The Man by the Home Depot

It was one of those days when nothing seemed to go as planned. I drove to Home Depot, hoping to find someone to help with some cleaning around my place. I’d had luck before finding workers there, but this time, things felt different. I found myself frustrated after talking to a couple of guys—both Spanish speakers. The language barrier made communication challenging, and they asked for more than I had in mind for the job. It didn’t sit right with me. I walked away feeling a bit less confident about the whole thing.

I started heading back to my car, shaking my head in frustration. It wasn’t my day. Maybe I was overthinking it, blaming fate for something as small as finding a decent cleaner. But as I reached my car, a man stepped out from the parking lot, catching my eye.

“Assalumalaikum,” he greeted me quietly but warmly.

I stopped. “Waalaikumassalam,” I replied, turning to face him.

He didn’t say much; he just smiled and waited. He looked like someone who’d been through his share of hard times, but his eyes had a certain honesty. For a moment, I hesitated. What did I have to lose at this point?

“Can you clean?” I asked, trying to keep things simple.

He nodded eagerly. “Yes.”

I decided to push further. “Bathroom clean?”

His face brightened with a smile. “Good,” he said confidently.

I raised an eyebrow, curious but not yet convinced. “Kitchen too?”

“Yes,” he replied with the same confidence.

At that moment, something clicked. Dave wasn’t offering me empty promises or a drawn-out negotiation—just clear, straightforward answers. And honestly, that was precisely what I needed. 

“Okay,” I said, feeling better already. “Come with me. Let’s see how this goes.”

We walked to my car, and as he got in, I realized how quickly my frustration had faded. With only a handful of words, this man had lifted the weight of my doubts. Sometimes, the right person shows up when you’re about to give up.

We arrived at my place, and I led him to the door, opening it wide so he could see the task ahead. Still silent but attentive, the man stepped in with that quiet confidence. I grabbed a bucket from under the sink and a bottle of Pine-Sol, sponges, and a mop—basic cleaning supplies that could do the job. 

“These are what you’ll need,” I said, holding them up individually. I wasn’t sure how much English he understood, but I figured gestures would help fill the gaps. 

He nodded. “Good.”

The simplicity of his response struck me again. No fuss, no questions. Just “good.” I handed him the bucket, and he immediately filled it with water from the kitchen sink, adding just the right amount of Pine-Sol like he had done this a thousand times. He seemed to know the universal language of work for someone who didn’t speak much English.

I watched as he moved methodically through the kitchen. First, he scrubbed the floor with the care you’d expect from someone cleaning their home, not just doing a job. Then, he wiped down the counters, ensuring every surface was spotless. His focus was remarkable as if he understood that every tiny detail mattered.

As he worked, I couldn’t help but think about how many people like him are out there—new immigrants struggling to make a living, unable to speak much English, but possessing skills and a work ethic that often go unnoticed. People like him show up at places like Home Depot, hoping to catch someone’s eye, knowing that their inability to speak the language might make them invisible or, worse, misunderstood. 

The challenges must be overwhelming: navigating a city like New York, where everything moves fast and communication is critical to survival, yet you only have a few words to work with. I realized it wasn’t just about finding work but also about confidence. It must have taken a lot for him to approach me in that parking lot and believe he could convey what he needed with just those five words—yes, good, no, okay, Assalumalaikum.

Once he finished the kitchen, he moved on to the bathroom. As he scrubbed the tiles and wiped the mirror, I wondered what his life must be like outside of this moment. Did he have a family? How long had he been in New York? Was the hope of a better life that brought him here, or was he trying to survive?

Despite the difficulties, his work was quiet and dignified. He didn’t need to explain anything, and I didn’t need to ask. His actions spoke for him, and in a city like New York—where communication is often loud and fast—sometimes that’s enough.

When he finished, the apartment looked spotless. He stood up, wiped his hands on his pants, and looked at me with that familiar smile.

“All done?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“Good,” he replied, his face beaming.

I handed him the $100 we’d agreed upon earlier, and something tugged at me as I did. This was just one job, but more than that for him. It was a step toward building confidence, stability, and a future. For me, it was a clean apartment. For him, it was a foothold in a city that doesn’t always give second chances.

As he pocketed the money, I pulled out my phone. “Let me get your number. I might need you again.”

He fished out a scrap of paper from his pocket with his number on it. “Yes. Okay.”

I saved it and felt a strange sense of satisfaction not just because the apartment was clean but also because I had met someone who, with barely any words, had shown me the value of determination. 

As he walked toward the door, I realized that help can come unexpectedly in New York. If you know where to look and are willing to connect beyond words, the city has people like him—quiet, hard-working, and determined—ready to show what they can do. 

And sometimes, that’s all it takes to turn a frustrating day into a good one.

