Thirty-three years later

Punita outside Modern Cleaners in Texas, thirty-three years after her first job there

Last week I caught myself regretting something.

When I was younger I had the chance to work with my uncle, and I didn't understand what that was. I didn't know enough to watch closely, or ask better questions.

Then I thought — why am I regretting it like the chance is gone?

He's still here.

So I bought a ticket to Texas.

I also had a hard question for him. Can Backyard Buffalo scale? Regionally — what would it take, and can we afford it? He's the person I'd trust with that. He's 78 and he's run a dry cleaners for four decades.

It was also my first job in this country. I was seventeen, it's where I started learning English, and I worked there through college.

That was thirty-three years ago.

Punita outside Modern Cleaners in Texas — Some new machines but not much has changed in 33 years at Modern Cleaners.

I walked back in and it was the same. More machines, newer ones. But Mary was still checking in clothes at the front counter.

He still greeted most of the customers himself. He knew everyone's names. He used to remember what they'd brought in, too.

He knew every machine in that place and how to fix it when it broke. One afternoon I watched him go up a ladder in a Hawaiian shirt to fix the washer.

My uncle up a ladder in a Hawaiian shirt, working on a washing machine — He said every machine is fixable if you understand how it works.

He'd recently bought out all the other dry cleaners in town.

One afternoon he walked me into two food businesses to introduce me to the owners. They didn't know me. They knew him. That was enough.

My uncle walking ahead of me into a local catering business — Running in to introduce me to a wonderful local business.

We did talk about scaling. The answer, for now, is not yet. Not at this size, not with what it would cost. I flew home with that.

But here's what I keep thinking about.

There's a chair he sits in at the shop. The leather is worn through and the foam is showing. He knows. He sits in it anyway.

He knew the rhythm of that place. He made the same predictable joke about Pam's cooking — Pam doesn't cook — and everyone including Pam laughed like it was the first time. She adores him.

And he built all of it without ever leaving his town.

On my last day I sat across from him and got teary.

Four decades of his own work around him. People who'd stood beside him for most of it. And not one restless bone in him.

I followed him around all week. Watched. Asked questions. Listened.

All the things I didn't know to do at seventeen.

Hugging my uncle goodbye in his kitchen — Babulmama — my second uncle.

Punita

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