In the meantime, I enjoyed getting to know the students at their house parties, and I learned to like their music. The students mimicked James Brown’s quick feet as they danced to “I Feel Good.” We listened to the silky voices of the big-haired Supremes in “Baby Love” and “Where Did Our Love Go.” We swayed to Aretha Franklin’s soulful, hair-raising voice. Their parties relaxed me and lifted the pressure I felt from my classes and lack of money.
In the meantime, even though I did not need the class for my degree, Dr. Cheema persuaded me to take his freshman chemistry course which took place every Saturday at 8:00 a.m. Functioning on only three and a half hours of sleep, since I came home from my new job at Andy’s restaurant at 3:30 a.m., I figured I could sit back and relax. On the first day of class, I thought to myself, This will be simple. Dr. Cheema knows me well and will give me a good grade to help improve my grade point average. Dr. Cheema had assigned pages for us to read, but my chemistry book sat untouched on my desk all week. That is fine, I thought. Dr. Cheema and I are close, so he will take it easy on me.
As soon as class started, Dr. Cheema asked a question about the reading assignment. Without skipping a beat, he turned to me and said, “Mr. Bedi, please explain this to us.” He gave me an encouraging smile. Why was he asking me? Out of the whole class, he chose me to answer the question. My mouth dropped open as I stared at him in shock. What did I ever do to him? I invited him and his wife to my apartment for Christmas. I cooked a nice meal and showed them respect. What about the times I massaged his headaches away? And on top of all that, his wife was my cousin. Did that mean nothing to him?
Dr. Cheema’s question flew right over my head. Feeling betrayed, I could only say, “I don’t know.”
As the weeks passed, I learned Dr. Cheema’s idea of helping me was different than I expected. I thought he would breeze me through the course. Instead, he always asked me the questions, showing he did not expect any less from me than he expected from everyone else. At the time, I did not see it that way. I just thought he had it in for me.
With work and my other classes, I felt I did not have time to read the assignments. Chemistry was supposed to be an easy A. Billo was the director of Public Relations at Knoxville College, so one day I went to her office and told her that her husband was giving me a hard time in his class. I became so emotional that I cried, while she listened intently and tried to console me. “I will talk to him,” she promised. “Continue going to your classes.”
To my dismay, Dr. Cheema only persisted. Knowing I worked Friday nights and was not prepared, he still asked me questions I could not answer. Enough was enough. I dropped the class, later learning from other chemistry students that Dr. Cheema was astonished to discover I had dropped it.
Chapter 5
At the end of spring semester, the Dean of Student Affairs told me about Wildwood, a summer resort town on the coast of New Jersey. “There’s a group of students going there on a bus,” he said. “It should be easy to find a job at a hotel or restaurant.”
In need of a job, I packed a suitcase, and wearing my baggy suit, I boarded the bus. We switched buses in Philadelphia and arrived in Wildwood late in the evening at a house that served as an employment agency office as arranged by the college employment office. The owner of the employment agency, a black woman in her sixties, welcomed us into her home, showed us to our rooms, and told us she would explain the job situation in the morning.
The next day, we sat on the floor, while the woman informed us there was only one job opening, a short-order breakfast cook position.
“Does anybody know how to cook?” she asked.
After she asked twice, and still no one said anything, I hesitantly raised my hand. I had never cooked for a restaurant, but how hard could it be? I’d worked at McDonald’s, where they served breakfast, and Andy’s restaurant served scrambled eggs, fried eggs, and omelets. I felt confident that I could make the food on my own.
“Do you know how to cook?” the woman asked. She looked doubtful.
“Yes,” I said in a firm voice.
“Okay. Where have you cooked?”
“McDonald’s,” I answered. Several students chuckled.
“Okay, you’ve got an interview at the Dorsey Hotel at eleven o’clock. I’ll call the owner, Mrs. Whitesell, and tell her I’m sending you over.” She scrawled the address on a slip of paper. “It is already 10:30, so you need to head there right away.”
The day was warm with clouds overhead and a cool breeze carried the scent of ocean waves. As I walked, drops of rain fell, turning into a thick downpour and soaking my suit and hair in no time. A few minutes later, I approached the Dorsey Hotel, a four-story white house. After climbing the steps and knocking on the door, a tall, casually-dressed man let me inside.
“My name is Kris Bedi, and the agency has sent me for the short-order cooking job,” I said.
The man
