The color of collar
“Roma, tell me about New York. I haven’t been here in years. What’s it like now? What is it like for you?”
Prolonged silences make me uncomfortable. This topic is as good for small talk as any, but nothing is “small talk” for Roma. He is too darn serious to take anything lightly. He has to give substantial answers. He has to think. I am about to change the topic when he suddenly speaks.
“Do you remember the ‘International Panorama’ reports from South Bronx?”
Do I ever. “International Panorama”, one of the favorite propaganda vehicles in the Soviet Union, a program we watched to see how miserable life was in the capitalist countries.
“Of course I remember. Burning tires, broken glass, drug dealers staggering along the streets…Obviously, they never showed us the 5th Avenue or the Rockefeller Center.”
“Exactly. Those programs looked like reports from a war zone, from some city under siege.”
“Why did you start talking about South Bronx all of a sudden?”
“I worked there for a local cable company, it was my first job in the United States, about fifteen years ago. I answered an ad in a newspaper, walked into their office, and the first thing I heard was this huge black guy saying, ‘Yo, I haven’t seen a white man in three years!’ Can you imagine?”
“No, I can’t. Why couldn’t he take the subway to another neighborhood?”
“He could, of course, but why bother? They live in their own world there. I was the only white guy in the group; there were a couple of Puerto Ricans, a few Mexicans, several guys from other Latin American countries, and the rest were black, many of them immigrants from Africa. The guys started asking me right away about my nationality, so I told them I was Russian. They were quite happy to hear it for some reason. ‘This guy over there is from Puerto Rico, that one - from Brazil, I am from Uruguay, and these two are from Cote d’Ivoire. And you are from Russia. Now, that’s New York!’”
“Did you like working there?”
“Loved it. We all covered each other’s backs. Once, I screwed up some piece of equipment and had to repair it. A couple of our guys came over and asked what the matter was. I told them that I messed up the cords somehow, joined the wrong wires, and now needed to fix it. ‘It’s my problem,’ I said, ‘Don’t you worry.’ You should have seen the looks they gave me! ‘If you have a problem, we have a problem.’ Together, we fixed it in a couple of hours. It would have taken me the whole day, probably.
“Then another time, I bought a 27-inch TV on sale, barely managed to take it out of the car and was just about to carry it, God only knows how, to my apartment on the fourth floor. Suddenly, I feel that the TV in my hands is suspiciously light. I turn and see these two huge black guys pick it up from my hands on both sides. I was just about to say good-bye to my new TV, when I recognized them: they were from our company. It took me a minute because I just haven’t learned to tell blacks apart back then; they all looked the same to me, probably because there were no blacks in Russia. Anyway, they were driving by, saw me struggling with this large TV set, stopped the car and got out to help. They brought the TV up to my apartment, put it down and left, acknowledging my profound thanks with barely a nod. That’s the kind of people our company had. I could go to the worst, most dangerous neighborhoods with them, and I was never afraid. Never.”
“What happened afterwards?”
“What happened… nothing happened. I got married, needed to support the family, and seven bucks an hour just didn’t cut it. So, I went to school, studied computer programming, then found a job at a major bank, and now I am making the kind of money I couldn’t even dream about back then. I went from blue collar to white collar - I guess that’s the happy end.”
“Well, isn’t it?”
“In a way… it’s just that the people… I sit between Peter and Mike. When Mike steps out, Peter starts badmouthing him; as soon as Mike comes back and Peter leaves, I hear all sorts of garbage about Peter. I suppose it’s all a part of the corporate culture, I don’t know.”
“I can’t say it happens with everyone everywhere, but I’ve heard so many stories about people scheming against each other at these corporations that I suppose it is rather commonplace indeed. If intrigues are not up your valley, you may never make it to the top, Roma.”
