Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Asa Pemewan did not have to wait long. When a short, stout man, scruffily bearded and with shoulder-length curly hair came in through the side door, Jennifer called out “Hi, Manny!” and Asa turned to face him, raising his own hand in greeting.

Manny replied “Hi, Jen,” and punched a series of numbers on the keypad by the door to the breakroom. “So, we’ve got a newbie?”

Jennifer nodded. “That we do! Manny, this is Asa Pemewan.” She gestured to Asa; he extended his hand. “Asa, Manny Davis.” Manny took the hand, shaking it; his hand was somewhat oily, but his grip was firm. “He’s just signed on as a driver, so if you could show him how it works today, I’d be grateful.”

“Can do. So,” and he turned to Asa, “first thing’s first. Driving’s a cash-handling job, so you’ll need a bank. You got an apron?”

Asa shook his head. “No, sir.”

Manny smirked. “Sir, huh? Well, you keep calling me that, Newbie. And you get an apron, one of the half-aprons, like this one.” He gestured towards his waist, around which he had tied a six-inch wide strip of black cloth with three pockets in it. “Should be some in the storage closet in the breakroom.”

Asa nodded and retrieved an apron of his own, tying it around his own waist as he came back. Manny nodded. “Good. Now, one pocket, you’ll want to keep a couple pens, maybe a rag of some kind. ‘Nother pocket’ll be where you keep your bank. Now, when you clock in next time, Jennifer–or whoever’s running the store; we’ve got two other management, and District sometimes shows up and runs things–will issue you some money. You’ve gotta make change, y’know. So you’ll get–” he gestured, and Jennifer opened a cash drawer–“twenty dollars total. It’ll be a ten, a five, four ones, three quarters, a dime, two nickels, and pennies to round out. You take pies to people, they give you money, you make change. You come back, give the store the money owed for the pies, you get what’s left. Customers give you more, you keep it. Customers give you less, they don’t get pies. Easy, right?”

Asa nodded. Manny continued. “Good. So, you also get a buck a run. Make twenty runs, you don’t give back your bank. Make more, the store gives you more. Make less, you balance the store up to twenty minus the number of runs you make. So, make twelve runs, you give the store eight back at the end of the night. Make twenty-five, the store gives you five more. Make sense?”

Asa nodded again. “It does.”

“Good! So money’s handled.” Manny paused and frowned. “Wait, no. No. Always count back the change the old-school way–unless a customer says to keep the change. Then you make sure you got enough to start with. But if they don’t, you count back up. So if you got an order for $18.66, customer gives you a twenty, you do this.” Manny pulled out his own bank and counted up. “Sixty-six is sixty-seven,” and he counted out a penny, “sixty-eight,” another, “sixty-nine,” another, “seventy,” another, “seventy-five,” a nickel,” makes nineteen,” a quarter, “and twenty,” and a one-dollar bill joined the coins. “Usually, you count it into the customer’s hand. Sometimes, they want it on top of the pies. Then, whatever they give you–even if it’s nothing, and there’re some assholes who’ll do that–you say ‘Thanks’ or something like that, and you smile when you say it. Then you hustle your happy ass back to the car and get back to the store. Got it?”

Asa nodded yet again. “I think so. Practice’ll help.”

“It will. So, money’s handled. But you’re not gonna get anywhere you don’t know where you’re going. So, look at the map.” He gestured to a wall from which hung a map of Pronghorn with a dark marker-line drawn irregularly through the outskirts of town. “Inside the line’s the delivery area. Outside, we don’t go while we’re on the clock. Had a guy get stabbed in the junk a couple years ago doin’ that. Not an experience we want repeated. Make sense?”

Asa squeezed his legs together at the suggestion of genital trauma and nodded. “Stay inside the lines. Got it.”

“Now, you from here?” Asa nodded. “Then you know the numbers run parallel. Two hundred block of East Second’s due south of 200 block of East Third. Creek screws with it a little, but not bad. Numbers start at Main and the creek. Try not to be on Main or Park; traffic’s a pain in the ass. Water’s not got many lights or stops, so it’s your friend. School zone’s an absolute. Do. Not. Speed. Through. It. Cops will pull you over, and they will take all damned day with you. Don’t be an example. Make sense?”

“It does.”

