Job: A Comedy of Justice (19 page)

How much had we lost? There are no interuniversal exchange rates. One might make a guess in terms of equivalent purchasing power—so many dozens of eggs, or so many kilos of sugar. But why bother? Whatever it was, we had lost it.

This paralleled a futility I had run into in Mazatlán. I had attempted, while lord of the scullery, to write to a) Alexander Hergensheimer’s boss, the Reverend Dr. Dandy Danny Dover, D.D., director of Churches United for Decency, and b) Alec Graham’s lawyers in Dallas.

Neither letter was answered; neither came back. Which was what I had expected, as neither Alec nor Alexander came from a world having flying machines,
aeroplanos.

I would try both again—but with small hope; I already knew that this world would feel strange both to Graham and to Hergensheimer. How? Nothing that I had noticed until we reached Nogales. But here, in that detention hall, was (hold tight to your chair)
television.
A handsome big box with a window in one side, and in that window living pictures of people…and sounds coming out of it of those selfsame people talking.

Either you have this invention and are used to it and take it for granted, or you live in a world that does not have it—and you don’t believe me. Learn from me, as I have been forced to believe unbelievable things. There
is
such an invention; there is a world where it is as common as bicycles, and its name is television—or sometimes teevee or telly or video or even “idiot box”—and if you were to hear some of the purposes for which this great wonder is used, you would understand the last tag.

If you ever find yourself flat broke in a strange city and no one to turn to, and you do not want to turn yourself in at a police station and don’t want to be mugged, there is just one best answer for emergency help. You will usually find it in the city’s tenderloin, near skid row:

The Salvation Army.

Once I laid hands on a telephone book it took me no time at all to get the address of the Salvation Army mission (although it did take me a bit of time to recognize a telephone when I saw one—warning to inter-world travelers: Minor changes can be even more confusing than major changes).

Twenty minutes and one wrong turn later Margrethe and I were at the mission. Outside on the sidewalk four of them:—French horn, big drum, two tambourines—were gathering a crowd. They were working on “Rock of Ages” and doing well, but they needed a baritone and I was tempted to join them.

But a couple of store fronts before we reached the mission Margrethe stopped and plucked at my sleeve. “Alec…must we do this?”

“Eh? What’s the trouble, dear? I thought we had agreed.”

“No, sir. You simply told me.”

“Mmm—Perhaps I did. You don’t want to go to the Salvation Army?”

She took a deep breath and sighed it out. “Alec… I have not been inside a church since—since I left the Lutheran Church. To go to one now—I think it would be sinful.”

(Dear Lord, what can I do with this child? She is apostate not because she is heathen…but because her rules are even more strict than Yours. Guidance, please—and do hurry it up!) “Sweetheart, if it feels sinful to you, we won’t do it. But tell me what we are to do now; I’ve run out of ideas.”

“Ah—Alec, are there not other institutions to which a person in distress may turn?”

“Oh, certainly. In a city this size the Roman Catholic Church is bound to have more than one refuge. And there will be other Protestant ones. Probably a Jewish one. And—”

“I meant, ‘Not connected with a church.’”

“Ah, so. Margrethe, we both know that this is not really my home country; you probably know as much about how it works as I do. There may be refuges for the homeless here that are totally unconnected with a church. I’m not sure, as churches tend to monopolize the field—nobody else wants it. If it were early in the day instead of getting dark, I would try to find something called united charities or community chest or the equivalent, and look over the menu; there might be something. But now—Finding a policeman and asking for help is the only other thing I can think of this time of day…and I can tell you ahead of time what a cop in this part of town would do if you told him you had nowhere to sleep. He would point you toward the mission right there. Old Sal.”

“In København—or Stockholm or Oslo—I would go straight to the main police station. You just ask for a place to sleep; they give it to you.”

“I have to point out that this is not Denmark or Sweden or Norway. Here they might let us stay—by locking me in the drunk tank and locking you up in the holding pen for prostitutes. Then tomorrow morning we might or might not be charged with vagrancy. I don’t know.”