After his first day of work, I called the man again. His name? I had no idea. But his number, written on that scrap of paper, was the lifeline to getting things done around the house. Despite the language barrier, the guy was efficient—faster and better than anyone I’d hired.

When he answered the phone, he said, “Yes.”

“Uh, can you come today? Same job, maybe a little more with the bathroom?”

“Yes,” he replied with the same confidence as last time. 

And that was it—no need for lengthy explanations. Dave approached the door an hour later, greeting me with his usual “Assalumalaikum.” I welcomed him in, pointing toward the kitchen this time. It was a mess—dishes piled up, the floor covered with crumbs.

“You’ll need to clean the kitchen first, then the floors.”

“Yes,” he nodded, already grabbing the mop and bucket like he knew exactly what needed to be done.

The word “yes” had become his golden ticket. In a way, it worked in almost every situation. It was his agreement, reassurance, and go-to phrase whenever he wasn’t quite sure what I had asked him. And surprisingly, it made everything smoother. He’d agree, and I’d relax, trusting him to figure it out.

Later, as he mopped the floor, I decided to dig deeper into his story.

“Where are you from?”

He paused, looking up from his work. “Good,” he replied, nodding with a smile.

I smiled back, realizing he hadn’t understood. “Country. Which country?”

He thought for a moment, then said, “South… Africa.” It was the first time I’d heard more than just his five words, and suddenly, things started to make sense.

He had traveled from South Africa to New York City, barely knowing English, relying on just five words to get through each day. It was impressive.

“Wow,” I said. “That’s a long way. You must miss home.”

“Good,” he said again, unsure what I was asking. But his smile never faded.

By the end of the day, he’d cleaned the entire kitchen, scrubbed the bathroom, and polished the floors to a shine. I handed him his pay, and as usual, he gave a nod of gratitude. “Yes,” he said, as if it were the only word that mattered.

The next time he came over, I needed something different. My windows were streaked with grime from the recent rain, and I asked him to clean them.

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head with a firmness I hadn’t seen before.

I was taken aback. It was the first time Dave refused anything. “No?” I repeated.

He shook his head again, waving his hand in the air. “No,” he said, with a slight chuckle, as if cleaning windows was entirely out of the question.

It turned into a standoff. I wasn’t sure if he didn’t want to or didn’t know how. Either way, “no” was his answer, and he stuck to it.

“Okay,” I said, laughing at the situation. I could hardly be mad at Dave. I didn’t even know if he understood what I was asking. Instead, I redirected him to the living room, where the vacuum sat waiting.

“Can you vacuum this room?”

“Yes,” he replied instantly, his confidence returning. The windows were his line in the sand, but vacuuming was a breeze. It was funny how “no” had its place in his limited vocabulary, giving him enough control over the situation to refuse something he didn’t feel comfortable doing.

Throughout the day, I noticed something else. There were moments when I’d give him instructions, and he’d hesitate. That hesitation was his way of deciding whether to say “yes” or “no,” like a mental balancing act where he weighed his abilities.

By the time he finished vacuuming, I couldn’t help but chuckle. It was strange how someone could get by with so few words and yet manage to navigate through New York City. It was his second or third job, and I saw him gaining more confidence. I wondered how long it would take before “no” would turn into “maybe” or “I’ll try.”

One evening, he arrived at my door a little later than usual. His usual “Assalumalaikum” was there, but something felt different. He looked tired, almost worn out, like the city was approaching him. 

As he started cleaning, I sat down nearby, watching him work with the same dedication. “Do you have kids?” I asked, hoping to start a conversation.

He paused, looking up. “Yes.”

“Boy or girl?”

His face changed, and for the first time, I saw confusion. He looked unsure how to answer, his eyes flicking toward the mop in his hand as if it held the answer.

I rephrased, pointing to my imaginary baby in my arms. “Boy or girl?” I mimed the question again.

He smiled nervously, finally saying, “Good.”

I blinked, not sure what to make of that answer. “Good? Is it a boy or girl?”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Good,” he said again as if that word alone could answer every question in life.

I couldn’t help but laugh with him. Somehow, in his mind, “good” was enough. Maybe he didn’t know the English word for boy or girl. Perhaps he didn’t know if he had a son or daughter due to his limited communication with home. The language barrier had created a fog over his family, and the thought struck me as funny and heartbreaking.

By the time he finished cleaning, I paid him, as I always did, and he gave me the same look of deep gratitude. He held the money like it was something sacred. This was his first job in the U.S., his first real paycheck. “Good,” he said with a smile, his eyes filled with relief.

He wasn’t just surviving here. He was beginning to thrive—slowly, in his way. It didn’t matter that he only had five words. With those words, he was carving out a new life in a city that often demanded more than survival.

Before he left, I said, “You’re doing great.”

He nodded, the same warm smile on his face. “Good,” he replied. And in that moment, “good” was enough.

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