Free Blue Collar Blues by Rosalyn McMillan Page B

things Detroit is famous for.”
    Tomiko could hear Herman snickering.
    “It’s not like I pictured it would be, R.C.,” Tomiko said, adjusting her antique Japanese jacket and stealing another glance out the window. She had looked forward to seeing Detroit as her new home, but the landscape she saw out the window did not feel welcoming.
    “Did you get in touch with your advertising person about using me in one of your dealership commercials?” She and R.C. had agreed that they would use a commercial about one of his dealerships featuring Tomiko to attract more work for her. That way, she’d better her chances for being accepted by one of the top modeling agencies.
    “Not yet.”
    “But why not? You know this is important to me. You promised.”
    “You don’t have a green card yet, Tomiko.”
    “I don’t understand. You promised me that you had already set up everything before leaving Japan. I married an American citizen—doesn’t that automatically get me a green card?”
    “No. This is real life. The green card isn’t even green anymore. It’s pink and it makes you a ‘resident alien,’ not a citizen. We’re going to have to be very careful with this, Tomiko. People get deported every day.”
    “I know. But we haven’t done anything illegal.”
    R.C. paused and then said, “Tomiko, do you remember the papers we signed before we left Japan?”
    “We signed a lot of papers.”
    “I know, but I’m talking about one in particular; the immigrant visa. Remember, we were in a hurry . . . well, I was in a hurry to get back home and I suggested that you come in as a tourist on a visa waiver. We filled out a form called an I-Ninety-four. That meant that you had to lie and tell them that you were just coming to the States for a visit and would not be residing here permanently.”
    “I don’t see why Americans make it so difficult for people to work here. They should be glad that I’m not applying for welfare.”
    She could hear R.C. chuckle. “It’s a long story, Tomiko. But as your employer, I can file an I-Nine form for your permanent residence card. I know all this sounds confusing, but you’ll have to trust me. I’ve got some smart people here working with me on this. Be patient. Everything will work itself out.”
    R.C. touched her chin with his fingers, pulling her face back toward him, then let them run across her lips. He kissed her. “Don’t let small things upset you. Detroit is a great city. Once you see the house, you’ll love it here. Especially the food. Are you hungry, honey? I’m starved.”
    “Can we stop by the market? I’d like to cook dinner tonight.”
    “Are you sure? I can have a steak and lobster dinner delivered by the time we get home.”
    Tomiko smiled. “Have you forgotten how much you loved for me to cook for you when we were in Japan?” The warm look in his eyes told her that he remembered, and remembered also what they had shared afterwards.
    Since she had left Japan, she hadn’t had an ounce of decent food. Sure, R.C. took her to the most exclusive Japanese restaurants, but it wasn’t the same. The food was high in presentation but low in taste.
    The one and only talent that Tomiko seemed to have inherited from her mother was cooking. Everything else she’d learned on her own.
    R.C. checked his watch. “Take the Fenkell exit, Herman. Make a left on Fenkell, take it three miles up to Evergreen. Make another right at Evergreen. Kisoji’s Market is on the west side of the street.”
    The glass-fronted market sparkled with bright lights. Beige laminated walls showed off the artfully displayed products. Once inside, Tomiko could smell the familiar scent of soybeans and sesame-flavored bean curd as well as the flavorful assortment of teas and exotic seasonings.
    Several other Japanese women shopped inside the market, and they greeted her warmly—more warmly, in fact, than her Japanese compatriots did in her home country.
    A small line was forming at the fish