Thirty Cents Later

By 9:00 a.m. that day, 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 grown sons. Although kind, she believed in hard work and kept us moving. We spent three hours taking canned goods off the shelves, brushing each can with a feather duster to get the dust off, and then re-stacking them neatly. It was excruciatingly boring work.

The Dust and the Superettes

Mike’s dad, whom I call my "rich dad," owned nine of these little superettes, each with a large parking lot. They were the early version of the 7-Eleven convenience stores—little neighborhood grocery stores where people bought items such as milk, bread, butter, and cigarettes.

The problem was that this was Hawaii in the mid-1950s, before air-conditioning was widely used, and the stores could not close their doors because of the heat. On two sides of the store, the doors had to be wide open to the road and parking lot. Every time a car drove by or pulled into the lot, dust would swirl and settle in the store.

We knew we had a job as long as there was no air-conditioning.

Working for Dimes

For three weeks, Mike and I reported to Mrs. Martin and worked our three hours. By noon, our work was over, and she dropped three little dimes in each of our hands.

Now, even at the age of nine, 30 cents was not too exciting. Comic books cost 10 cents back then, so I usually spent my money on comic books and went home. By Wednesday of the fourth week, I was ready to quit. I had agreed to work only because I wanted to learn to make money from Mike’s dad, and now I was a slave for 10 cents an hour. On top of that, I had not seen Mike’s dad since that first Saturday.

The Breaking Point

“I’m quitting,” I told Mike at lunchtime. School was boring, and now I did not even have my Saturdays to look forward to. But it was the 30 cents that really got to me.

This time Mike smiled.

“What are you laughing at?” I asked with anger and frustration.

“Dad said this would happen. He said to meet with him when you were ready to quit.”

“What?” I said indignantly. “He’s been waiting for me to get fed up?”

“Sort of,” Mike said. “Dad’s kind of different. He doesn’t teach like your dad. Your mom and dad lecture a lot. My dad is quiet and a man of few words. You just wait till this Saturday. I’ll tell him you’re ready.”

“You mean I’ve been set up?”

“No, not really, but maybe. Dad will explain 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. 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.

“Take a seat and wait in line,” rich dad said as I entered. He turned and disappeared into his little office.

The 45-Minute Steam

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, at exactly nine o’clock, rich dad walked out of his office and signaled 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.