Page 60 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?”

“That was embarrassing for you,” he said. “I can’t leave now.”

I blushed.

“But I hope you’re prepared for an overnight guest,” he sighed, extracting another cigarette from his pack. “I’m not driving through Minnesota in the middle of the night. I don’t want to lose my virginity to some backwoods hillbilly.”

I cackled, slapping my hand over my mouth at the joke.

“You’re ridiculous!”

He shrugged and lit his cigarette. “Life’s too ridiculous to pretend it’s not.”

As the night wore on, I became inseparable from Alex. I was certain that it had to be annoying for him, but he pretended otherwise. We eventually rejoined the party, only to find that half of the guests had left. Of course, it was nearly midnight when we went back inside. The two of us joined a group of people Peter was talking to, and I marveled at the way Alex fell into the conversation easily, though I was sure he didn’t care about anything that was being said.

The way that he listened and responded, sometimes in a way that was obviously an insult wrapped in polite language, yet too witty for the target to catch, amused me. Peter caught the insults as well, and we exchanged furtive, amused glances each time Alex did it to yet another party guest. Of course, as hosts, we should have reigned him in, insisted that he behave. However, none of the guests seemed to notice and it made the party more interesting.

By the time everyone left, it was nearing two o’clock in the morning. Alex and I had taken up sitting on the couch for the last hour, laughing and joking about whatever came to mind as Peter saw people out. The caterers had cleaned up, stored the remaining food in our refrigerator, and left. The liquor and wine had to be dealt with, but there was no rush to do those things.

Once the last person was out the door, Peter joined Alex and me in the living room. He seemed pleased that I’d had someone to talk to during the party and hadn’t been bored, though he was tired. He gave us his blessing to keep talking on the sofa and excused himself to our bedroom. As the morning hours rushed up to meet us, Alex and I eventually fell asleep, right there on the living room sofa. Him at one end and me at the other.

Like friends would do.

When morning came and the three of us rose to greet the day, Alex said he really had to go back to Rochester. When I hugged him as he was preparing to leave, he seemed unbothered by the affection. Though he hissed at Peter when he tried to hug him, which made me laugh. As Peter and I watched him drive away, waving at his car as he disappeared down the street, I couldn’t remove the smile from my face. I wouldn’t have been certain that I had made my first friend in America, except he had programmed his number into my phone, giving me permission to call or text anytime I needed.

I had made a friend.

And, thanks to his advice, I was forming a plan.

The Seeds We Plant

Downtown Minneapolis is packed with office buildings full of possibility. As it is with any large city, Minneapolis presented boundless possibilities to those looking for gainful employment. Unless one is an immigrant who is not yet a United States citizen. Someone such as that should take all of the possibilities, divide by one hundred, and assume that is the number of companies that would even consider hiring them. It’s not fair. It’s not right. However, right and fair cannot be addressed from the outside. Sometimes one has to work with the parameters set for them in order to change the parameters for those who follow behind them.

When Peter left for work on a Monday, a week after our party, I used my bus pass to go downtown. Though I had no reason to believe it would work out well for me, I had found a company during an internet search that specialized in translation and interpretation services. Though my degree wasn’t necessarily meant for such a job, surely, even as an immigrant without full citizenship, the company would see the value in hiring me. I knew more than one language. I was a hard worker. I was polite and professional and willing to learn. I’d worked at a similar company in Montreal for four years before moving to the United States.

I could be perfect for any entry-level job they had to offer.

I could sit at a desk and tell a person in English what someone had said in French. Or vice versa. I could write it down for them in either language. I could do that for eight hours a day. A job and an income of my own were all that mattered. Some independence and autonomy from Peter and our marriage. To feel as though I was beginning to assimilate and join the culture of my new homeland.

The company, Source Language, Inc., had a receptionist who was pleasant enough. Nice, even. However, she merely had to glance at my application and take notice of the boxes that were checked—and unchecked—before handing it back to me. Though she smiled and did her best to be kind with her response, I could see in her eyes that when she said there were no jobs available, she was being dishonest. What she’d meant was that there were no jobs for me.

Please. I had said. Any job is fine. I’m willing to do anything entry-level. Anything.

Back and forth the receptionist and I went, her insisting there was nothing available—though I knew that to be false from my internet search—and me insisting that any job they had was fine. As Alex had advised, I was going to do my best to not take “no” for an answer. I’m unsure of how long the receptionist and I pushed back and forth, but it was long enough that I felt she would decide to call security if I badgered her much longer about a job.

Just as I felt that I had argued for too long, and the receptionist would have me removed from the building, a voice interrupted us. We both turned our heads to find a middle-aged man in a suit, impeccably groomed, watching us.

What’s this now? he had asked.

My first thought was that this man was obviously someone of importance. He had probably heard us arguing from his office, came to find out what was disrupting his day, and would insist that I leave or be thrown out. However, the twinkle in his eye and the amused grin on his face comforted me a little.

The receptionist, before I could speak for myself, told the man—Mr. Barton—that I had come in looking for a job, but she had let me know that there were none available. She thought I didn’t notice the pointed look she gave him, as though trying to convey information to him subliminally. Mr. Barton noticed her look but seemed to want to ignore it. He obviously wanted to know more about what was going on. Something had interested him.

I’m looking for a job. I’d said before the receptionist could say more. I don’t have full citizenship here yet. But I will in less than a year. I need a job until then. Any job.

Mr. Barton smiled at me and held his hand out to me. Unsure of what he wanted at first, I stared at him.