EPISODE 5
By 9:00 a.m. that day, Mike and I were working for Mrs. Martin.
She was a kind and patient woman. She always said that Mike and I
reminded her of her two grown sons. Although kind, she believed in hard
work and kept us moving. We spent three hours taking canned goods off
the shelves, brushing each can with a feather duster to get the dust off,
and then re-stacking them neatly. It was excruciatingly boring work.
Mike’s dad, whom I call my rich dad, owned nine of these little
superettes, each with a large parking lot. They were the early version
of the 7-Eleven convenience stores, little neighborhood grocery stores
where people bought items such as milk, bread, butter, and cigarettes.
The problem was that this was Hawaii before air-conditioning was
widely used, and the stores could not close their doors because of the
heat. On two sides of the store, the doors had to be wide open to the
road and parking lot. Every time a car drove by or pulled into the
parking lot, dust would swirl and settle in the store. We knew we had
a job as long as there was no air-conditioning.
For three weeks, Mike and I reported to Mrs. Martin and worked
our three hours. By noon, our work was over, and she dropped three little
dimes in each of our hands. Now, even at the age of nine in the mid-
1950s, 30 cents was not too exciting. Comic books cost 10 cents back
then, so I usually spent my money on comic books and went home.
By Wednesday of the fourth week, I was ready to quit. I had
agreed to work only because I wanted to learn to make money from
Mike’s dad, and now I was a slave for 10 cents an hour. On top of
that, I had not seen Mike’s dad since that first Saturday.
“I’m quitting,” I told Mike at lunchtime. School was boring, and
now I did not even have my Saturdays to look forward to. But it was
the 30 cents that really got to me.
This time Mike smiled.
“What are you laughing at?” I asked with anger and frustration.
“Dad said this would happen. He said to meet with him when
you were ready to quit.”
“What?” I said indignantly. “He’s been waiting for me to get
fed up?”
“Sort of,” Mike said. “Dad’s kind of different. He doesn’t teach like
your dad. Your mom and dad lecture a lot. My dad is quiet and a man
of few words. You just wait till this Saturday. I’ll tell him you’re ready.”
“You mean I’ve been set up?”
“No, not really, but maybe. Dad will explain on Saturday.”
Waiting in Line on Saturday
I was ready to face Mike’s dad. Even my real dad was angry with
him. My real dad, the one I call the poor one, thought that my rich dad
was violating child labor laws and should be investigated.
My educated, poor dad told me to demand what I deserve—at least
25 cents an hour. My poor dad told me that if I did not get a raise, I
was to quit immediately.
“You don’t need that damned job anyway,” said my poor dad
with indignation.
At eight o’clock Saturday morning, I walked through the door of
Mike’s house when Mike’s dad opened it.
“Take a seat and wait in line,” he said as I entered. He turned and
disappeared into his little office next to a bedroom.
I looked around the room and didn’t see Mike anywhere. Feeling
awkward, I cautiously sat down next to the same two women who were
there four weeks earlier. They smiled and slid down the couch to make
room for me.
Forty-five minutes went by, and I was steaming. The two women
had met with him and left 30 minutes earlier. An older gentleman was
in there for 20 minutes and was also gone.
The house was empty, and here I sat in a musty, dark living room
on a beautiful sunny Hawaiian day, waiting to talk to a cheapskate who
exploited children. I could hear him rustling around the office, talking
on the phone, and ignoring me. I was ready to walk out, but for some
reason I stayed.