“Is America really so evil?”

“I don’t know, dear—this isn’t my America. But I don’t want to find out the hard way. Sweetheart…if I
worked
for whatever they give us, could we spend a night with the Salvation Army without your feeling sinful about it?”

She considered it solemnly—Margrethe’s greatest lack was a total absence of sense of humor. Good nature—loads. A child’s delight in play, yes. Sense of humor? “Life is real and life is earnest—”

“Alec, if that can be arranged, I would not feel wrong in entering. I will work, too.”

“Not necessary, dear; it will be my profession that is involved. When they finish feeding the derelicts tonight, there will be a high stack of dirty dishes—and you are looking at the heavyweight champion dishwasher in all of Mexico and
los Estados Unidos.
”

So I washed dishes. I also helped spread out hymn-books and set up the evening services. And I borrowed a safety razor and a blade from Brother Eddie McCaw, the adjutant. I told him how we happened to be there—vacationing on the Mexican Riviera, sunbathing on the beach when the big one hit—all the string of lies I had prepared for the Immigration Service and hadn’t been able to use. “Lost it all. Cash, travelers checks, passports, clothes, ticket home, the works. But just the same, we were lucky. We’re alive.”

“The Lord had His arms around you. You tell me that you are born again?”

“Years back.”

“It will do our lost sheep good to rub shoulders with you. When it comes time for witnessing, will you tell them all about it? You’re the first eyewitness. Oh, we felt it here but it just rattled the dishes.”

“Glad to.”

“Good. Let me get you that razor.”

So I witnessed and gave them a truthful and horrendous description of the quake, but not as horrid as it really was—I never want to see another rat—or another dead baby—and I thanked the Lord publicly that Margrethe and I had not been hurt and found that it was the most sincere prayer I had said in years.

The Reverend Eddie asked that roomful of odorous outcasts to join him in a prayer of thanks that Brother and Sister Graham had been spared, and he made it a good rousing prayer that covered everything from Jonah to the hundredth sheep, and drew shouts of “
Amen!
” from around the room. One old wino came forward and said that he had at last seen God’s grace and God’s mercy and he was now ready to give his life to Christ.

Brother Eddie prayed over him, and invited others to come forward and two more did—a natural evangelist, he saw in our story a theme for his night’s sermon and used it, hanging it on Luke fifteen, ten, and Matthew six, nineteen. I don’t know that he had prepared from those two verses—probably not, as any preacher worth his salt can preach endlessly from either one of them. Either way, he could think on his feet and he made good use of our unplanned presence.

He was pleased with us, and I am sure that is why he told me, as we were cleaning up for the night, after the supper that followed the service, that while of course they didn’t have separate rooms for married couples—they didn’t often get married couples—still, it looked like Sister Graham would be the only one in the sisters’ dormitory tonight, so why didn’t I doss down
in
there instead of in the men’s dormitory? No double bed, just stacked bunks—sorry! But at least we could be in the same room.

I thanked him and we happily went to bed. Two people can share a very narrow bed if they really want to sleep together.

The next morning Margrethe cooked breakfast for the derelicts. She went into the kitchen and volunteered and soon was doing it all as the regular cook did not cook breakfast; it was the job of whoever had the duty. Breakfast did not require a graduate chef—oatmeal porridge, bread, margarine, little Valencia oranges (culls?), coffee. I left her there to wash dishes and to wait until I came back.

I went out and found a job.

I knew, from listening to wireless (called “radio” here) while washing dishes the night before, that there was unemployment in the United States, enough to be a political and social problem.

There is always work in the Southwest for agricultural labor but I had dodged that sort of work yesterday. I’m not too proud for that work; I had followed the harvest for several years from the time I was big enough to handle a pitchfork. But I could not take Margrethe into the fields.

I did not expect to find a job as a clergyman; I hadn’t even told Brother Eddie that I was ordained. There is always an unemployment problem for preachers. Oh, there are always empty pulpits, true—but ones in which a church mouse would starve.

But I had a second profession.

Dishwasher.

