I can’t tell a story without someone making a comment about the number of jobs I’ve had in my life. It’s true I’ve held quite a few, but it was all part of my personal growth processes. At least that’s what I tell myself. Although most of my growth time was spent working retail, it’s grocery that I hold dearest to my heart. It’s nestled right alongside bus driving down deep in the cockles of my heart.
I started out in grocery. Technically, it was my second job, right after farm work, but that’s only because farming wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. My dad worked hard selling the concept of farming to me, and though I bought into it, after a month of topping corn—a thankless, backbreaking, underpaying job—I quit.
That was the summer of 1987, sometime in July. A day when the owner’s 14-years old son showed up in his cherry 1987, over-sized Ford F-150 crew cab. The kid had some trouble climbing out of the cab, the big foot tires and specialized lift-kit raised the truck a good five feet off the ground, but he flicked a switch and extended the automatic step ladder from beneath the cab. He rode the stairway lift to the red carpet two of my co-workers had rolled out when I wasn’t looking.
“Payday,” said Ramon with a pat to my back. He walked to the line and I hurried after.
The kid handed each of us our monthly paycheck—this was my first—and while my co-workers folded their blue checks in two and stuffed them into pockets of dirty Wranglers or dusty, tassel-pollen speckled flannels, I took one look at mine and said, “Fifty-seven bucks?”
“You feel blighted?” said Ramon.
I thought Ramon was the mouthpiece of our crew because he was the toughest guy around, but it turns out he was the bilingual one, even though his English was broken and difficult to follow. I couldn’t complain, my knowledge of Spanish was in the form of swear words and personal insults.
Ramon liked me. He said it was a combination of my stupidity and size. He told me it odd that I let the others name me ‘Mariposa’, but I told him it was kind of cool. After all, only the cool guys got nicknamed after a car.
Though not much larger than me, Ramon had some pretty big balls. He’d never let the others pick on me. If they tried, he’d stop it. He stood his ground a fearless bull, or maybe a billy goat, and point me to safety.
“Fly Butterfly, fly,” he’d cry, and bleat a maniacal, gritty laugh.
Sometimes I felt bad leaving him alone, but I figured anyone who could quote Muhammad Ali—even if slightly wrong—well, that person knew a something or two about fighting.
“Sting like a bee,” I’d cry, stumbling over corrugates and broken stalks.
I held a lot of respect and awe for that man, still do. He was a pretty tough guy to stand up to those bigger men the way he did; tougher still to be a supporter of Ali amongst a gaggle of Chavez fans.
“Butterfly?” Ramon said, and waved a hand in front of my eyes.
“Bee,” I said, remembering the check in my hands. “This feels light.”
“It is papal.”
“Paper. But I mean it feels light, as in I didn’t get paid enough.” I showed him the check and his eyes widened.
“You are related?”
“What? No. He’s in my class.”
“He must like you. You are well-paid.”
I shook my head, “Once I pay mom back, I’m lucky to have seventeen dollars to my name. Let me see yours.”
“No Butterfly. I am ashamed,” he said, and buttoned his flannel’s pocket.
The farmer’s kid misted himself with a water bottle and smiled as he talked to a worker shading him with an umbrella. The co-worker laughed and slapped his free hand against his thigh.
“I thought Eduardo was deaf, or mute?” I said.
“Both,” said Ramon. “But he laughs like a donkey, and that is why he holds the umbrella. The boss jokes, the boss smiles, and Eduardo brays. Everyone is happy.”
He waved his arm.
Our crew sat in the shade of the corn and watched the kid and Eduardo as if it were a Sunday matinée. Each of them laughed and poked each other in amusement at the braying Eduardo and the smiling kid. I realized I wasn’t as funny as I’d previously imagined and made a mental note to throw away the comedy material I’d been writing at home and working in the fields for the past month.
Ramon smiled and patted my cheek with a leathery hand. “You are simple Felipe. Don’t change.”
[791]