“Good!” Manny glanced at a rack not far from the door. “So, pizzas’ll go there in the warming bags when they’re made and boxed. You might get to help with that; depends on if they need help on the cut table or the make table. But they’ll teach you that when you need to know it. For now, you’ll get to deal with the pizzas that’re put in bags–along with cheese bread and wings and such. Sandwiches and pasta, too, now. At least for now. Corporate keeps shipping in stuff and not telling anybody. Pain in the ass, really. But you’ll handle it, right?”

Asa nodded once again. “I can.”

“Good! It looks like an order’s about to come out of the oven. Give it a couple-three minutes, and we’ll be on our way with it. I’l show you once or twice, have you do it guided, and then, tomorrow, you’ll be doing it on your own.

“Welcome to the team, Newbie.”

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

On Monday, as directed, Asa Pemewan returned to the Pizza Place, clad in a black t-shirt, khaki slacks, and black sneakers. The last were new to him, bought over the weekend from a local thrift shop in anticipation of coming to work. And I can get newer shoes after the first paycheck, Asa thought. These just have to get me through until then.

Jennifer greeted him shortly after he walked into the restaurant. “Hi, Asa! Welcome back! Did you have a good weekend?”

Asa did what he could to match her cheer. He smiled, nodded, and replied “It was better knowing that I had work to come to at the end of it.”

“That’s great! Keep up that kind of attitude, and you’ll do fine! So, come on back, and we’ll get you started.” She gestured to the back room again, and Asa followed. Jennifer continued to talk as they went along.

“So, you’ll have to read through the orientation packet. I’ll set you up in the payroll system while you do, and I’ll clock you in at two–it’s a couple minutes past, now. When you come in, you’ll clock in on the keypad by the back room.” She pointed at a wall-mounted number-pad as they passed. “You’ll clock out the same way. You’ll have an ID number in your orientation packet. Key it in on the number pad. Then it’ll ask for your password. That’ll start as your birthday. The first time you use the system, it’ll ask you to change it. Do so. It’s like a PIN number for your ATM.”

Asa nodded as they reached the back room. “Got it.”

“Good! So,” and here, Jennifer pointed towards one of the tables, “you’ve got the packet and your two shirts. Duck into the bathroom and put one on, and please tuck it in.”

Asa nodded again. “Not a problem,” he said, and he went into the bathroom, soon emerging with the polo–black with blue collar and blue elastic on the ends of its sleeves and a slice of pizza embroidered over the left breast; a pair of sewn rounds sat high on the right–on and tucked in smartly. A driving cap had been included in the package with the shirt; Asa had it on his head, as well. When he returned to the back room, Jennifer said “It looks good on you! You’ll notice a couple of circles sewn into the shirt. Your nametag goes there.” She tossed him one; he caught it and saw that its white plastic had “Pizza Place” engraved into it. A printed label on it read “Newbie,” and Asa looked up at Jennier quizzically. She smiled “It’s a bit of a tradition. You’re the new hire, so you’re ‘Newbie’ until someone else signs on. Then you get your own nametag.”

She sat. “Everybody here’s worn one of those. I think that’s the third one the store’s had. They do wear out after a while. But you may not be wearing it long. We still need another driver.”

“That’s a comfort.”

“Just think, though! Until we get another new driver, there’ll be a lot of business for you. That means more tips for you, more money in your pocket.” She leaned in. “This is one of the few jobs that actually rewards you for working harder. Make more deliveries, get more money. Make deliveries faster, make more deliveries. Work harder, make deliveries faster. It works out for you. Or, at least, it does if you’re willing to work for it. Are you willing, Asa?”

Asa nodded. “I am.”

Jennifer nodded sharply in reply. “Good! Then you’ll need to go through the orientation packet. Read it, do the assessments that’re in it, and keep it ready while you work here. Other than for the orientation, I’m not going to quiz you or anything, but you’ll need to know what all it says. Company policies are all in it, and we’d really like you to follow policy. It’s kind of the point of having policies, you know.”

“I understand,” Asa said.

“Good! Well, I’ve got to get back to the front of the store. Customers come in, they expect to see smiling faces and food getting ready, and I get to make sure that they do! Come get me when you get done. I’ll have you start out on the make table, work it for a while until the head driver comes in. He’ll be the one who trains you.”

“He, who?”

“Manny Davis. He’s been here for a few years. I’ve got one or two folks’ve worked here longer, but Manny’s got the best driving record. Works the make table like a boss, too. Won’t take a management job, though. I don’t understand why.”

