SO THERE I WAS, PEEPING through the window of the Eureka, California post office, waiting for my elusive boss to enter her across-the-street cafe.
The year was 1988 – a time of great personal upheaval, both good and bad. Through a combination of circumstances, my then-new girlfriend and I were trying to make a go of it in that sleepy, downbeat North Coast city. Jobs were hard to come by, at least for a journeyman printer like me, and when I saw a newspaper ad promising to train someone as a coffeehouse clerk I sprang into delighted and determined action.
At first, things were pleasant. The cafe’s owner, who I’ll call Simone, was friendly and easygoing, as were the customers, and once I had figured out the espresso machine and sandwich-making regimens I felt reasonably financially secure (and competently useful) for the first time in weeks.
Then “Dave” walked in, an itinerant handyman who lived in a big blue van well-stocked with tools of every description.
“You’re new here, huh?” he said as I handed him a double espresso and a roast beef on rye. “Simone paid you yet?”
“I’ve only been here a couple days,” I replied. “Payday’s Friday.”
“Yeah? Right. Good luck.”
Friday arrived, and at closing time, I asked Simone for my wages.
“I’m a little short right now,” she said wistfully, “and I have to move some things around at the bank. Can you wait until tomorrow?”
“Well …. I suppose so.”
Tomorrow became today, and Simone appeared late that afternoon as I was building a turkey croissant.
“I’m SO sorry,” “she said wistfully. “I just missed the bank’s hours. Can I pay you Monday?”
“I don’t know, Simone…”
“I promise. Monday morning, as soon as the bank opens.”
Monday’s dawn broke, typically foggy and grey, with me outside the cafe waiting for Simone to arrive.
She didn’t.
Neither did she on Tuesday.
Nor Wednesday.
Meanwhile, my daily phone messages went unanswered, both at the cafe and at the number purporting to be Simone’s home.
Hence, my Thursday-morning stakeout.
I can’t believe I’m doing this, I thought with one of many impatient sighs. Who am I, James Bond? But I also can’t believe I’m not going to make rent or buy groceries this week.
Suddenly, Simone’s red Gremlin pulled up across the street. As she exited her car, I exited the post office.
“Simone!” I called, breaking into a fast trot. “Hey! Simone!”
Her beseeching eyes reflected helpless and apologetic dread, but before she could say anything, I spoke with uncharacteristic bluntness.
“Look here, Simone,” I said. “I like you, and I like working here, but I need to get paid – like right now!”
Tears came to her eyes. “You don’t understand!” she sobbed. “I can’t afford to pay you. All I have is this cafe and what’s in it. I owe so many people so much money; my life is in shambles, and I’m just as much a victim as you are…”
“I don’t mean to sound harsh, Simone, but frankly, that’s not my concern. I’m not going to leave this place without your paying me.”
And that was how, and why, my girlfriend and I feasted that week on thick sandwiches of roast beef and turkey breast. Victory is indeed sweet – and sometimes, savory.