1983 - A Story Near Truth

Richie smoked menthol cigarettes throughout the interview. A cup of water, which he used as an ashtray, sat between my résumé and his paperwork. We were outside, sitting at a small metal table, in front of the bagel shop. While asking me questions, Richie tapped his cigarettes over the cup, and each time he did so, I could hear faint sizzle sounds. I loved the way his cigarettes smelled, like they were full of mint. Richie asked a lot of questions. He would listen to my responses and look straight into my eyes as if he were searching for something hidden. Richie appeared to be in his early thirties. He was small framed, dark skinned, and very likeable. I answered his questions the best way I knew how, trying to be personable. But he must have sensed my nervousness, it being my first interview and all. Because of its newness, the whole process felt slightly awkward and clumsy, yet I remember feeling proud that I was officially venturing into the work force for the first time.

“So you’re sixteen, right?” We were getting towards the end of the interview, I thought. Just as I was about to tell him that I was fifteen, he said: “Because you have to be sixteen to work here. It’s bagel shop policy and California state law.” But I knew that my friend Greg was even younger than me; he already worked at the bagel shop and was the one to get me the interview with Richie. Never having been one to lie, I started to get nervous while Richie waited for my response. My youthful integrity was at stake, yet Richie seemed to already know the truth.

“What’s your date of birth,” he asked, killing the silence. And so I told him the day in December, the year 1984. It was the truth. He wrote down the date on his paperwork just as I’d told him, except for the year, which he changed to 1983. He looked up at me and grinned. It was the kind of grin that follows the telling of a dirty joke. “Look things over, and if all your information is correct, sign and date here.” He slid the paperwork across the table and pointed to where I needed to mark. Then he got up from the table and walked into the bagel shop. He hadn’t completely let me off the hook. By signing the paper, we would both be held accountable for the lie.

A few minutes later, Richie returned to the table with several items in his hands. “Did everything look okay?” I shook my head in agreement and handed him the paperwork. “Great,” he said. “You’ll start training on Monday. What time can you get here after school?” I thought about it for a few seconds and told him that I could be there at three-thirty. “Okay then, I’ll mark you down for Monday at three-thirty.” Then he handed me a maroon shirt, a blue apron, and a black mesh hat. “This is what you’ll wear to work. The hat is optional, just make sure that you wear long pants and closed toed shoes. No sandals.” I said thank you and told him how excited I was. He went back inside after shaking my hand, and I placed the shirt, apron, and hat in my backpack, on top of all my notebooks and folders, with the utmost care. Then I put my helmet on, unlocked my bike, and headed home as fast as I could.

I peddled hard and thought about my new job at the bagel shop. I thought about my first pay check and how much money I’d make, wondering what I would spend it on? I thought about how I would surprise my parents with the news. I wanted to tell them about everything that happened during the interview, everything except lying about my age, of course. I knew my dad would ask logistical questions, like how much I was to get paid per hour. My mom would ask different questions, like if I was allowed to bring leftover food home, after my shift. I thought about these things for a while, until I remembered what was inside of my backpack. All of a sudden, a new found pride began to swell inside my chest, just thinking of it. I couldn’t wait to get home; I was dying to try on my new uniform and see my reflection in the mirror – so I peddled faster.