The third member of this group was an Albanian. He was a chain smoker, a white man who looked tired as if coming from another full time job, where his work energy was drained already. He would rarely utter a word. When I was introduced to these guys, and when somebody in this group mentioned Yugoslavia, this Albanian guy let out a heavy sigh, out of some unpleasant deep-rooted feeling. He did not say much to me. He shook my hand as if it were a dead fish. Then, after a few puffs from his Marlboro, he forced a few Croatian words mixing them with Serbian. I translated them all into a question: “What brought you here?”

In that instant I felt like all my dreams died right in the grip of the mop. I squeezed it to death… my ‘life’s vehicle’ started going the wrong way from a one-way street into two-way traffic…

When the Albanian asked me what had brought me here, I couldn’t tell him because I did not have a clear answer. I started telling him something about wanting to become a college professor, about the harsh communist system, about… then this black man said: “Let’s cut the bull… and let’s do the job!” He already had a grip on the large and round machine which (when operated) was turning in place, reminding me of my dog Lisco back home, playfully trying to catch his own tail. This machine was making some monotonous stripping sound, creating waves of dirty water on the floor while extracting the old wax. Mr. Slow was pushing it slightly with his left knee and “dancing” with it from the left to the right side of the hallway. Watching him, I thought of the creature trapped in American minds as Big Foot… yet I had a different name for him for cutting my chit-chat with the Albanian short. He decided to give me work orders. First he handed me a mop, and told me to help out. This was the lowest moment in my life. Officially I was forced to abandon my road to a professorship in that moment, and made a first step on another path with a mop in hand.

In that instant I felt like all my dreams died right in the grip of the mop. I squeezed it to death… my “life’s vehicle” started going the wrong way from a one-way street into two-way traffic… all the hard work I did back home was a waste now… nobody could hear my inner voice’s loud calls for help. With the mop in hand I was supposed to join in when the black man told me. I obeyed. This trio worked in unison as an experienced team of TV reporters: the camera man, the interviewer and the light man. The black man was on the stripping machine. The Puerto Rican was in front of him splashing the stripper and clean water with a mop. The Albanian was mopping the dirty water after the black man stripped the old wax in strings of dirt. At that point the floor resembled a farmer’s field after the flood. Everything seemed well coordinated. Mr. Slow would bark at me in his deep bass: “Take over!” pointing first at the Albanian, then the Puerto Rican. I would jump in, jump out. I tried to make the mop to work with me. But — that wasn’t easy. The mop would be overweight, lazy with the large amount of sucked-up water. It was hard to move it. It wouldn’t follow my orders. It made me pull-push, drag… The mop — in such a condition — was supposed to be squeezed of the excess water using the squeezer strapped on the bucket. In the process of doing it, somehow it would spill back on the floor, making me work harder. My way wasn’t their way! Those cleaning experts looked down on me. To them I was a sloppy beginner. But somehow, I was managing it. The “pros” did not complain much, but they were yelling instructions to me left and right, “Hold the mop the other way! Move quicker! Do not go into the wet area! Back off from the mop a little! Do not splash so heavily!”

I heard their voices, but understood very little of their intended instructions. To them it was fun ordering me around and watching me struggle with the mop.

I heard their voices, but understood very little of their intended instructions. To them it was fun ordering me around and watching me struggle with the mop. Even Jose stopped dancing just to watch me fight with that mop. He was commenting something to himself in Spanish. I wasn’t anxious to find out, either. Mr. Slow was puffing on his cigarette, watching me, motionless. Behind him through the large window I felt the American night peering in, curious as a newspaper reporter working on a documentary. Mr. Slow had a brilliant idea. He wanted me to try to operate his machine. Something was telling me that that was too premature on his part. On my first try I slipped and fell. They all giggled like a bunch of elementary school girls. I tried again. This time the disobedient machine swayed away from me. I tried to hang on to it. But — it was too late! The machine hit the wall making a hole in it. Now, they all cursed repeating the “f” word like the possessed, mixing it with Bob’s name as the one to blame for sending me to them. My attempt was to say something in my defense, but Mr. Slow gave me a look making me “feel” my body slamming against the wall. The Puerto Rican started singing again, and I thought that their anger was surpassing. And it was for a while… then Mr. “Thick Cigar” (Bob) came to the floor. He asked Mr. Slow how I was doing. The black man started a hysterical laugh “infecting” the other two. They couldn’t stop laughing an angry laugh! Bob’s eye caught that hole in the wall. He did not have to ask any more questions. He decided right there to transfer me. On the way out of the building at one o’clock that morning he gave me a piece of paper with “522 — Fifth Avenue” written down on it. It was going to be my job location for the next three and a half years. Needless to say: I fell from the “PhD” cleaning division to the “High School” division — all in one night, on my first official job in America.

— FROM The Blue Moon Across the Fence