I think I do, Asa thought, but he nodded his head and said “Okay. Thanks.”

“Alrighty, then.” And Jennifer popped back up to the front of the restaurant, leaving Asa alone in the break room with his orientation packet. He opened it and read, finding the first few pages generally saccharine materials congratulating him on taking the first step into an exciting, fast-paced career with ample opportunities for advancement. After the laudatory tract ended and a company history was presented (“Pizza Place Pizza Parlor first opened in Gary, Indiana, in 1962.”), the dry corporate boilerplate began, outlining the restaurant’s reporting hierarchy (employees report to managers who report to district managers who report to the head of the franchise, and the franchise head liaises with the corporate offices, still in Gary) and showing uniform standards. General policies, as well as specific position duties and store roles, followed, as did compensation and bonus programs. Those piqued Asa’s interest, and he made ample notation on his pages before filling out the assessment. That done, he tore the relevant pages out of the orientation packet and took them up to Jennifer.

She smiled as she took them. “I’m glad to see you got it done. Now, we wait for Manny.”

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

It has been remarked that the LeBeaux family undergirds education in Pronghorn; Guy LeBeaux was the first schoolteacher in the town, giving the school district its motto–and in his own conduct upholding that. He remained engaged in study and scholarship throughout his life, as his papers–held at Pronghorn Community College’s Pronghorn History Museum–attest. And he passed a love of learning on to his family–easily done early on, when families still tended to follow one another in trades and professions, and when the town and area supported the family well in its intellectual endeavors.

One of Guy’s great-grandsons, Richard LeBeaux, was one of the more vocal proponents of education as the town grew and throve. After marrying a daughter of the Zapata family–his Cajun descent and the Catholicism traditionally associated therewith made such a marriage more attractive to both families than another union with the Lutheran Hochstedlers and the Methodist Smithersons–he made several wise investments not long after the turn of the twentieth century and so found himself in the position of having a fair bit of wealth to apply to local and personal concerns. Much of that wealth went to enhancing the school, helping build it from a one-room schoolhouse to a larger building and into a full-on campus. (His brother, Chase, helped to establish the track and field teams that would become a Pronghorn hallmark. Richard was resistant to the idea, claiming it would be a distraction from the vital work of learning, but Chase had his own funds to apply to the task, and the town approved of the establishment, so Richard was obliged to relent.)

Richard’s one child, son Jacques, sought to follow in his father’s footsteps. The Great Depression hindered that pursuit to some extent; he could not, for example, afford to go east to study, not even so far east as Tulane, where his father and grandfather had both studied. But he did learn what he could where he could, and he applied it to good effect in World War II. When he returned, though, he realized that the emerging world would require more skilled and accomplished workers than had hitherto been the case, and he petitioned for permission from the city and county to set up a trade school, offering up no small part of the family fortune to do so. Permission was granted, unsurprisingly, and construction started in short order–providing jobs that were welcome even amid the post-war boom. The first building on campus, Meriwether Smitherson Hall, was completed within half a year, and classes began that fall. Jacques was killed in a car accident before more buildings opened; when he died, three more were under construction, names already spoken for, but the next one to be raised was named after him and the family that had made schooling in Pronghorn happen.

For all their interest and involvement in education, however, both Richard and Jacques largely abstained from working in the field. Both believed that their financial influence on the institutions would have adverse effects on their ability to be part of the faculty–and both were likely correct. The same was not true of their cousins, however; Chase’s daughter, Heloise, was long an English teacher at the grade school, and his son, Henri, taught welding at the trade school. A more removed cousin, Charles Hochstedler–descended from one of Richard’s sisters–was an early administrator over the trade school and took over leadership of the project after Jacques died. With some financial and political support from the other Hochstedlers, Charles pushed through the transformation of the school in the 1960s from a trade school only to a junior college, using it as a means to help prepare the local students for attendance at four-year schools in San Antonio and points further removed from the small town. The efforts worked, although they had the unexpected consequence of helping to funnel the best and brightest people out of town; they had access to the kind of education that allowed them to move and establish themselves elsewhere. Even so, when he died in 1982, Charles’s funeral was attended by nearly a thousand mourners.

