News Bulletin From Diagon Alley
After last summer's fiasco, when Sarah managed to dodge entirely her responsibilities, including the one that reads, "Thou shalt get a summer job," B and I decided to head off excuses and managed to convince little S. that there's no escape this year. We live about halfway between Central and Harvard Squares, so little Sarah walked up Massachusetts Avenue to Central Square and walked down one side all the way to Harvard Square, and then back up the other to Central again. She stopped in at every single business--including the Buddhist Yoga Centre and Tea Room--to ask for applications. I figured this would be good practice in dealing with rejection, but she came back beaming, and clutching a fistful of forms. "Everybody's hiring, Dad!"
So I got to be the instructor in this year's life lesson: Filling Out Job Applications 101.
"Sarah,, we live in a 24/7 economy, Hon. You won't get a job by telling people that you're not available on weekends--even at the Spanish Consulate. And it's the whole weekend, Babe, not just Saturday mornings."
"No, you don't want a job waiting on tables--the pay's less than minimum wage, and students don't tip for shit. And it doesn't matter how much you know about Sushi, they won't hire you at Hana Sushi, or even the Matsuzakaya in Porter Square. Haha, dreaming of free sushi, eh?"
And so on. I strongly recommended working at Harvard Books, just because she loves to read, or at Schoenhof's, the foreign-language book store, where they sell lots of books in Spanish. Also Leavitt & Pierce. It's a tobacco store, and even though Sarah doesn't need any more encouragement to smoke than she already gets from her peers, it's a fascinating place, full of very odd stuff, like antique meerschaum pipes, exotic tobaccos, silver cigarette cases, and easily-hidden pocket flasks. Every application--no matter how irrelevant it might seem--had to include the information that the kid speaks fluent Spanish. B. worked up a pretty good one-page resumé for Sarah, which she included with each application. How many kids looking for summer jobs throw in a resumé?
So Sunday night, a man with a very heavy accent calls, asking for "Saaaahrah." She was actually home, and trying not to be too conspicuous, I eavesdropped on a rapid-fire conversation in Spanish, of which I understood only "Si," "No," and "No, mis padres son anglos, por que?"
"Dad, guess what? I have a job!"
"Great. Where?"
"Qdoba, in Harvard Square."
"What, the place with the bogus Mexican food? What's Spanish for salt, fat and carbs?"
"Doesn't matter, DaDa, the money's real, and he's paying me extra--half a buck more than minimum wage."
"Ahh, because you speak fluent and beautiful Spanish, right?"
"No, because I speak English. Everyone who works there is Mexican--he needs someone to talk to the customers."
"Wait, let me get this straight: he's paying you extra to speak your native language? Wow, Tom Tancredo would love that."
"Who?"
"He's a Congressman whose grandparents came from Italy in the early twentieth century who hates immigrants."
"How does a jerk like that get elected?"
"By other jerks, and also because of jerks who don't bother to vote. And by the way, have you gotten a voter registration card yet?"
"Yeah, next week, Dad. Gottagobyeseeyoutomorrow."