"But I have a softball game today,
cyber," I said.
Mike's dad lowered his voice to a stern tone. "Take it or leave it," he
"I'll take it," I replied, choosing to work and learn instead of playing softball.
30 Cents Later
By 9 a.m. on a beautiful Saturday morning, Mike and I were working for Mrs. Martin. She was a kind and patient woman. She always said that Mike and I reminded her of her two sons who were grown and gone. Although kind, she believed in hard work and she kept us working. She was a task master. We spent three hours taking canned goods off the shelves and, with a feather duster, brushing each can to get the dust off, and then re-stacking them neatly. It was excruciatingly boring work.
Mike's dad, whom I call my rich dad, owned nine of these little superettes with large parking lots. They were the early version of the 7-11 convenience stores. Little neighborhood grocery stores where people bought items such as milk, bread,
newport cigarettes online, butter and cigarettes. The problem was,
marlboro cigarette, this was Hawaii before air conditioning, and the stores could not close its doors because of the heat.
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