“Oh, you know what happened a couple of years back? I have to tell you this one! I was standing in front of my bank, at the center of Manhattan, during the lunch hour, chatting with a couple of guys. We are all cleanly shaven, wearing suits, ties, expensive shoes, smelling of good cologne - you get the picture. The pride of the nation. There is a bunch of construction workers passing us on the street - all blacks or Latinos, in dirty overalls, in hard hats, with a heavy layer of dust on their hands and faces. All of a sudden one of them turns, leaves the group and rushes toward me. ‘Roma!’ he is shouting, ‘Roma!’ And I recognize him immediately - he is the guy from Puerto Rico I used to partner with when I had to install cable in the worst neighborhoods, the guy I could go anywhere with, without fear. I would go to the North Pole or a military mission behind the enemy lines with him, without even thinking twice. So, I run toward him, we hug, we pat each others backs, we laugh, we almost cry, we inquire about families and kids, we exchange the phone numbers… And while he is writing the number down I lift my head to look around, and that’s when I notice the STARES. It’s not just my buddies from the bank - half of the street came to a stop. Here is a white guy in an expensive suit and tie, hugging a dirty (literally) Latino in a hard hat. A collision of the worlds. You would think they’ve never seen anything like that in their lives, that’s how they stared. Even later, after we said good-bye and I explained everything to my co-workers, they kept averting their eyes. Do you understand? These office rats I am afraid to turn my back to because they’ll stab you and twist the knife, these clean-licked sons of bitches turn their noses because I am friends with the guy who led me out of the scariest neighborhoods, who stood like a wall behind me, whom I can call at any time, day or night, and he will come… They are too darn disdainful. Ah, never mind. It’s just that you asked about my New York, and that’s it. “
“You know, Roma, that is New York. Your bank sharks, those drug addicts in the Bronx, the guys in hard hats that would drop everything and come to your aid… This city is all of that and then some.”
“I understand that. But the city I got to know first was more to my liking, You may not believe it, but if they paid as much there as they do here, I would give up my job at that damn bank and go back to my guys in the Bronx. That’s the ‘International Panorama’ for you.”
Prolonged silences make me uncomfortable. This topic is as good for small talk as any, but nothing is “small talk” for Roma. He is too darn serious to take anything lightly. He has to give substantial answers. He has to think. I am about to change the topic when he suddenly speaks.
“Do you remember the ‘International Panorama’ reports from South Bronx?”
Do I ever. “International Panorama”, one of the favorite propaganda vehicles in the Soviet Union, a program we watched to see how miserable life was in the capitalist countries.
“Of course I remember. Burning tires, broken glass, drug dealers staggering along the streets…Obviously, they never showed us the 5th Avenue or the Rockefeller Center.”
“Exactly. Those programs looked like reports from a war zone, from some city under siege.”
“Why did you start talking about South Bronx all of a sudden?”
“I worked there for a local cable company, it was my first job in the United States, about fifteen years ago. I answered an ad in a newspaper, walked into their office, and the first thing I heard was this huge black guy saying, ‘Yo, I haven’t seen a white man in three years!’ Can you imagine?”
“No, I can’t. Why couldn’t he take the subway to another neighborhood?”
“He could, of course, but why bother? They live in their own world there. I was the only white guy in the group; there were a couple of Puerto Ricans, a few Mexicans, several guys from other Latin American countries, and the rest were black, many of them immigrants from Africa. The guys started asking me right away about my nationality, so I told them I was Russian. They were quite happy to hear it for some reason. ‘This guy over there is from Puerto Rico, that one - from Brazil, I am from Uruguay, and these two are from Cote d’Ivoire. And you are from Russia. Now, that’s New York!’”
“Did you like working there?”
“Loved it. We all covered each other’s backs. Once, I screwed up some piece of equipment and had to repair it. A couple of our guys came over and asked what the matter was. I told them that I messed up the cords somehow, joined the wrong wires, and now needed to fix it. ‘It’s my problem,’ I said, ‘Don’t you worry.’ You should have seen the looks they gave me! ‘If you have a problem, we have a problem.’ Together, we fixed it in a couple of hours. It would have taken me the whole day, probably.
