employment agency at Portsmouth Square. The wage in general was $15 to $25 a month. Mr. Chan was the owner and his fee was fair, which is just 10% of a month's pay. I took a $20 bulletin and paid him only $2 for the fee. The resident was in a nine-story building on top of Russian Hill. Each floor of the building was very large and the old couple (who were also the landlords) occupied two floors, and the entire roof was the old man’s garden. The 8th floor was the living area, the front living room facing the bay with beautiful scenery, and the rest were a dining room, library, kitchen, and other rooms. This couple slept on the 9th floor, but they didn’t sleep in one of the bedrooms; they slept in a small bright room hanging off the back of the building. When I first saw the homemaker, she was in the process of dismissing a Chinese cook. My eyes contacted my countryman’s unpleasant eyesight, and it sharply stirred up my unhappy feeling. From then on besides doing the cleaning, I also was her kitchen helper. They were Italians and like to eat fish for breakfast, so I have to serve it to them in bed before I went to school.
The first day I went to work I packed my clothing and books in a paper box, held it in my arms and rode the street car climbing up the hill to that large building. Into the night the maintenance worker of the building led me to an old, wooden shack in the back of the building, a place for the servants of the residence in the building. When I entered, the rough, wooden floor boards gave out a resisting sound. There were five or six rooms lining up like the roll of cells in a prison, and a common bathroom at the end of the hallway. The whole wooden shack was empty, having not been occupied for a long time. The worker pointed at one of the rooms and disappeared. I saw there was only a simple iron bed in the small room and this was my home each night to sleep. Every night after I finished working and returned to this wooden shack I always felt depressed and lonely, and I couldn’t escape the feelings of emptiness and sorrow. In order to prevent my tears from coming out, I sang to the top of my voice my familiar resistant war songs, but it couldn’t break up the misery and suffocating dead air, or swept away the sadness of being humiliated. Dejectedly I lied down in bed. After a few months I quit my job.
Every time when I had to find an after-school job, I went to the employment agency at Portsmouth Square and looked at the bulletins. The American homemakers at the time never asked about our backgrounds, or to see if there was a letter of recommendation. (I had a very good recommendation from my first employer.) Furthermore, their doors were usually not locked and I just pushed open the door to enter. Because I kept changing schools, it was difficult for me to stay long in the same family, and of course, there were times I just didn’t want to stay. At one time I worked in a pretty luxurious home for a week and quit, because they have six dogs running freely around the house and shitting everywhere, and I have to clean them all up, really feeling unbearable. There was another time I got the address of an apartment from the employment agency, pushed open the door, but no one was inside. I started cleaning the place as usual and washed the dishes in the sink. I waited until after 6 p.m. before the young couple returned. She told me that she had informed the agency not to send the help, but I already have done half a day of work for them. They went into their bedroom, discussed it for half an hour long, and finally came out and gave me 60 cents. One time Mr. Chan gave me an address, and I asked him how to find that street. He told me to take a streetcar through the tunnel and turn right to the street to get there. When I got off the streetcar at the end of the tunnel, it was already night time. I turned right and climbed up the hill. The doors or windows of the buildings on each side of the street threw out some dim lights, but they cannot push away the darkness of the night. I couldn’t see the street signs, and I didn’t have the courage to knock on doors to ask. After searching for a while, I thought I better go down the hill and return to Chinatown. In the darkness of the night a lonely and cold crescent moon was hanging in the sky, not shining bright, and making me feel the coldness of the Old Gold Mountain. I couldn’t help thinking of my separation from the motherland and the loved ones at home. Tears wet my eyes, and my breathing became difficult as if something stuck in my chest. Feeling dejected I waited for the returning streetcar at the entrance of the tunnel.
