Thirty Cents Later

Thirty Cents Later

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 line on a 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.

Finally, 15 minutes later, at exactly nine o’clock, rich dad walked out

of his office, said nothing, and signaled with his hand for me to enter.

“I understand you want a raise, or you’re going to quit,” rich dad

said as he swiveled in his office chair.

“Well, you’re not keeping your end of the bargain,” I blurted out,

nearly in tears. It was really frightening for me to confront a grown-up.

“You said that you would teach me if I worked for you. Well, I’ve

worked for you. I’ve worked hard. I’ve given up my baseball games to

work for you, but you haven’t kept your word, and you haven’t taught me anything. You are a crook like everyone in town thinks you are.

You’re greedy. You want all the money and don’t take care of your

employees. You made me wait and don’t show me any respect. I’m

only a little boy, but I deserve to be treated better.”

Rich dad rocked back in his swivel chair, hands up to his chin,

and stared at me.

“Not bad,” he said. “In less than a month, you sound like most

of my employees.”

“What?” I asked. Not understanding what he was saying, I

continued with my grievance. “I thought you were going to keep

your end of the bargain and teach me. Instead you want to torture

me? That’s cruel. That’s really cruel.”

“I am teaching you,” rich dad said quietly.

“What have you taught me? Nothing!” I said angrily. “You haven’t

even talked to me once since I agreed to work for peanuts. Ten cents an

hour. Hah! I should notify the government about you. We have child

labor laws, you know. My dad works for the government, you know.”

“Wow!” said rich dad. “Now you sound just like most of the people

who used to work for me—people I’ve either fired or who have quit.”

“So what do you have to say?” I demanded, feeling pretty brave

for a little kid. “You lied to me. I’ve worked for you, and you have not

kept your word. You haven’t taught me anything.”

“How do you know that I’ve not taught you anything?” asked rich

dad calmly.

“Well, you’ve never talked to me. I’ve worked for three weeks and

you have not taught me anything,” I said with a pout.

“Does teaching mean talking or a lecture?” rich dad asked.

“Well, yes,” I replied.

“That’s how they teach you in school,” he said, smiling. “But

that is not how life teaches you, and I would say that life is the best

teacher of all. Most of the time, life does not talk to you. It just sort

of pushes you around. Each push is life saying, ‘Wake up. There’s

something I want you to learn.

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