“Then another time, I bought a 27-inch TV on sale, barely managed to take it out of the car and was just about to carry it, God only knows how, to my apartment on the fourth floor. Suddenly, I feel that the TV in my hands is suspiciously light. I turn and see these two huge black guys pick it up from my hands on both sides. I was just about to say good-bye to my new TV, when I recognized them: they were from our company. It took me a minute because I just haven’t learned to tell blacks apart back then; they all looked the same to me, probably because there were no blacks in Russia. Anyway, they were driving by, saw me struggling with this large TV set, stopped the car and got out to help. They brought the TV up to my apartment, put it down and left, acknowledging my profound thanks with barely a nod. That’s the kind of people our company had. I could go to the worst, most dangerous neighborhoods with them, and I was never afraid. Never.”
“What happened afterwards?”
“What happened… nothing happened. I got married, needed to support the family, and seven bucks an hour just didn’t cut it. So, I went to school, studied computer programming, then found a job at a major bank, and now I am making the kind of money I couldn’t even dream about back then. I went from blue collar to white collar - I guess that’s the happy end.”
“Well, isn’t it?”
“In a way… it’s just that the people… I sit between Peter and Mike. When Mike steps out, Peter starts badmouthing him; as soon as Mike comes back and Peter leaves, I hear all sorts of garbage about Peter. I suppose it’s all a part of the corporate culture, I don’t know.”
“I can’t say it happens with everyone everywhere, but I’ve heard so many stories about people scheming against each other at these corporations that I suppose it is rather commonplace indeed. If intrigues are not up your valley, you may never make it to the top, Roma.”
“Oh, you know what happened a couple of years back? I have to tell you this one! I was standing in front of my bank, at the center of Manhattan, during the lunch hour, chatting with a couple of guys. We are all cleanly shaven, wearing suits, ties, expensive shoes, smelling of good cologne - you get the picture. The pride of the nation. There is a bunch of construction workers passing us on the street - all blacks or Latinos, in dirty overalls, in hard hats, with a heavy layer of dust on their hands and faces. All of a sudden one of them turns, leaves the group and rushes toward me. ‘Roma!’ he is shouting, ‘Roma!’ And I recognize him immediately - he is the guy from Puerto Rico I used to partner with when I had to install cable in the worst neighborhoods, the guy I could go anywhere with, without fear. I would go to the North Pole or a military mission behind the enemy lines with him, without even thinking twice. So, I run toward him, we hug, we pat each others backs, we laugh, we almost cry, we inquire about families and kids, we exchange the phone numbers… And while he is writing the number down I lift my head to look around, and that’s when I notice the STARES. It’s not just my buddies from the bank - half of the street came to a stop. Here is a white guy in an expensive suit and tie, hugging a dirty (literally) Latino in a hard hat. A collision of the worlds. You would think they’ve never seen anything like that in their lives, that’s how they stared. Even later, after we said good-bye and I explained everything to my co-workers, they kept averting their eyes. Do you understand? These office rats I am afraid to turn my back to because they’ll stab you and twist the knife, these clean-licked sons of bitches turn their noses because I am friends with the guy who led me out of the scariest neighborhoods, who stood like a wall behind me, whom I can call at any time, day or night, and he will come… They are too darn disdainful. Ah, never mind. It’s just that you asked about my New York, and that’s it. “
“You know, Roma, that is New York. Your bank sharks, those drug addicts in the Bronx, the guys in hard hats that would drop everything and come to your aid… This city is all of that and then some.”
“I understand that. But the city I got to know first was more to my liking, You may not believe it, but if they paid as much there as they do here, I would give up my job at that damn bank and go back to my guys in the Bronx. That’s the ‘International Panorama’ for you.”