No matter how many people are out of work, there are always dishwashing jobs going begging. Yesterday, in walking from the border gate to the Salvation Army mission, I had noticed three restaurants with “Dishwasher Wanted” signs in their windows—noticed them because I had had plenty of time on the long ride from Mazatlán to admit to myself that I had no other salable skill.

No salable skill. I was not ordained in this world; I would not
be
ordained in this world as I could not show graduation from seminary or divinity school—or even the backing of a primitive sect that takes no mind of schools but depends on inspiration by the Holy Ghost.

I was certainly not an engineer.

I could not get a job teaching even those subjects I knew well because I no longer could show any formal preparation—I couldn’t even show that I had graduated from middle school!

In general I was no salesman. True, I had shown an unexpected talent for the complex skills that make up a professional money-raiser…but here I had no record, no reputation. I might someday do this again—but we needed cash
today.

What did that leave? I had looked at the help-wanted ads in a copy of the Nogales
Times
someone had left in the mission. I was not a tax accountant. I was not any sort of a mechanic. I did not know what a software designer was but I was not one, nor was I a “computer” anything. I was not a nurse or any sort of health care professional.

I could go on indefinitely listing the things I was not, and could not learn overnight. But that is pointless. What I could do, what would feed Margrethe and me while we sized up this new world and learned the angles, was what I had been forced to do as a
peón.

A competent and reliable dishwasher never starves. (He’s more likely to die of boredom.)

The first place did not smell good and its kitchen looked dirty; I did not linger. The second place was a major-chain hotel, with several people in the scullery. The boss looked me over and said, “This is a Chicano job; you wouldn’t be happy here.” I tried to argue; he shut me off.

But the third was okay, a restaurant only a little bigger than the Pancho Villa, with a clean kitchen and a manager no more than normally jaundiced.

He warned me, “This job pays minimum wage and there are no raises. One meal a day on the house. I catch you sneaking anything, even a toothpick, and out you go that instant—no second chance. You work the hours I set and I change ’em to suit me. Right now I need you for noon to four, six to ten, five days a week. Or you can work six days but no overtime scale for it. Overtime scale if I require you to work more than eight hours in one day, or more than forty-eight hours in one week.”

“Okay.”

“All right, let’s see your Social Security card.”

I handed him my green card.

He handed it back. “You expect me to pay you twelve dollars and a half an hour on the basis of a green card? You’re no Chicano. You trying to get me in trouble with the government? Where did you get that card?”

So I gave him the song and dance I had prepared for the Immigration Service. “Lost everything. I can’t even phone and tell somebody to send me money; I have to get home first before I can shake any assets loose.”

“You could get public assistance.”

“Mister, I’m too stinkin’ proud.” (I don’t know how and I can’t prove I’m me. Just don’t quiz me and let me wash dishes.)

“Glad to hear it. ‘Stinking proud,’ I mean. This country could use more like you. Go over to the Social Security office and get them to issue you a new one. They will, even if you can’t recall the number of your old one. Then come back here and go to work. Mmm—I’ll start you on payroll right now. But you must come back and put in a full day to collect.”

“More than fair. Where is the Social Security office?”

So I went to the Federal Building and told my lies over again, embroidering only as necessary. The serious young lady who issued the card insisted on giving me a lecture on Social Security and how it worked, a lecture she had apparently memorized. I’ll bet you she never had a “client” (that’s what she called me) who listened so carefully. It was all new to me.

I gave the name “Alec L. Graham.” This was not a conscious decision. I had been using that name for weeks, answered with it by reflex—then was not in a good position to say, “Sorry, Miss, my name is actually Hergensheimer.”

I started work. During my four-to-six break I went back to the mission—and learned that Margrethe had a job, too.

It was temporary, three weeks—but three weeks at just the right time. The mission cook had not had a vacation in over a year and wanted to go to Flagstaff to visit her daughter, who had just had a baby. So Margrethe had her job for the time being—and her bedroom, also for the time being.

So Brother and Sister Graham were in awfully good shape—for the time being.