First Day on the Job
AND so began our very first summer in California. The next morning we both headed off to work, me a number of hours before Bill, but I would be home a long time before him as well. While it would be nice to be home while there was still daylight left, it was a bummer not to have him there to spend that time together. If this is what being an adult was like, it sucked.
It was tough to get up and get going so early. I tried to be quiet when I got out of bed, showered, and dressed. I was shocked to come out of the shower and find Bill up, getting dressed.
“What are you doing up?” I asked.
“I’m going to drive you to work.”
“No! Go back to bed and sleep. You were up late reading.”
“Not listening,” he said as he walked into the living room.
Rather than argue with him, I simply walked up behind him and wrapped my arms around him. “Thank you,” I said quietly. “I love you.”
Bill drove me to my first day of work. It was tough to wave good-bye and see him drive away, but I had to get to work. And what a day it was. I worked hard and certainly earned my money, even though I wouldn’t see the cash for another week or two. At least there were a few dollars of tips that we all split at the end of the day.
It was hard to believe how many people came into a Starbucks in the course of a day. And while some had very simple requests, a lot of people had complicated orders. Okay, I’ll admit it—I screwed up a couple of times. But I got a lot more of them right than wrong, which made me feel pretty good. And I smiled at everyone and greeted them in a friendly manner, even one incredibly rude hyper-bitch who seemed intent on crushing everyone. But she hadn’t been raised by my mother and father, who felt that such people “weren’t worth a warm bucket of spit.” Now, why anyone would have a bucket of spit I don’t know, but I got the impression that it wasn’t anything of any value. And that was exactly where I ranked the woman. The more she groused, the more I smiled and didn’t care. The more she tried to engage me and pick a fight, the more I resisted and simply smiled. After she left in a huff—with everything she asked for, by the way—all of us “hired help” behind the counter high-fived one another. And of course she didn’t leave a penny in tip. I had a particularly nice nasty thought—I’d love to see my landlady take her down a peg or two. I bet that that would be a fun boxing match to watch.
After the morning rush I got a thirty-minute break and finally had a chance to grab a bagel. I had not had anything to eat for breakfast, and I was hungry. Never before had a simple bagel tasted so good. All too soon it was time to get back to work and prepare for the lunch rush onslaught. At two o’clock I gratefully left and walked home, tired but content that I had done a pretty good job. After a quick shower I put on some shorts, skipped a shirt, and went out to an umbrella-covered table by the pool to sit and read for an hour or so.
Since I was home first and Bill wouldn’t be home for a while yet, I thought that I should do something about dinner. Grabbing my wallet, a shirt, and some shoes, I walked three blocks to the closest grocery store, picked up a couple of things, and came back home to get dinner started. I didn’t do anything very ambitious, but it certainly smelled good while it cooked in the oven.
When Bill appeared in the door about an hour later, greeting me, “Honey, I’m home!” I practically bounced across the room to throw my arms around him and welcome him home. “What smells so good in here?” he asked, sniffing the air even before he hugged me.
“Lasagna. Soon to be joined by garlic toast. There’s also a salad, but that won’t be going into the oven.”
“Probably a reasonable decision. Did you make the lasagna?”
“I made it all the way over to the store to buy it frozen. I worked my fingers to the bone opening the package and reading the directions on the box, not to mention turning on the oven and putting it into the oven.”
“I see. Home cooked.”
“Yes. I’m cooking it at home.”
While Bill took a shower and changed into some shorts, I made him an iced tea. We sat out by the pool to debrief, to share details about our first day at our respective jobs. It turned out that I was not the only one who had to contend with difficult customers, but we did seem to have a similar approach in refusing to let them ruffle our feathers.
While it was too soon to have any firm opinions on our coworkers, we each had some initial impressions. Of our two workplaces, it was likely that Bill’s would stick around a little longer than mine would. The workforce in a lot of places was fairly fluid, but at least in Bill’s job, a certain level of information or knowledge was required that made people a bit more likely to remain once they got there.
After a half hour of catching up—it was, after all, our first separation in the last several weeks—we moved back inside so that I could make the salad and pop the garlic bread into the oven. Ten minutes later we sat down at the table for our meal, which tasted wonderful. After we finished, we remained at the table talking a bit more.
Our conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. We weren’t surprised to see our landlady at the door—she was about the only person we knew who knew we were there.
In her usual direct-to-business style, she asked Bill, “So, how was the first day?”
While she and Bill talked, I handed her a glass of iced tea—I hadn’t bothered to ask if she wanted any—and freshened his glass before coming back to rejoin them.
“Good tea,” she observed, “and I’m fussy about my tea. I like the taste. What brand?”
“Luzianne. It makes a nice robust, refreshing glass of tea when iced.”
“Hm,” she said, “I’ll have to put it on the shopping list for the next time I have to go to the grocery store. I hate grocery shopping and try very hard to go as infrequently as humanly possible.”
I don’t think she expected it, but I offered, “I’d be glad to pick some up for you tomorrow if you like.”
“Careful there, sonny—I might just take you up on that.”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it.”
“I’ll be right back,” she said before jumping up from her chair.
A few minutes later she was back with her wallet. Pulling out a twenty-dollar bill, she handed it to me and said, “Get whatever that will buy me.”
“While I’m going, is there anything else you want or need? I don’t mind shopping, so it’s not a problem.”
“Offhand, I can’t think of anything else I need at the moment. I just dragged myself there last weekend and nearly bought the place out. But I’ll start a list, and as I find things I need I’ll add them to the list, and I might take you up on your offer occasionally.”
“Please do,” I said. “We have to eat. I like grocery shopping.”
“Why in the name of all that is holy do you like grocery shopping?”
“To me it feels like a vital part of the creative process. Cooking is creativity. It’s like painting a picture—you can’t make art without paints to work with first. My mom loves to cook and is an amazing cook. She can take some of the simplest ingredients and create a feast.”
Bill interrupted me with a question for our landlady. “Do you like cinnamon?”
“Yes, I do,” she said.
“Are you one of those people who doesn’t eat carbs?”
“Hell no.”
He looked at me, batted his eyelashes, and asked, “Have you ever made your mom’s cinnamon rolls?”
“I’ve helped her with them a few hundred times.”
“Do you think you might consider making them for us this weekend?”
“I might. If you make it worth my while.”
“That’s between the two of you. But I wouldn’t be opposed to trying one if I was forced.”
Bill waxed poetic. “They are some of the most beautiful, delicious things that ever graced this earth.”
“Careful there, boy, you’re drooling,” she warned Bill. “That good, huh?”
“That good.”
“What makes them so good?”
“Loaded with cinnamon, feathery light….”
“Okay. I’m convinced. This weekend, huh?”
“Or whenever I get a day off from work. They take half a day to make.”
“Half a day?” she asked, incredulous. “Okay. You’re making me hungry, and I haven’t eaten yet, so I’d better go.”
“You want some lasagna?” I asked. I could tell she did, so I didn’t wait but simply dished some up for her. While that reheated, I cut some more bread to make some more garlic toast. In five minutes it was in front of her, along with silverware and our fancy napkins—Bounty paper towels.