It's high time, as the curtain falls, to recall my first workday and the trip to get a Social Security Number. Don't ask why now; people are strange creatures. Here's a teaser to help you relax:

• How many Americans does it take to change a lightbulb?

• ...

• That's right, none. A Russian will arrive on Work and Travel and screw it in.

Anyway, I got there that evening, as you know, by taxi. A woman was driving, and while I was standing there smoking that nasty stuff, she called someone to find out where the Russians lived in that town. Oh, the compliments she heard that night. Wait... that sounded a bit too vulgar, don't you think? Never mind. She dropped me off. I tipped her extra for her efforts (and I repeat, nothing else happened), and she thought I was afraid to approach the house alone, but I just couldn't find the door handle. We walked up, and there was one of our guys in a green company t-shirt sleeping... he jumped up. I was so happy, we hugged, ate, and went to sleep. I saw my boss about a day later; he broke the news about a shortage of shifts for me and found me another spot on the same street, where I started working on my first American Monday. Quite a story, right?

In the first half of the day, I was introduced to Chen (the employer) and Bob, who was sixty years old and listened to Metallica, Iron Maiden, etc. There was a special music system there for the dishwashers. In the second half of the day, Bob left, but not before teaching me the ropes of this simple job. Two Jamaicans came in his place, and that's when I realized the meaning of a "fun work environment." They were singing and dancing the whole time, quite well actually, and still managed to get the work done. We spent the evening together. We said goodbye. Then the wife of my main employer came to pick me up and take me home, so to speak. She liked me, as it turned out later. By the way, those same Jamaicans later asked me, quote: "Do you have blacks in Russia?" I replied that we do, mostly in big cities. We also had a very lively discussion about figures like Bob Marley and Usain Bolt.

They took me for my SSN on the third Wednesday of my stay on the continent; my boss, his wife, and their two rugrats (I say that with love, don't mind me) went along. We went to the neighboring town of Saco. We stopped for coffee, but I politely declined. We had a lively discussion about my jobs back in Mother Russia. We arrived, I took a ticket, and we waited. The procedure is simple, quick, and quite entertaining. They promised to send it later, in a couple of weeks. On the way back, I was pleasantly surprised by the fact that you can turn right on red at traffic lights—too many "on"s, but it is what it is. The main things about the whole trip were: A) they fed me, and B) I saw the summer estate of Bush Sr., a huge mansion on the Atlantic coast, under heavy security.

Short (Chekhov-style), quick, and tasteful, maybe even a bit too military-like.