Other members of the LeBeaux family still remain involved in Pronghorn education. A fair number of the teachers at the primary and secondary schools are descendants of Guy, although the family has had a couple of generations run long on girls, and most of the family adheres to traditional mores–the women who marry, which has been most of them, take their husbands’ names. Henri has since retired, and his younger son “Deux” Lee works in retail, but his elder son, Abélard, is noted as a fearsome chemistry instructor at the college. (He is one of two, and while students want to take classes from his colleague, those who have completed their studies tend to look back with thanks at Abélard; he prepares students better for what they will have to do.) Another cousin, Everard LeBeaux, serves as the head librarian for the city. (He is working to align the schools’ libraries with the town, expanding privileges and research ability across the community; his efforts are meeting with limited success.) Many members of the school board are also descended from Guy, although, again, many of them do not carry the LeBeaux name (Smithersons abound, oddly enough), and the president of the school board has almost always been someone other than a LeBeaux.

The trend looks like it will continue. Many of Guy’s descendants are of college age, and a great many of those who are find themselves in one kind of educational program or another. And many of them make a point of coming home to Pronghorn, at least for a time. The schools therefore enjoy an influx of new teaching techniques and ideologies, helping make the town a glistening gem among the limestone hills.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Asa Pemewan walked into his parents’ home, his home for the time being, calling out “Mom, I’m back. And I have some good news. And I need to apologize for being an asshole this morning, because I was, and you didn’t deserve to have me be one.”

Underneath the murmur of the air conditioner working against the Hill Country warmth, there was only silence in the house. But Mom’s car’s here, Asa thought, and I didn’t think she’d be hiking out anywhere today. Maybe she’s just in the bathroom. But when he went to it, he found the door open and the room empty.

“Mom?” Asa called out again. Maybe she’s taking a nap? He began to move through the house, walking quickly, calling out for her again and again. But she was not in her bedroom, nor was she on the living room couch, and not many other places in the house admitted of good napping.

The flesh on the back of his neck tightened, as did that just below the hollow of his throat. What if she’s hurt? Or worse? She doesn’t talk about it much, but  know she’s got some health problems; did one of them rise up at her? He began to grow frantic as he went from room to room, his calls for her growing louder and more strident as he went. If something’s happened, I don’t, I don’t know what I’d, I’d–

He noticed that the back door was standing slightly ajar. He went to it, opened it, and saw that his mother was kneeling near the fence at the back of the backyard. “Mom?”

She did not turn, but waved him away brusquely. Asa relaxed. At least she’s okay. He stood just outside the back door, watching her as well as he could. No garden tools and no wagon, so she’s not planting. But she was wearing a glove, so what the hell is she doing?

As he watched, Asa saw that his mother was wrestling with something–and, with the way the fence moved, it was something in or with the pipe-supported chain-link that separated the Pemewans’ lot from its neighbors. And the sound that reached him, a yowling and hissing, told him that it was probably a cat that had trapped itself in the fence that occupied his mother’s attention. And so I don’t want to bother her. But I think I can be helpful.

Asa ducked back inside and went to the medicine cabinet, grabbing an antibiotic ointment and bandages of several varieties. The cat’ll do what it’ll do; the only question’ll be how much of it it does to Mom. And he waited at the kitchen table with the supplies for a few more minutes, until his mother came back in, sweating. And, as he expected, there were several thin red lines on her hands and arms. “I’ve got the bandages, Mom.”

She went to the sink to wash her hands. “I’ll skip ’em, thanks. But if you’ve got the ointment, I’ll take it.”

“I do. It’s on the table. I’ll put the bandages away.” She nodded as he did so, washing her hands while he returned to the medicine cabinet. When Asa got back to the table, his mother was applying the ointment to herself. She looked up at him. “Well, how’d it go?”

Asa took a seat. “First, Mom, I’ve got to apologize. I was an asshole this morning, and you didn’t deserve it from me.”

“You’re right. You were, and I didn’t. But I forgive you.” She resumed the application. “Now answer my question, Asa. How’d it go?”

“I suppose it went alright” he replied flatly, meeting her gaze levelly. She stopped and cocked an eyebrow at him; he smiled broadly after a moment and added “if getting hired counts as alright.”

“That’s great, Asa! I’m glad for you!”

“Thanks, Mom. I start Monday afternoon–or I do if we don’t have another storm blow through, or the manager doesn’t die, or something like that.”

“You know, you don’t have to be so morbid all the time, Asa.”

“What? It’s a concern, especially since it happened to the last one.”

“But you can’t expect that it’s going to happen again.”

“Just the same, I can’t expect it won’t, either, since it has.”

