Dreams No One Could Steal

I tell people like you, who not know me in my youth, that I once drifted from one dead-end job to another because I had no drive and little self-confidence. I tell them back then I was like a country with great stores of natural resources, lacking the technology and infrastructure to take advantage of them; that I was content to spend my time playing made-up games and daydreaming. I dreamt that one day someone would see that I was intelligent and talented and would show me how to better myself. But while waiting for that someone to appear, I did nothing month after month, year after year, but dream and drink and roll dice, and curse my luck for having no one willing to help me.

I tell people like you that the course of my life changed the day I quarreled with Betty Giglio over a pound of prosciutto. For eighteen months I sliced cold cuts in Friendly Supermarket for customers like Betty, quick to complain that I sliced them thick when they wanted them thin, that I gave them more weight than they asked for, that I was unfriendly when I waited on them. It was always something.

Our final skirmish took place Memorial Day. Exhausted after being on my feet for hours, I did my best to carefully slice, weigh, and wrap each item in her order. When I gave it to her, she slammed her cane on the counter and shouted, “You sneezed on my prosciutto! Don’t you know the first thing about hygiene?”

I might have apologized for what I had not done had I liked my boss and my job. But having no use for mealy-mouthed Mister Krause and having contemplated quitting for months, I shouted at her, “I should have spit on your prosciutto for all the times you’ve tortured me!”

Horrified, Betty threatened to call the Bureau of Health unless I was fired immediately. Mister Krause rushed out of his office when he heard that and sliced her another pound of prosciutto, pushing me aside before I could defend myself. At the end of my shift he informed me that declining sales left him little choice but to lay off some workers. “I hate to do this, Richie. I hope you understand.” He had a cold sore on his bottom lip, and I looked away until he finished smiling. “I wish you luck at your next job, and I promise to give you a good recommendation if you use me as a reference.”

Getting fired gave me my first extended vacation since high school. In the coming months, I spent many mornings daydreaming in my bedroom, many afternoons at the beach, and many evenings playing Season 52 in my dice baseball league. I managed to get by on my small unemployment check because I still lived at home, a fact my father never let me forget. Nearly every day he predicted that I had years of deprivation and misery ahead of me unless I wised up and got serious about my future, which he had been predicting since I quit school at 16. Others at least offered advice with their criticism. Marshall Prescott and Kevin Reilly, my two closest friends, suggested I enroll in college. My uncle Philip, more of a father than my father, suggested I take some civil service tests. My older brother Joseph suggested I drive a school bus like him, promising to speak with his boss about hiring me once I got my chauffeur’s license. I listened closely to everyone’s suggestions, but did nothing until my father ripped up some of my baseball records and threatened to burn the rest unless I started looking for another job.

Finding one was difficult, given the narrow parameters of my search. I did not want to travel into Manhattan; I did not want to be a cashier or salesperson; I did not want to attend a training program with other dropouts. What I wanted was an easy job close to home paying more than minimum wage, but those were as rare as praise from my father. Then one morning I spotted an ad for guards at nearby Brighton Community College, paying five dollars an hour plus benefits, and later that week I went for an interview with Charles Scura, the personnel director for Excel Guards, the firm that handled campus security.