The Lowest Rung

Nobody believed in me. That was their first mistake. I went door to door down Main Street with my résumé, stopping in, asking whoever was at the counter if they might have a summer job for me. When I got to Elegance Salon, I felt shy. What kind of hair salon has such big, overstuffed chairs? How can the hairstylist step around those chairs? Along another wall were a lot of small desks, where I saw some ladies sitting across from other ladies, holding their fingers. I did not know which way to look… certainly not right at them.

“Hello,” I said. “Do you need someone to sweep up the cut hair? Or clean the place at night?” I handed over my résumé. The women all had a similar background, and they discussed things for a minute in their peppery, musical language.

“This is not a cutting hair salon. This is a nail salon.” They began giggling and I felt my face burning.

“Let’s see.” A young woman near to me took my résumé. Her nametag said Mitzi. She took my résumé politely, ducking her head, and said, shyly, “Gift certificate, Mother’s Day? Birthday?”

I tried to imagine my mom sitting at a small desk, her fingers being held by another lady. I could not. “Maybe,” I said politely, ducking my head. Mitzi smiled.

The next stop was the doughnut store. I waited in line until I could speak to the front-counter guy. He frowned at my résumé and refused to take it. He gave me a printed application. with many small boxes on it and lots of instructions. He said, “Print neatly,” and pointed to a tiny table where I sat down and transferred whatever I could from my résumé to the form. My hand began to cramp. I got up and waited in the doughnut line until it was my turn and gave the counter guy my application. He took it and pointed to the spot that said, “Date of last work placement.” It was blank. He frowned harder and said no experience. He made a painful face. “Goodbye,” he said. As I left, I heard the flap of the garbage can squeaking.

I went out on the sidewalk again. I noticed Elegance Salon had a broken sandwich board sign leaning against the wall outside. I figured it needed a simple hinge replacement. I’d helped Mom replace a hinge in our cupboard last Christmas.

I tried to imagine Mom sitting at a small desk, having her fingernails painted. I could not. Her hands are big and rough and red, and her fingernails look like buttons.

Outside the door of the next shop, there stood a stack of welcome mats, barrel of new brooms, and a rack of terra cotta flowerpots. The sign above said Home Hardware. An old man was sorting things at the front cash register. (Yes, they had a real cash register.) His nametag said Howard. I explained I was looking for a job and he took my résumé, looking amused, and put it on the counter.

“Do you have any idea about real work, son?” he said.

“Yes. I help my mom, I volunteer at school things.”

“Real work means showing up on time,” Howard grumped, “not 10 minutes late because the bus was slow. Real work means talking to the customer, not playing with your phone, waiting for them to interrupt you to ask something.”

It sounded like he had said this before. A few times. And still wanted to say it.

The weird thing is, Mom had just got me a phone on the family plan so I could have a contact phone number, that was not hers, on my résumé.

“I promise,” I said, “not to play on my phone during work hours.”

“Real work,” Howard said, “means good attitude.”

Yep, he had definitely given this speech before.

I blurted out, “My teachers say I have a good attitude.” Did they? When? And for what? I had to ignore the mental back-chatter, all those doubting voices. I suddenly began to question my whole purpose for living. You lazy little scumbag, a parasite on society…

Howard gave me the eagle eye. I concentrated hard not to give him the bunny eye back. I had to show power. At the very least, I had to distract him in some way. Nobody believed in me. That was their first mistake.

“Could you tell me,” I said, leaning in close, “how did you do it? How did you get your first job?”

His face went soft as room-temperature cheese. Howard told me about milking cows starting at age twelve. I believe he meant his age, not the cows.’

“That’s awesome,” I said. And I wasn’t faking; it was awesome. I imagined a barn full of cows, on a dark winter morning, their breath visible in the chilly air, mooing to their hearts’ content. I had never seen a live cow, I just saw this on some video urging us to treat animals better.

Howard was grinning away.

Suddenly it became awkward, this guy having shared a childhood memory and me remembering a PETA documentary I had seen about cows I have never touched.

I had planned to hand out ten résumés today. But it was going slow. I saw a stack of buckets nearby and I said, “Is this the type of milk pail you used?”

“Good Lord, no, we used aluminum buckets. Come over here,” Howard said. Before I knew it, he took me on a tour of the pails and buckets in Home Hardware, explaining the differences.

