Working 12-Hour Shifts in New York, I Thought I Was Lazy — Until Another Immigrant Told Me the Truth

Friday nights were the hardest.

By 6 p.m., the restaurant was full. Every table occupied. Every chair pulled close. Every surface alive with movement.

Orders were shouted in Mandarin, Cantonese, and broken English.

“Table six! Beef and broccoli!”

“Two wonton soups!”

“Fried rice, no shrimp!”

The air was thick with heat and noise. Oil popped violently in the wok. Metal struck metal. The exhaust fan roared like an old engine struggling to stay alive.

I moved quickly, carrying plates from the kitchen to the dining room, careful not to spill anything.

My shirt stuck to my back.

My legs felt heavy.

But there was no slowing down.

Slowing down meant falling behind.

And falling behind meant becoming replaceable.

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The Customer Who Didn’t See Me as Human

Around 7:30 p.m., a man in his forties sat alone at table twelve.

He wore a clean button-down shirt and a watch that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

When I brought him water, he didn’t look at me.

He spoke while looking at his phone.

“I want General Tso’s chicken. Extra crispy.”

His voice was flat. Mechanical.

I nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

Ten minutes later, I placed the plate in front of him.

He took one bite.

Then another.

Then he stopped.

He raised his hand without looking at me.

I walked over.

“Yes, sir?”

He pushed the plate slightly toward me.

“This isn’t crispy.”

His tone wasn’t angry.

It was worse.

It was dismissive.

I froze.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can—”

He interrupted me.

“Do you understand English?”

The words hit harder than shouting would have.

“I do,” I said quietly.

He leaned back in his chair.

“Then listen. I said extra crispy.”

The restaurant was loud, but in that moment, everything felt quiet.

I picked up the plate.

“I’ll fix it.”

He didn’t thank me.

He didn’t acknowledge me.

I wasn’t a person to him.

I was a function.

A pair of hands.

The Kitchen Didn’t Care Either

When I brought the plate back into the kitchen, Mr. Chen looked at me.

“What happened?”

“He said it wasn’t crispy.”

Mr. Chen frowned.

“It is crispy.”

“He wants it more crispy.”

Mr. Chen stared at the plate.

Then at me.

Then he said something that stayed with me.

“Americans don’t know what crispy is.”

He took the plate, threw the chicken back into the wok, and reheated it.

Oil splashed.

Flames rose briefly.

He handed it back to me.

“Take it.”

I nodded.

But before I could turn away, he added:

“And move faster. We’re busy.”

There was no comfort.

No sympathy.

Just instruction.

The system didn’t stop because you felt small.

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The Moment I Felt Completely Invisible

When I returned the plate, the man took another bite.

He didn’t look at me.

He didn’t say thank you.

He didn’t say anything.

I stood there for half a second, waiting.

Nothing came.

So I walked away.

Back into the noise.

Back into the heat.

Back into invisibility.

In that moment, I understood something.

Hard work didn’t guarantee dignity.

It only guaranteed survival.

Later That Night, Something Worse Happened

Around 10:45 p.m., near closing time, my legs were trembling from exhaustion.

I hadn’t sat down in over ten hours.

My back ached constantly now. Not sharply. Just a dull, permanent pressure.

Mr. Chen called my name.

I walked over.

“Yes?”

He looked at the floor.

“You dropped speed.”

I didn’t understand.

“I’m trying.”

He shook his head.

“Trying isn’t enough.”

He didn’t say it cruelly.

He said it like math.

Objective.

Unavoidable.

“You must move faster,” he continued.

“There are many people who can do this job.”

He wasn’t threatening me.

He was reminding me.

In New York, replacement was always one step away.

________________________________________

That Night, I Walked Home Instead of Taking the Subway

It was almost midnight.

The streets were cold and mostly empty.

Neon lights reflected on wet pavement.

My body hurt.

My mind replayed everything.

The customer’s voice.

“Do you understand English?”

Mr. Chen’s voice.

“There are many people who can do this job.”

I walked past strangers who didn’t see me.

Didn’t know me.

Didn’t care about me.

New York wasn’t cruel.

It was indifferent.

And indifference is heavier than cruelty.

Cruelty at least acknowledges your existence.

Indifference erases it.

________________________________________I Looked at My Reflection and Didn’t Recognize Myself

When I finally reached my apartment, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror.

The light was harsh.

Unforgiving.

My face looked older.

Heavier.

Tired.

Not just physically.

Existentially.

I asked myself a question I had never asked before.

Is this who I am now?

Not who I was.

Not who I wanted to be.

Who I was becoming.

That question stayed with me.

________________________________________

The Next Day, Mr. Chen Said Something That Changed Everything

It was a slow afternoon.

He sat on his usual stool, drinking tea.

Without looking at me, he said:

“You know why immigrants gain weight?”

I didn’t answer.

He continued.

“Because their life becomes smaller.”

He gestured around the restaurant.

“Work.”

Then downward.

“Sleep.”

Then toward the door.

“Repeat.”

He looked at me.

“No space for yourself.”

I stood there, silent.

He wasn’t criticizing me.

He was describing himself.

________________________________________

That Was the Moment I Understood the Truth

The weight wasn’t caused by laziness.

It was caused by disappearance.

Disappearance of time.

Disappearance of energy.

Disappearance of identity.

I hadn’t gained weight because I was weak.

I had gained weight because I had stopped existing outside survival.

Once I understood that, something inside me shifted.

Not dramatically.

But permanently.

________________________________________

That Night, I Made a Different Choice

After work, I didn’t go straight home.

I walked.

No destination.

No urgency.

Just movement.

For the first time in months, I wasn’t moving for someone else.

I was moving for myself.

The city looked different.

Or maybe I did.

________________________________________

What I Learned That Night

New York doesn’t care about your comfort.

It doesn’t care about your past.

It doesn’t care about your struggle.

But it gives you something else.

A mirror.

It shows you exactly who you are becoming.

And one night, standing under a flickering streetlight, exhausted and invisible, I realized something simple and terrifying.

If I didn’t change my life, no one else would.

Not my boss.

Not the customers.

Not the city.

Only me.