During the fall, Papá’s depression got worse. Work in the fields was scarce, and when he finally found a job thinning lettuce, he lasted only a few days because of his back pain. He wore a wide belt for support, and when he could no longer stoop over, he worked on his knees until his back gave out completely. The pay from Roberto’s part-time janitorial job and our earnings working in the fields on weekends were not enough to get us through. Roberto got paid twice a month, and every other week Mamá had to cut back on groceries. Once in a while Papá did some light work for Bonetti, the owner of the ranch, to help pay the rent, but as time passed we fell further and further behind on the monthly payments. “It’s a disgrace not paying the rent on time,” Papá said one evening as he opened our empty metal box. “It’s a shame!” He banged his fist on the kitchen table. A glass flew off, hit the floor, and broke. Trampita and Torito got scared and ran out of the house.
“Calm down, viejo,” Mamá said. Looking worried, she dried her hands on her apron and placed them on Papá’s shoulders.
“How can I?” he said, shrugging her hands away. “This life is for the dogs. No, it’s worse. Dogs can at least seek out their food. I can’t even do that.” He slowly got up from the table and hobbled to his room. Mamá gave us a pained look, shook her head, and followed him, trying to console him.
“I have to get an extra job,” Roberto said, slumping in his chair and lowering his head. “I don’t know what else to do.”
“Can’t you get Papá a job where you work?” I asked. “I could help you both after school.”
“I’ve already tried. Mr. Sims told me they already have a full-time janitor and me.”
As usual, at the end of the school day, Roberto and I met in the parking lot and headed for Main Street Elementary School. We drove down Broadway, passing students who filled the sidewalks like colorful ants in a parade. A few couples strolled holding hands, talking, and laughing. As we turned the corner onto Main Street, Roberto made a sharp turn and parked next to an old, beat-up yellow van that had Santa Maria Window Cleaners signs on its panels. “I’ve seen that guy before,” Roberto said, pointing to a man who had just finished washing the outside windows of Kress, the five-and-dime store. The man tucked the squeegee and chamois in his back pant pocket, picked up the bucket and brush, and headed toward the van. He was a short, stocky man dressed in khaki pants and a short-sleeved shirt, half tucked in.
“Hi,” my brother said nervously as the man loaded the equipment in the back of the truck. “My name is Roberto.”
“I am Mike Nevel,” the man said in a deep, raspy voice.
“I was wondering . . . do you need any help?” Roberto asked.
The man spat on the curb and adjusted his soiled pants. “You mean, am I hiring?”
“Yes,” Roberto replied.
“I could use someone on a part-time basis. Do you have any experience?”
“Oh, it’s not for me,” Roberto responded. “It’s for my dad. He needs a job.”
“Has he done janitorial work?”
“No, but he is a good worker,” Roberto said proudly.
“Well, I’ll have to meet him and talk to him.”
“He doesn’t speak English,” I said. “Only Spanish.”
“Can’t use him. In this business I need someone who can speak English and with experience. What about you?” he said, pointing at Roberto.
“My brother already has a job,” I said. “I have experience. I’ve been helping him clean Main Street School.”
“You’re too young, son,” he said looking me up and down and chuckling. He then turned to Roberto and continued: “So you have experience at Main Street School . . .”
“I am a janitor there, part-time,” Roberto said.
“What about weekends? Do you work there on weekends?”
“No, just on weekdays.”
“What about working for me on weekends? I can pay you $1.25 an hour.”
“Sure,” Roberto responded immediately.
“What about me?” I asked. “I can work with him.”
“You can help if you want, but I can’t pay you.” When he saw our long faces, he quickly added, “Okay, if he works out, I’ll pay him. But only if he works out.”
“I’ll work out,” I said confidently.
