Once he was back on the street, Ivan loosened his tie and let out a bitter sigh. "Just my luck to stumble upon a company full of bigots," he muttered, glancing back at the building where "Douglas Canned Food" was emblazoned above the door.
Douglas Canned Food, a small enterprise born during the war, hardly a threat to him. He doubted they'd have the resources or nerve to retaliate after his display. Still, Ivan felt the frustration burning within him. He'd applied to over a dozen companies that day, only to face rejection after rejection. Some excuses were plausible enough: lacking a local diploma or specific technical certifications. But he couldn't ignore the feeling that his identity as a immigrant was just as much a reason for their rejections.
Ivan took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead. His journey had only just begun, and he wasn't about to let prejudice and closed minds stand in his way.
After the war, a flood of retired soldiers poured into the job market, all eager to find work and settle into civilian life. Employers had no shortage of applicants, and many ex-soldiers were readily hired. Although the official stance of the United States toward the Slavic had softened during the conflict, deep-seated racial biases still simmered within society, unshaken by diplomacy or wartime camaraderie due to the European history.
Ivan had submitted his last resume for the day, feeling the reassuring weight of his wallet in his pocket. He had enough funds for now and decided there was no urgency, he could take his time. The stores were still open, and he figured he'd pick up a few essentials while he was out, leaving the rest for tomorrow.
He placed a hat on his head, opened a freshly purchased map, and charted his path toward a department store downtown.
As he wandered through the streets of San Francisco, Ivan couldn't help but compare it to the cityscape of Bridgewick, the place he once knew. If you ignored the towering skyscrapers looming above, San Francisco felt oddly similar to Bridgewick; just a little grander, a bit more polished. He mentally dubbed it "Bridgewick PLUS."
Yet, the familiar signs of hardship remained. Beggars lined the sidewalks, most of them disabled veterans from the war, each one a casualty of conflict now forgotten in the haste of peace. Passersby included the usual mix, blue-collar workers, white-collar professionals, and well-dressed managers hurrying from one task to the next.
But there were changes too. Jazz bands had taken to the street corners, adding a lively soundtrack to the city. One musician played a shiny brass saxophone, another sawed away on a violin, while several clarinetists joined in harmony. Behind them, a poster caught Ivan's eye. It proclaimed, "The greatest contribution of Black culture to the world!" Whether this was intended as praise or a backhanded compliment, Ivan couldn't tell. But the musicians and the crowd gathered around them didn't seem to care; they were lost in the music, tapping their feet, nodding their heads.
Suddenly, the shrill clang of a tram bell cut through the melody, startling the cars that had clogged the road. The tram was trying to inch through the congestion, but a jam at a nearby intersection had brought it to a halt.
Ivan checked his map and realized the tram's route would take him in the same direction he was headed. Feeling a bit adventurous, he decided to give it a try.
"Hey! Are you going to KGRO?" Ivan called out to the driver through the open window.
A voice from within the tram, feminine and lighthearted, called back, "Yeah, but don't expect a fast ride! Traffic's a mess."
"That's fine!" Ivan replied. "Mind if I hop on?"
With a hiss, the tram door slid open, as if inviting him aboard. Ivan grinned, tucked his map away, and climbed up the steps, hearing the doors shut firmly behind him.
The driver, a young woman around twenty with short hair and a casual demeanor, looked like she was plucked straight from a movie, someone like Matilda from *Léon: The Professional*, but with a slight smirk that hinted at mischief.
Ivan glanced around and realized, to his surprise, that the tram was empty. Not wanting to appear overly eager, he decided to stand near the driver rather than sitting in one of the vacant seats.
"Hey, are you a foreigner?" she asked, glancing at him with curiosity as the tram jolted forward slightly, then stopped again.
"Yeah. Russian," Ivan replied with a nod.
She raised an eyebrow. "Well, that's rare. How'd you end up in America?"
Ivan hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. "Let's just say I wasn't exactly planning on being here."
She laughed, her eyes twinkling with interest. "Kidnapped, were you?"
"Yeah," Ivan replied with a grin. "More or less."
"That's even rarer!" She seemed barely focused on the road, her attention fixed on him. "You know, I came here illegally myself."
"Oh yeah?" Ivan said, intrigued. He could tell she was about to launch into a story.