Then I saw the kind of deluxe bucket with mop wringer my mom used for cleaning offices and I shared my own childhood memory, racing Hot Wheels in the cubicles while Mom mopped the hallway floors. “These ones are the best,” I said, thumping the wringer. “Squeezes the mop bone dry.”

Howard stepped back and looked me up and down. “That good, eh? You make me want to try it out.”

***

Long story short, I got hired to do morning shift. Thank you, cows. It turns out Howard actually owned the store, but he was working at cash that morning because the regular employee’s car broke down on the way to work. No wonder he had been a little sour when we first met. Bragging about his 12-year-old self made Howard feel good. When we ended up talking about mopping pails, I made a recommendation. Afterward, he explained, “You’re a born salesman. The customer had a problem. You lifted his spirits and you gave him ideas about how to solve a problem.”

Nobody believed in me—except Howard. Every morning I arrived a half-hour early, so afraid was I of being delayed by a late bus. Also, I noticed Mitzi was on opening shift at Elegance Salon. She always swept that sidewalk out front, even if it didn’t need it. I wanted to strike up a conversation with her, so I decided to sweep the front of Home Hardware, too. We smiled and nodded as we did our thing.

Mitzi had a Bluetooth speaker so we could listen to some Shaboozey or BTS while sweeping. She looked college age. A couple years older than me but not stuck up. And no boyfriend picking her up on Saturday evenings. I dreamed I might even stand a chance with her. All last year my school friends taunted me about not having a girl. Nobody believed in me, romance-wise. That was their second mistake.

When I saw her having problems with that broken sign one morning, I nipped into the hardware and came out with a special hinge. “I think your sign needs a new hinge,” I said. I showed her the type I meant. It could bend to 60° maximum, not the full 180°, which is why the salon sign couldn’t stand up properly.

Mitzi thanked me and ducked her head. Perhaps she also did not believe in me. I wanted to prove the hinge would work but it was ten to nine and I still had to move out the mats, barrels of brooms, and flowerpots.

“Well, you know where the hinges can be found,” I said, putting the hinge in the Returns pile. (Guess whose job it was to sort that pile every other day.)

By midsummer, it hit me. What Howard’s lecture was all about. Work was… well, a grind some days. I was keeping early hours, so I missed out on some good midweek parties. But I felt good when I repaid Mom for the cell phone. And good when I helped desperate customers, especially the ones who underestimated me.

Then, I took things a step too far.

A guy came in with a clogged-drainpipe problem. I got out the plumbing snake and explained how to use it.

“Oh yeah,” he scoffed. He too did not believe in me. So, I pulled out my phone and searched for a YouTube video that showed how to use a plumbing snake.

Howard walked by at that exact moment. “Milos,” he barked. “Put away that damn phone! Pay attention to the customer.” He turned to the man. “Sir, let me help you.”

As soon as the customer left, Howard turned to me and said, “Kid, you are fired.”

I stepped back as if an electric shock went through my body.

“Fired? Me?” My heart pounded. “But I was helping him. I was showing him something that explains how to use the plumbing snake. ‘Cause he didn’t believe what I first told him!”

Honestly? I felt like punching Howard. But that was definitely not the right way to go. I grabbed a bus home, cussing under my breath. By the time I got home I had a plan to contact the customer and ask him to vouch for me and prove to my boss I was doing my job. I also had a major headache.

A wave of doubts swept over me. How would I find the customer’s name? and his phone number?

I opened the door to our apartment.

And there was Mom.

Sitting on the sofa, crying up a storm. At first, I thought she’d heard I got fired. But no. “Lost my job,” she gulped between sobs.

This was not like her. To cry in front of me. So I left before either of us could get more embarrassed. I grabbed her keys and I raced to the office building where she’d worked for years. I knew it so well. I’d played there as a kid, so many evenings. It wasn’t a made-up memory I had shared with Howard.

At the building, I ran to the office of Ed the superintendent. Hate to say it, but at first I was snarky with him.

“Look, kid,” Ed said. “Your mom got the boot. I got the boot.” He waved his hand in a circle. “Every tenant business in this damned building got the boot.”

“Huh?”

“This building has been condemned.”

“Condemned?” I said. “Like, Hellfire condemned?” Okay, a dumb question. But better to ask a dumb question now than stay ignorant forever.

Ed laughed. “No, you nitwit, like crumbling walls condemned. Like rusted rebar condemned. They’re gonna knock this building down. They’re gonna knock this building down and build a new one. In a few years. Meantime, we have to find other work.” He whipped his sweat-stained ball cap off and cuffed me like he used to do when I was little.