My last houseboy job was not far from the Junior High school, about a mile, and I walked every day to school and back. The bulletin for this job showed a wage of $25 a month, and I was quite happy to get $5 extra. I pressed the bell and the homemaker came to the door; she looked me over a few times, and then asked me if I could cook. I was not a cook so I frankly said no, then she said she would take away $5. I accepted without a word, but I thought to myself, is a cook so cheap and with $25 you can hire a houseboy who is also a cook? There were four people in this family: the husband seemed to be working in the office of the Fire Department, and the two young sons had recently graduated from high school and were working. They drove to night school after dinner. I seldom had conversations with the male members of the family in all my jobs, and it was the homemaker who stayed at home and directed me to the work. I did the cleaning downstairs in the living area, and she did not ask me to do the bedrooms upstairs, so I had never gone upstairs. I slept in the former storage room next to the garage in the basement. It was rather bare, but I didn’t have the feeling of coldness, loneliness and sadness as I was sleeping in the wooden shack previously. The stove in the kitchen was still the old four-leg model, and they didn’t have a refrigerator. Once a week there was a man who delivered a big piece of ice into an old style icebox. The homemaker was quite amiable, but she didn’t talk to me much. In the evening as I was sitting in the kitchen reading, waiting for the food to be cooked and served in the dining room or waiting to clear the table after dinner, she would walk in several times to take care of something, but she just looked at me and never said a word. If there was left over bread I would make a sandwich to take to school, and I just put on some jam and never used any of their meat. But if I didn’t bring a sandwich, I would buy a hotdog for a dime in school for lunch.
When I first worked as a houseboy, my clan uncle of the laundry advised me that if eating Western food still makes me hungry, I can ask the homemaker for a little money to buy rice and cook it myself to eat. But I have never done that. I worked as a houseboy in each place for just a few short months before quitting, and I seldom talked with my employer, even the homemaker I was with most of the time would not talk much to me other than what was related to my work. They never asked about my personal things; therefore, I had forgotten their names long ago. Later, when I was a busboy in a restaurant, my last homemaker recognized me, but I didn’t recognize her. She came into the open space in the dining room from the table where she and her husband were sitting. Then she earnestly told me about her two sons’ recent situations, both were in the service: the older one in the Marine and the younger one in the Air Force. She talked on and on without stopping, as if I was her dear kin who was very interested in her sons’ situations. She didn’t ask about how I was doing, perhaps looking at me wearing a white jacket in a restaurant she didn’t need to ask. This was the first time I had a real conversation with my employer. I didn’t know whether it is the difference in the race or social class that made contact between humans not possible.
After America entered the war in 1941, young men were drafted and the businesses outside of Chinatown became short-handed. The brother of a friend of mine knew an American waiter, and he introduced me to being a busboy. This was an old and famous restaurant and the waiters were all older white professional waiters. The busboys were also all white young men, but some have been drafted, and so they were replaced by us Chinese boys. Each waiter took care of five big and small tables, and each busboy helped three waiters. Our job was not busing dishes, as only the professional waiter could do service to the customers at the table. We only had to put on a clean tablecloth, set the table, put down glasses of ice water, butter and bread. But during wartime business was thriving, because eating meat in a restaurant did not require food stamps, so the customers lined up every night waiting to eat steaks. Therefore, the quicker serving the food and clearing the table the better. Having an extra round of customers, the waiter would get more tips. In general a couple at a table would leave 50 cents tips, depending of course, on the service. A waiter usually gave us 10% of his tips, and this also depends on the generosity of the waiter.
We Chinese busboys spared no effort to do our jobs, and did much work outside of what the job required. We helped to carry out the dishes, piling high on our bent left arms to the height of our chins, shouting make way and rushed into the kitchen, as if we were intended to make it a race to see who piled the highest and ran the fastest. We also helped to serve coffee and dessert. The white busboys wouldn’t do any of this extra work and they got the tips just the same. We worked from 6 p.m. to 8:30 p.m., two and a half hours a day; the wage was $2 and the tips were extra. Each waiter usually gave 60 cents tips to the busboy, so it was $1.80 total for the night. But there was one union member waiter who only gave 25 cents. But the one we helped the most would give more than the average, as much as $1.50. Therefore, as the tips were about equal to the wage, it was indeed a good job.
