An Immigrant Story

I originally posted this on my old website in November 2002.

I wrote this untitled short story in 1998 for English in my Junior year of high-school.  It is quite possibly the best fiction work I ever wrote for a class.

An Immigrant Story
by Robert West

As the Caronia steamed into New York Harbor, I could see the glorious new land in which I would soon live.  The shimmering buildings seemed to reach to the heavens.  They appeared to be so near that I could reach out and touch them.

As a young man from rural England of only twenty-two years of age, I was quite impressed by all this.  I leaned out over the railing as if I would have a better view of my new home.  The wind blew against my face and through my sandy-colored hair, providing a feeling of exhilaration and freedom.

"I am in America!" I cried out in excitement.

"You're not in America yet.  You still have to get off the ship; first class and second class go before you," one of the ship's officers informed me.

I was too excited to have my enthusiasm brought down by that statement.  Nothing short of the ship steaming away with me still on it could have put a damper on my spirits.

I eagerly watched the men tie up the ship and I gaped in awe as the first-class passengers walked down the gangplank.  It didn't seem that they could be more perfect.  The men wore freshly pressed suits with shoes so shiny a person could see their own reflection in them.  The ladies wore long, elaborate dresses, excessively large hats, and jewels that shimmered like the surface of a sunlit pond.  I could not have wished for anything more than to be like those people.  They had everything, a direct contrast to my meager number of possessions, all of which fit into a single leather suitcase.

As the last of the first-class passengers left the ship, a crew member announced that we would be disembarking shortly.  We would have to show our immigration papers and prove that we could support ourselves in America, but I would have no difficulty with that.  I had my immigration papers and some English pounds to change to American dollars; however, not everyone was as prepared as I was.

My new friend Marco approached me. His dark hair hung in front of his eyes, partially obscuring a troubled expression.  I met Marco just after our voyage began, and it seemed to me that we had gotten to know each other quite well.  Marco was from Italy, but he spoke some English. He had said that he was traveling to America to make a new home for his family, who were still in Italy.  Marco hadn't realized that he would need money to get into America.  He asked me if he could borrow some money to use as proof that he could support himself.

While I considered this, I found myself rubbing my clean-shaven chin.  This had been the first morning I had shaved since I left home.  I hoped it would make a good impression on the Americans.

Marco repeated his plea for money, claiming that if I didn't help him he would be sent back to Italy where his family was living in poverty.  Reluctantly, I handed over half my English pounds to Marco.  I picked up my suitcase, and we joined the crowd of people waiting to get off the ship.  This mass of people was incredibly diverse.  It seemed like someone could find a person from anywhere in the world waiting to start a new life in the wonderful place called America.

After what seemed like hours, I was finally within a few steps of my own new life.  There was only one obstacle left: the immigration officer.  The officer asked me a few questions about my immigration papers, and when I showed him my English pounds he eyed them skeptically, but he waved me through.

Marco's situation was different.  He had immigration papers and at first the officer saw nothing wrong with them.  When Marco showed him the pounds, however, he looked back at the papers to search for a discrepancy.  I felt rather foolish having to stand around when I was able to leave the ship, but I wanted to stay near Marco to be sure I could get my money back.

The officer eventually gave up and allowed Marco to go through.  As we walked down the gangplank, I took my first breaths as an American.  It was exhilarating.  Never before had I felt so free.  Once I was on the dock, I turned around to ask Marco how it felt to be in America for the first time.  Marco was nowhere to be seen.  At that moment, I realized I would never see Marco or my money again.

I knew that having half my money stolen was not a good way to start my first day in America.  I decided I would have to find a job as soon as possible, so I walked into town.  I started going into businesses and asking if they had any jobs available.

The first business I entered was a restaurant.  I assumed that restaurants would certainly need additional employees to feed all the people coming to America.  I asked a waiter if his restaurant had any jobs available.  The waiter told me to wait while he fetched the owner.  I waited.

The owner was a well built, middle-aged man with dark hair and a mustache.  I explained to him that I was looking for a job and wanted to know if he had any available.

"Do you know how to cook well enough for a restaurant?" he asked.

"No, sir," I replied honestly, "but I do know how to wait tables and wash dishes."

"You look too fresh off the boat to be a waiter," he said, "and I already have enough dishwashers.  Sorry."

He hadn't sounded very apologetic.  At first I thought he was rather rude.  Later, I decided he must have just been frustrated that I wasn't a cook.

The next business I tried was a shop.  I made my inquiry to a short, older man sitting at the counter, whom I took to be the owner.

"Let me see a sample of your handwriting," he said, handing me a pen and a piece of paper.  After I wrote a few words on the paper, I handed it back to him with the pen.  He looked briefly at the paper, then put it and the pen away.

"I'm afraid I need better handwriting than that," he said.  "Sorry, kid."

I was thinking about all the times I had been praised for having such good handwriting as I turned to leave and respectfully informed him, "I am not a kid; I'm twenty-two years old."

The rest of the day was not any more productive.  I didn't find a job, and since I didn't want to spend what money I had left until I did find a job, I decided to spend the night in the park.  I stretched out on a park bench using my suitcase as a pillow and closed my eyes.

I was just beginning to let sleep claim me when I was roughly disturbed by a police officer who informed me that I could not sleep in the park.  When I told him I had just arrived that morning and had nowhere to stay, he said he would have to take me to the police station.

I was thinking about how bad my first day in America was turning out to be when an older man of about medium height came and led the policeman off.  They had a short conversation and the man gave the officer some money.  The officer left and the man came toward me.

"Come with me.  You can spend the night at my house," he said.

I picked up my suitcase and walked with him.  He asked me how long I had been in America and I told him that it was my first day.  He then offered me a job in his store.  I graciously accepted, then I asked him why he was doing so much for me.

He told me that when he was my age, he had immigrated to America with his wife.  They started a small clothing store in town that grew over the years.  His wife had died a month earlier and the store was too big for him to run by himself.  When he saw me he figured I was a good person having some bad luck.  He decided to help me, in hopes that I would work for him.

I worked for him for many years, and watched the store grow.  Over the years, he became like a father to me.  He taught me every detail about his business, and when he died, years later, I took it over.  After many years, the store has grown into a national chain.  Now my suits are always freshly pressed and my shoes are like mirrors.  If only there were still steamships crossing the Atlantic, I'd be sailing first-class.

© Robert D. West: 1998, 2003.