For the next four weekends, Roberto and I worked with Mike Nevel, cleaning offices and washing windows. The first day, Mike worked closely with us, showing us what to clean and observing how well we worked. Roberto showed me how to use the twenty-inch floor-scrubbing machine. I had a hard time learning to control it. Luckily, the machine had a rubber strip around its base and every time I bumped into a baseboard, the machine bounced back, giving me a slight jolt in protest. Eventually Mike Nevel let Roberto and me do the work by ourselves. Every Saturday and Sunday, my brother and I drove to Mike Nevel’s house on West Donovan to pick up the keys and the truck.
One Saturday evening when we returned the van, Mike Nevel invited us in. He introduced us to his wife, a friendly, petite woman who also had a raspy voice. Roberto and I sat on a large couch across from Mike, who sat on a reclining chair. His wife sat on a matching sofa chair next to him and smoked a cigarette.
“How are things going?” Mike asked, lighting a half-smoked cigar.
“Fine,” we responded at the same time. Roberto reached into his pocket and took out a ring full of keys and handed them to Mike.
“No, you keep them,” Mike said. “I have an extra set.” Roberto and I looked at each other and smiled. Mike brought his reclining chair to a sitting position, took a puff, and said to me: “I am getting too old and tired of working evenings during the week. How would you like to take over for me? I’ll pay you a buck an hour.”
“Sure!” I blurted out excitedly.
“You’ll be cleaning a few of the same places you and Roberto have been cleaning on weekends: the gas company, the savings and loan, and Betty’s Fabrics every day and Twitchel and Twitchel, a lawyers’ office, once a week, on Wednesdays. You won’t have to strip and wax the floors or wash the windows. You’ll continue doing that on weekends.”
Roberto and I thanked him and went home excited. Papá will be proud of us, I thought.
Papá was happy when Roberto and I told him about my new job, but his good mood did not last long. That Saturday night he got angry with Roberto and me because we came home from the movies past midnight. “Don’t think just because you give me your paychecks that you can do whatever you want,” he said firmly.
“But we’re only a few minutes late,” I said, recalling the discussion we had in Mrs. Taylor’s class about the film in which a boy argues with his father.
“Don’t you dare talk back!” he said, raising his voice. “I am still the man in charge of this house. You must obey and respect me, or else!”
Roberto and I went to our room, said our prayers, and went to bed. As I lay in bed I thought how lucky I was to be going to school and to have a job. I did not enjoy being at home when Papá was in a bad mood.
All day Monday I was excited to start my new job. After my last class, I went to the public library on Broadway and worked on my homework. I did my math first because I liked it best. At five o’clock, when the offices closed, I walked a few more blocks to the gas company, which was on West Main Street. It was a huge building with a front office that connected to a large back structure two stories high. As I opened the door to the rear entrance, a draft of warm air hit my face. It felt safe and comfortable. I went to the janitor’s room, picked up the cleaning cart, and began cleaning the offices on the first floor. I emptied the wastebaskets and feather-dusted the desks, which were piled with scattered papers. They looked like my high school counselor’s desk. I wiped the ashtrays with a wet rag and straightened the papers.
I then went upstairs to the second floor. It was one large room set up like an auditorium. In front of the room was a full kitchen. Above the stove was a mirror, angled so that people sitting in the audience could view the top of the range. A plate of cookies sat on the counter with a handwritten note that read PLEASE HELP YOURSELF. The following day, the plate of cookies was still there. No one had touched them. By the end of the week, someone had changed the note. It read JANITOR, PLEASE HELP YOURSELF. After I finished cleaning the bathrooms and dust-mopping the floors, I took a handful of cookies and went downstairs.
I sat at one of the desks to do my homework. I read the first two chapters in my English text, Myths and Their Meaning. I had a hard time understanding them. I put the book down, ate more cookies, and wondered what the person who sat at the desk did all day. It must be neat to work in an office, I thought. I noticed a picture frame partially hidden behind a pile of folders and picked it up. It was a color photograph of a boy dressed in a football uniform and a man standing next to him, smiling proudly with his arm around the boy. I figured it was the boy’s father. I placed the photo in front of the pile of papers and reread the first chapter until Roberto came by to pick me up to go home.