The meals were included for the workers, and discrimination lurched out. This was a restaurant jointly owned by Italians and a Frenchman. The Chief Chef was an Italian; there was only a Chinese cook manning the very busy grill for steaks and two older Chinese dishwashers. The Chief Chef and the Big Boss argued almost every day and shouted at each other in the kitchen. While waving a big chopping knife in front of the face of the Boss, the Chef spat out loudly and rapidly in Italian, which I didn’t understand. All the workers’ dinner was charged $2 per person on the book for the tax purpose. The white waiters as well as the white busboys ate what was on the menu. But us Chinese busboys ate differently and usually were a mixed bag hard to identify. Gradually we were having turkey’s necks every night, just like sucking bones, no potatoes to go with, so we had to just chew bread. I had to tolerate this unfair treatment because this was nevertheless a hard to find job. Then one day the cook gave us the leftover sediment at the bottom of the soup for our dinner. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I went out to the café next door and paid for a regular meal before returning to work. It was 6:20 p.m. I was 20 minutes late to work, and the customers were lining up inside the door waiting for tables. When I stepped inside, the room was full. The Boss, while charging out from the back of the room, was cussing me furiously along the way, and he followed, “You go home today and come back tomorrow.” I shouted in refute, “You feed us garbage. I quit!” The noise in the dining room seemed to silent down. While the multiple eyes were staring at me, I slowly walked toward the door without turning my head.
I didn’t think that I had the courage to say such words. Had they since then improved the meals for the Chinese busboys, I didn’t know and I didn’t care, as I had “sacrificed” giving up this well paying job. Afterward I went to the employment agency and found a busboy job in the dining room of a middle size hotel. The dining room was not big; there were two waitresses, and I was the only helper. The work was three hours a night and the wage was $30, but the waitress each gave only 25 cents tips for the whole week. Compared with what I had before, it was just like the difference between high heaven and deep sea, but I had no regrets because in here the kitchen was managed by my Taishan countrymen. They saw a sixteen-seventeen year old young man coming in from the dining room who could speak both the Taishanese as well as Cantonese dialects. They were overwhelmed with joy, as if they had seen their own son, showing extreme kindness. I could eat whatever I wanted, including meat which was rationed to the public at the time. I will never forget the smiling faces of all those uncles in that kitchen.
For the purpose of earning a little more money to send back to the family in the motherland, so during summer time, in addition to my night job, I found an eight-hour, day-time busboy job. The day job was in a café, which has a long counter on one side and booths on the other side. The meals served here were inexpensive, and it opened 24 hours a day during wartime. The whole restaurant used only one busboy and there were lots of odd and end works to do, really busy all day. The wage was $5 a day and no tips, and the servers were all female waitresses. With both busboy jobs I had to carry heavy loads and move endlessly for 11 hours every day; it was very exhausting even for a young man. One night after work, I went with a friend to see movies. Some theaters opened all night during wartime. When the movies ended, I couldn’t stand up; my legs were tired and numbed. My friend held me up for a while before I leaned on my friend slowly returning to Chinatown.
Since American restaurants used us, they knew that we were willing to put in great effort. Moreover, when we could not come to work, we would find a friend to substitute, and such attentiveness really helped the management. But there could be exceptions. I was working in the same café with one of my friends who liked to argue and contend. On my day-off the manager ordered my friend to sweep the floor, and my friend said, “Sweeping the floor is not the busboy’s job.” The manager got mad, and my friend said he quit, and he added that his friend also quit. He came back and told me he had quit my job for me. The following day I went to the employment agency at Portsmouth Square again and looked at the bulletins.
Before long, the jobs after school were changing, and the typical houseboy and busboy jobs had gradually faded into history. It was the result of the self-improving efforts of the young men in Chinatown, as well as the superficial fading of social discrimination outside of Chinatown. What is gratifying is that the physical and mental sufferings in the 40’s did not destroy our ideals, and these experiences let us continue our effort to pave a smoother path for the future generations to move forward.