The Picture of Nobody Read Free

born in Canada.”
    All my life, I had felt that both of my parents were pushing a burden onto my back. As if I was supposed to fulfil my father’s dream in some way. It was really unfair. Why me?
    Why me? Well, as I grew older, I slowly began to understand this burden. I also got a better grasp of Dad’s Uganda stories. He and his brothers had worked in their father’s store every evening after school. For sure, working instead of studying had blocked his ambition. That was why he had never asked me to get an after-school job, even though I was seventeen years old. He was determined that nothing would stand between me and my education.
    Maybe that had been a good plan, but now Dad’s factory was possibly going to lay him off. He needed my help.
    Each day, on my way home from the library, I studied the strip mall. There was a bus terminal, with a long line of GO buses going west to Toronto and east to Oshawa. Behind the buses were a dollar store, a bakery, a drugstore, and a video store. I was sure none of these stores would hire me, because I had no work experience. However, there was also a sort of run-down coffee shop named Sip and Sup. Two picnic tables sat outside. Maybe the owner wanted to create a sidewalk café. But the young men who sat there just smoked and gazed at the schoolgirls crossing the parking lot.
    One day, I walked into Sip and Sup. There were a couple of old people sipping and supping. They were also slurping. I couldn’t stand that sound. Maybe the owner should have named it Sip and Slurp.
    I was about to walk out when a small Chinese man behind the counter yelled at me: “What you want? Yes?”
    Was he used to shouting at the old people, who couldn’t hear properly? He surprised me so much that I blurted out, “I’m looking for a job.”
    “Busy today. Come back tomorrow and I tell you. Hah!” He laughed in one sharp explosion.
    I looked at all the empty tables, and on my way home I was sure he had meant: Bugger off. Come back tomorrow and I kill you. Nya ha ha.
    But I returned. He asked his questions as he moved from table to table, wiping each one with a wet rag. I followed him as I answered. No, I had no experience. Yes, I was in high school. No, I hadn’t taken any cooking courses. Yes, I could think ahead. He asked nothing about cleaning. Yet that was the job he offered me at the end of the interview. “One hour only. Every day. Six-fifty. You take?”
    I nodded.
    “You begin next month. First day.”
    Getting the job was easy enough, but convincing my father was another matter. Even after I explained that I would go to work only after spending an hour at the library. He asked so many questions. What kind of place would hire someone with no experience? How wouldI work and study at the same time? What did I know of cleaning tables? How could he explain the job to all his relatives in all those other countries? He would have to say that his son was becoming a janitor.
    In the end, it was Mom who convinced him. All she said was, “Aggy, this is not Uganda.” Such a simple statement! I never realized Mom was so powerful.
    I couldn’t wait for the beginning of March. On the first day of the month, I went to Sip and Sup right after my library research. The owner was reading a newspaper. Without looking at me, he said, “Mop and pail stay on this side and apron on that side.” He pointed to the left of the counter and then to the right. I waited for him to explain some more. After a minute or so, he lowered his newspaper and added, “You still here?”
    “Shouldn’t I clean the tables?”
    “Clean table in dirty room like pretty woman with no upstairs. Hah!” He brought up his newspaper so it hid his face. His tiny cackle and shaking hands made me think he had made some sort of joke.
    I put on the green apron and hauled the pail to one end of the place. It took me close to an hour to mop the floor and another twenty minutes to clean the tables. Throughout, I noticed the Chinese man