By reflex I whipped off my ball cap was about to cuff him back but stopped. I had to laugh.

Ed laughed, too. “Good reflexes, kid.” He put his hat back on. “Your mom will get another job, no problem. She’s got a great track record. And her references will be out of this world.”

“Really?” My chest swelled. Mom is employable, hooray! All those cringey times when she didn’t fit in with the cute stay-at-home PTA moms. And now I saw she had to put up with the Howards of the world.

“Hey, how about you?” Ed said. “What you up to? summer camp?”

“Uh, not exactly.”

“Sitting at home watching TV all summer?” Ed guessed. “That’s what I did as a kid. I never had camp like them rich kids.”

I stared at Ed. He thinks I’m still a kid. He too did not believe in me. I drew myself up to my full 5-foot height. “No, actually, Ed,” I said, “I got a job.”

“What you doing, lifeguard? Selling slushies?”

Stupidly, I told him about the hardware store. He knew every lumber, electrical, and hardware store within a 20-mile radius. He was the building handyman for years. Why did I tell him I was working at Home Hardware?

“Actually, no, forget that,” I said. “I did work there—until this morning.”

“What happened? Didja sleep in and get fired?”

I made a face. “No, the owner caught me using my cell phone.” I told Ed about the YouTube video that I was looking up to show a clued-out customer how to use the plumbing snake.

Ed had a good laugh over that. “Oh yeah, Howard is a hard with his front staff. Quick to judge, that guy.”

“But it’s not fair.” I bristled, wishing Ed would take my side. “I was helping a customer. I’m going to go back there and explain everything to him. I hope he’s calmed down now.”

Ed shrugged. “Nah, save your breath. You found that job. You will find another. Besides, do you wanna work for a trigger-happy guy like him?”

We were interrupted by a knock at the door. Someone needed Ed’s attention. He shooed me out of his office, locked up, and away he went.

You found that job, you will find another.

Ed’s words rang in my ears as I turned to go home. Then I had a thought. I was right near the doughnut shop. I didn’t have any résumés on me but hey, I didn’t need one. I waited my turn in line-up and when I got to the front I said to the guy, “I’d like to apply for a job.” I sat down and filled out the application in half the time as before. When I handed it in, the clerk glanced at my application and waved the manager over.

He was a sweaty, self-important looking guy and he squinted at me. He skimmed the application and said, “Aha, experience, great! When can you start?

“Um, tomorrow?” I said.

The manager said something to the clerk. “Okay, come in tomorrow at 9:30. Joe here will set you up with a uniform and badge.”

I left the doughnut shop, with my new uniform in my arms and a badge that did not have my name on. Joe explained, “‘Mike’ is close enough. My real name’s Jeremiah.”

I left the doughnut shop swinging a plastic bag. Get a load of this, Howard, I thought, as I strolled past Home Hardware. I knew I could stick with the doughnut job for a month before I went back to senior year. Maybe even work part-time throughout.

I had just walked into a new job. I would never again not have job experience. Sure, it might not be rocket science experience, but I could work my way up to that.

Suddenly I had an inspiration.

I went into Elegance Salon. Mitzi sidled over to the counter. “Taking a break from work?” she said sweetly.

I pretended not to have heard her question—too much to get into. “I’d like a gift certificate, please. For a super-deluxe treatment. Fingernails. Toenails. Hangnails, whatever you’ve got.”

She chuckled, wrote out a gift certificate, and rang up my purchase.

I was already imagining giving it to Mom.

“Just a second,” Mitzi said. “I’ll get Mrs. Rao. I told her about the sign—and that I know someone to fix it.”

She brought over an older woman I vaguely recognized. Before I knew it, I was explaining the 60° hinge, the 180° hinge, and the 120° hinge. She offered me some money if I would take on the fix-up job.

Only later would I cringe at the thought of buying the hinge from Home Hardware.

Mrs. Rao quoted a reasonable sum and I nodded. “Good,” she cackled. “We also need a shelf put up… over here. Can you do that after you fix our hinge?”

“Sure thing,” I said. “And how about your sinks? Are any of them running slow? I’m good at unplugging.”

She furrowed her brow. “So far, not bad.” I felt a little disappointed.

I looked past Mrs. Rao to Mitzi, who was vigorously shaking a small bottle of neon-pink colour.

Mitzi caught my eye and looked about to say something, but instead studied her client’s nails. I could tell she was hiding a smile.

THE END