"When I was just ten years old," she began, a nostalgic look crossing her face, "I smuggled into the United States with my parents. We rode on the rudder of a ship, the *Miami Star*. It was huge, like a mountain of steel cutting through the waves. Behind us, the hull tilted forward, in front, an endless ocean, white waves crashing everywhere. We had to grip the rudder for dear life to keep from falling off."
Ivan's eyes widened. "That's insane."
"Oh, it was," she said, her voice carrying both pride and sorrow. "We were out there for ten days. All we had was a single bar of chocolate. When the chocolate ran out, we were so thirsty we started drinking seawater. Of course, the salt just made things worse."
"Then… how did you survive?" Ivan asked, genuinely captivated.
Her eyes sparkled. "Rain. Whenever it rained, water would trickle down the hull. We'd lick it off, savoring every drop. That's how we stayed alive."
Her voice softened as she added, "My parents… they couldn't hold on. They were sitting in a spot with an even sharper angle, and eventually, they just… lost their grip. Fell into the sea."
Ivan felt a pang in his chest. "So it was just you?"
"Just me," she said, offering a faint smile. "I guess I'm tougher than I look." She glanced over at him. "Name's Martha, by the way."
Ivan took a moment to process her story. It was remarkable and heartbreaking. "I'm Ivan," he said, meeting her gaze.
"Pleasure, Ivan," Martha replied, her grin returning as she focused back on the road.
As the tram continued its slow crawl through the congested city streets, Ivan found himself strangely at ease. The city, with all its towering buildings, bustling people, and complicated history, felt just a little more welcoming now.
The traffic jam ahead finally began to clear, revealing the cause, a minor collision between a carriage and a car. The car, now dented and scratched, had been pulled to the side, and a few policemen were milling around, gesturing animatedly as they sorted out the mess.
The tram jolted back to life, humming forward with a rhythmic clatter on the tracks.
Ivan watched the scene with a hint of sympathy, though he couldn't help but reflect on his own situation. Not too long ago, he was a student in university, waking up at 5:55 a.m. every morning, dedicating himself to his studies with relentless determination. All those early mornings and late nights had paid off when he was accepted into a good University. Three years of hard work, a near-perfect GPA; his future was promising.
And then, fate took a hard left turn, dropping him, bewildered and alone, into America. If he hadn't just finished his English exam, he'd barely be able to communicate here.
"But hey, at least you found a job," he said to Martha, offering her a half-smile, though he felt an ache in his chest. Job hunting was quickly becoming his obsession, a relentless goal gnawing at the back of his mind.
Martha grinned. "Yeah, I'm pretty satisfied with it."
"You… haven't found one yet?" She eyed him sympathetically.
Ivan let out a dramatic sigh. "Not even close. I must've visited about 114,514 companies today, and every last one of those capitalist pigs turned me away. Worst of all, I ran into this scumbag who practically threw my resume back in my face."
Martha nodded knowingly. "Yeah, I get it. I don't know why, but it's like they all have this immigrant despite themselves being one not to long ago. It's exhausting."
Ivan tilted his head, intrigued. "You mentioned you came here illegally. Where did you come from originally?"
"From Mexico," she replied with a slight smile.
Ivan thought for a moment, visualizing Toltec; a vibrant country south of the U.S., famous for its chili peppers, cacti, and, of course, the legendary Toltec burrito.
Ivan chuckled, "You know, it might actually be better to go for a public sector job. At least with the bigger companies, they can't openly discriminate without risking backlash."
Martha shrugged, grinning. "And here I am, driving this tram every day. Not too bad, huh?"
Something about the way she said it made Ivan pause. He glanced around the tram, noticing its emptiness, her earlier absent-minded demeanor, and the fact that she'd been so quick to let a stranger onboard without asking for a ticket.
A suspicion crept up his spine. "Wait… you're not actually an employee of the tram company, are you?"
She flashed a mischievous grin. "Oh, you've got me all wrong, brother."
To his shock, Martha released the tram joystick, reached behind her seat, and pulled on a riveted leather jacket. Right before his eyes, she transformed; from a casual tram driver to a woman on a mission. She shrugged on a black backpack, pulled a hood over her short hair, and revealed a small pistol tucked into her boot. With one swift motion, she pulled it out, reloading it with a click, morphing into something like a hardened outlaw.
"I robbed a bank."