On the Way to the Store

Rick grudgingly shoves his price-stamper into the back pocket of his jeans, and stomps toward his modest home’s front door. He smolders and won’t give his smiling mother a glance.

Ma grabs her son’s shoulders. The teen-ager stops and dutifully awaits another reprimand/pep talk/attitude-adjustment lecture.

But this time she only says, “Have a good evening at the supermarket, Richard Alan.”

Rick knows she is peeved because she dusts off his full first and middle names. But this time there is no “quit complaining” or “I used to have part-time jobs after high school, too” or “it’s only four hours of your life” or “if you don’t smile your face will stay that sour way” or “you’re lucky to have a job.” Or her usual closer: “Working will make you a man.”

Rick departs, but keeps his rejoinders to himself. They echo in his head during the ten-minute walk to the Hello, Good Buy Supermarket: But I’m only a freshman. Johnny’s folks don’t make him work. Yeah, it’s only four hours, but four boring hours that I’ll never get back. And how am I lucky to be a lowly stock boy? How will stocking shelves or chasing carts or cleaning up a mess on aisle three make me a man?

The teenager keeps his head down as he walks, looking only at the contraction lines and cracks in the sidewalk underfoot. Four minutes pass and he is halfway into the next block on his street when he hears a shout.

“Hey, Rick my man, how about a hand?”

Rick looks up and sees his pal Johnny trying to drag a heavy cardboard box toward a U-haul truck parked in his family’s driveway. Rick runs to his friend and helps him lift the box and carry it to the truck.

When the box is stowed, Rick looks at the truck and his friend’s house and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Finally, he manages three words: “What gives, Johnny?”

And Johnny Wilcox comes clean. He apologizes for not letting his best friend know that his father lost his job as an accountant and could not find even a temp job that would be enough to make an upcoming mortgage payment on the family’s modest home.

“I was embarrassed to tell ya,” Johnny says, “especially after I made a big deal about not having to work. I don’t even know where we’re gonna live. Maybe a rental.”

Rick looks at his gym shoes, struggling to find the right words.

“So,” Johnny says, sticking out his hand, “I guess this Is it, friend.”

But instead of reaching out to shake Johnny’s hand, Rick looks into his friend's eyes and says, “Last night at work, the assistant manager quit. They didn’t know how they were gonna fill his job. I don’t know how much money he made, but do you think your dad would be interested? Maybe it could help you stay in…”

Before Rick can finish, Johnny shouts for his father. Excitement colors his shrill voice.

Mister Wilcox does not wait for Rick to finish relaying news of the job opening.

“Come on, Rick, I’ll drive you to work,” the balding man says, pushing the boy toward his sedan parked at the curb. “I can apply there.”

Johnny also runs to the car. “Do they have any openings for stock boys?”

Rick smiles the rest of the way to the Hello, Good Buy. Ma never said that work also could spread hope.