Crash! The sound of breaking dishes as I walked by a restaurant brought memories of my first days in Australia flooding back.
No sooner had I, (along with every other Chinese student on the plane) deposited my luggage at the dormitory where we were billeted, than I was on the streets looking for a job.
Restaurants, especially Chinese restaurants, were our most important destination. In the heat of midsummer in Melbourne we pounded the pavements of the city, stopping at every one we came to.
"I am looking for a job. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"No, no job at all. You can leave your name and number and we'll call you if anything comes up."
Having done the city we got on a bus to the suburbs. "Where are you going?" the bus drivers would ask.
"Just up the road." In fact we didn't have a clue where we were going. Our destination was the next restaurant. Every time we saw one we would hit the stop button and jump off the bus.
"I am looking for a job. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Have you worked in a restaurant before?" the manager would sometimes ask.
"Yes, of course. My parents own a restaurant in China and I have done every job in the place: cook, waiter, kitchen-hand-you name it!"
All lies, of course, but we had learned to say "Yes" whenever we were asked about experience. "No" for an answer soon put an end to the conversation.
I was beginning to think I had been to every restaurant in the Southern hemisphere when at last I was given a job as a kitchen-hand at a Chinese restaurant: The Princess Court.
Getting a job in the first place was tough, but the job itself was even tougher. I had to wash dishes by hand fast and furiously, non-stop, for five hours. I hadn't done such hard work in my entire life. I was soaked through all the time and I couldn't tell whether it was from the dish water or my own perspiration.
My first day, I kept watching the clock, praying that the hands would move faster. Finally, my five hours were up and it was time for me to go home. But the wretched manager wanted more. He asked me to carry all the clean dishes to a shelf by the stove. Although every muscle in my back was groaning, I didn't dare complain. It had taken me too long to find a job and I didn't want to risk losing it on the first day.
But I was so tired and weak, that half way across the kitchen, the first load slipped out of my hands and crashed onto the concrete floor. I helplessly watched the dishes crash to the ground and had no energy to save them at all.
I expected a torrent of abuse and then the sack. But the manager seemed very calm. Instead of abusing me he said, "Clear the mess and then go home."
"What about the rest of the dishes?"
"Don't worry about them. I'll move them. See you tomorrow."
He realized that I was too tired to do anything. From that time, I learned that whenever I was asked to do overtime, I would drop one dish to the floor and the crash could warn the manager that I was tired.
Crashes can help me.
p.43
In the early days, washing dishes in a restaurant was a frequent experience for those living abroad.
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