Dad shocks the hell out of me two days later when I walk into the kitchen as I’m getting ready to leave for school. He is sitting at the table with a plate of toast and coffee. He is bright-eyed with a clean shave and combed hair. It startles me at first. It’s been a long time since I’ve been greeted by him this early in the morning. He looks up and sees the shock on my face.
“Hi, hon.” He says, nonchalantly.
“Uh, what are you doing up?”
He takes a bite of toast and washes it down with coffee.
“I’m starting a job today.”
“You’re what?”
“I’m starting a job today. It’s going to be a good one . . . great benefits, guaranteed base pay, weekends off.”
Finally.
I smile.
“You had me at benefits. Where at?”
“Walker Brothers Furniture.”
“What are you going to do?”
He chomps on more toast.
“Salesman. I get commission too. And bonuses.”
“Wow. I’m really proud of you, Dad.”
He stops eating for a second and smiles. He looks at his watch (Dad’s wearing a watch?) and gets up to clean his plate. He cups the back of my head, kisses my forehead, says, “See ya tonight, kiddo,” and walks out the door.
I stand there, still in disbelief.
I look at the table where he sat.
I look at the dish in the sink to confirm that this really just happened.
I hear the garage door go up and then his truck engine turning over and giving it its best shot. Two more tries. Almost . . . almost . . . His truck starts.
Wow. This is really happening.
As I turn out all the lights and gather my backpack, I’m consumed with wild thoughts of when Dad actually starts bringing home a decent check. My imagination gets the best of me, and I envision us moving into a better house. Everything is painted brightly, no chips in the paint or stains in the carpet. There’s even a fluffy dog and picket fence for God’s sake. In my daydream, I see my Dad handing me money for lunch, flowers in a flowerbed, and someone spraying fertilizer on the lawn. It’s too real.
At school, I’m on a constant look-out for Mr. Lackey in the hallways. Nothing he can do to punish me at school, but nonetheless, I don’t want to cross his path. In every single class I am mesmerized by this idea that Dad and I could have this normal, suburban life. In my last period, English, I decide to be proactive and pull out a scratch piece of paper. I list the top five places that I could apply for a job, four of them being restaurants.
After school, I go to the Goodwill to look for a decent job-searching outfit. I walk in, and there’s a boy wearing a blue vest, “Goodwill” stamped across the back. His back is to me, and I can’t see his face. He’s busy. He’s busy straightening the shopping carts, perfectly aligning them inside one another, and he is determined that this will be the neatest row of shopping carts a store has ever seen. I don’t need a shopping cart, but this catches my attention, so I pause.
He works fiercely with these shopping carts, pulling them out one at a time, making sure not to jam them in a crooked, messed up way.
I can’t stop watching. I stare in a trance.
At one point, he bends down and reaches with his hands to straighten a wheel that was pointed to the side. Then he pulls a red cloth from his pocket and dusts the top of the wheel.
Pristine, this row of shopping carts.
He takes one step back, and I can’t tell if he’s admiring his work or perhaps looking for an unnoticed wheel gone astray. He turns around to find his next task and sees me.
“Welcome to Goodwill!” He smiles enthusiastically, and it’s now that I realize he has Down’s Syndrome. His glasses fall mid-nose, causing him to point his chin up so he can look through them. He smiles, so passionately, and goes on to tell me that all the blue tags are “half-off” today.
“Thank you,” I answer, and return the smile.
He scurries off—a man with a mission—and I walk in slow motion, thinking about this respectable work ethic I’ve just witnessed.
I think about his challenges.
His lack of ever having complete independence.
But mostly, I think about his contentment.
I make my way to the skirts, and sift through a million “no’s” before I find a “yes.” It’s a knee-length, black pencil skirt, with the bonus blue tag hanging from the waist. I inspect it top to bottom, and find there’s no missing buttons or ripped out seams.
There’s a white ruffled dress shirt I find to go with it, and although it doesn’t have a blue tag, the original tags from the department store are still attached so I know it’s never been worn. Funny how people buy something brand-new and never seem to wear it a single time.
I immediately wash the clothes when I get home. And when they’re all dry and pressed, I slip them on, and find immense gratification in knowing that I paid five bucks for an outfit that could probably retail for $100.