Waiting in Line on Saturday

Waiting in Line on Saturday

I was ready to face Mike’s dad. Even my real dad was angry with him. My real dad, the one I call the poor one, thought that my rich dad was violating child labor laws and should be investigated.

My educated, poor dad told me to demand what I deserve—at least 25 cents an hour. My poor dad told me that if I did not get a raise, I was to quit immediately.

“You don’t need that damned job anyway,” said my poor dad with indignation.

At eight o’clock Saturday morning, I walked through the door of Mike’s house when Mike’s dad opened it.

“Take a seat and wait in line,” he said as I entered. He turned and disappeared into his little office next to a bedroom.

I looked around the room and didn’t see Mike anywhere. Feeling awkward, I cautiously sat down next to the same two women who were there four weeks earlier. They smiled and slid down the couch to make room for me.

Forty-five minutes went by, and I was steaming. The two women had met with him and left 30 minutes earlier. An older gentleman was in there for 20 minutes and was also gone.

The house was empty, and here I sat in a musty, dark living room on a beautiful sunny Hawaiian day, waiting to talk to a cheapskate who exploited children. I could hear him rustling around the office, talking on the phone, and ignoring me. I was ready to walk out, but for some reason I stayed.

Finally, 15 minutes later, at exactly nine o’clock, rich dad walked out of his office, said nothing, and signaled with his hand for me to enter.

“I understand you want a raise, or you’re going to quit,” rich dad said as he swiveled in his office chair.

“Well, you’re not keeping your end of the bargain,” I blurted out, nearly in tears. It was really frightening for me to confront a grown-up.

“You said that you would teach me if I worked for you. Well, I’ve worked for you. I’ve worked hard. I’ve given up my baseball games to work for you, but you haven’t kept your word, and you haven’t taught