This bright young woman may have been a college student, maybe a single parent; or perhaps she was supplementing a spouse’s income. I didn’t ask. But she was doing what she had to do. And doing it well.
I’ve been there.
When I was discharged from the Army at 22, I enrolled in college. I went for a couple of semesters and worked part time at a paint store in Santa Ana. I moved in with some buddies.
My GI Bill benefits and meager salary covered my expenses.
Then, I made a mistake. I married on a whim, and was soon managing a household. Because of financial difficulties, school became impractical for me. I dropped out and went to work full time at the paint store.
I was miserable. I was 23, working with one guy my age and a bunch of guys who were at midlife and beyond.
“What are you doing here, kid?” they would ask. “This is a dead-end job. Is this what you want to do with your life?”
It wasn’t.
I listened to them as they told stories about their pre-paint store exploits. Exaggerated tales spewed forth in the break room. One guy had been an FBI agent — or so he claimed. I loved listening to his “stakeout” adventures. Another had been a corporate executive, but had fallen into a bottle and never recovered. He sometimes slept in his car behind the store.
A third had owned his own business. A fourth had been a chef, and two others were retired Marines.
Now, they were hawking paint, spackle and wallpaper paste. For that matter, so was I! I was associating with some fairly hard-bitten guys with names like Jack, Joe, Frank and Woody.
I harbored a chilling fear that I might someday end up like them — trapped.
There was a female cashier who worked at the store, Terry. She was a mom type, a real sweetheart. “Jimmy, get back in school,” she’d admonish almost daily.