Asa’s mother sighed heavily and shrugged. “I get so tired of you doing this, Asa.”

“Doing what?”

“Finding the cloud in every silver lining. I swear, sometimes you go out of your way to have it bad, even when you’re doing well. I mean, you just got a job off of walking in off of the street. You’ve going to have money coming in. And you’re talking about the job getting pulled because a storm blows down the building and kills the manager.”

“You’re kind of stretching a point, Mom. I didn’t exactly say that.”

“Close enough! And the idea’s the same, anyway. Every time you have something good come up, you look for how it’ll go wrong.”

“Well, Mom, it’s gone wrong often enough I have to look for how I’ll get screwed over.”

“That’s just it. You don’t. You really could just let things be good every now and again. You could let yourself be happy with how things are. But you don’t. And when your dad and I are happy for you, and you do that, you make us feel like damned fools for doing what parents are supposed to do. We’re supposed to be happy for you when you do well and when you get good things, and when you pull your ‘look on the bright side of death’ thing–”

“I didn’t know you knew that movie.”

“Asa, everybody knows that movie. And don’t distract me. When you pull the crap you pull, you undercut us, take away one of the things we need. And it hurts us, Asa. Your dad’ll never admit it, of course, but it hurts the both of us.”

Asa lapsed into silence.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Asa Pemewan shook his head to clear it. Jennifer dropped her hand and seemed to take the head-shake as a no, asking “What’s wrong? Is there anything I can do to help?”

Asa shook his head more definitively. “No,” he said, “nothing’s wrong. I was just taken a bit aback by how suddenly you made the offer. That’s all. And, to answer you, I can indeed come in on Monday. Is there anything in particular I’ll need to bring with me? Is there anything in particular I’ll need to wear?”

Jennifer resumed her seat. “Well, we ask that our drivers wear either khaki or black slacks. We’ll give you a couple of uniform shirts to wear. If you want more, you can buy them. They’re polo shirts, so you’ll probably want an undershirt for under them. I’ll get yours ordered for the next truck. What size do you take?”

“Usually a large.”

“Okay, then.” She made a note on Asa’s paperwork. “You’ll be on your feet a lot, so comfortable shoes will be good. They have to be closed-toe, though. Non-slip’s a good idea, too. Steel-toe is optional, but if you drop the mixing bowl or a box of cheese, you’ll find you want it.”

“Duly noted.” I suppose I have to go buy shoes, now. Probably slacks, too, Asa thought. “Is the cheese really so heavy?”

“Twenty-pound boxes, so more than most bowling balls.”

“I never knew.”

“Most people don’t. There’s really a lot more to getting this stuff put together than people think. You’ll learn it, though.” Jennifer pushed back her chair a bit. “Any other questions for me?”

“None at this time. I’m sure I’ll have more come up, though.”

Jennifer stood. “I’ll be ready to answer them.” She stood and extended her hand again. “Welcome to the crew!”

This time, Asa stood and shook the offered hand. “Thanks, Jennifer. I appreciate the opportunity.” And I do, although I’m hardly glad this is the only thing that’s come through.

Jennifer walked him out of the store and waved as Asa went to his teal hatchback and got in. He sat in the car for a bit after she went back inside. So I’m going to be a delivery driver. That should be interesting enough. And what happens if another job comes open while I’m doing this?

He sighed heavily and said aloud to himself “If it does, then I’ll worry about it then. But I’m not exactly swimming in job offers, and even if another comes in, I’ll see what’s going to treat me better. Nobody else is going to take my part, not really; Mom and Dad might, but they’re not hiring, and who knows what all my sister’s up to–but I’d be surprised if it was anything I could sign onto. So, yeah, I’ll be running deliveries for a while, at least. And who knows? It might be a good enough job to do.”

Asa started his car and turned back onto 411, heading west towards Pronghorn. The work of cleaning up the town continued, of course, as it needed to do; yards needed clearing of detritus and debris, vehicles needed restoration and replacement, and homes needed repair and rebuilding–and the people of Pronghorn were about each such task, plying diligently the skills that they had, even if those skills ran only to lifting and carrying. Asa drove past them all, heading through town as could not be avoided. But I suppose I’ll be relearning these roads. I learned to drive on them, true, but it’s been a while, and there are stop signs and traffic lights I do not remember being here when I was young. And I guess I’ll learn to get around quicker, too.

Asa found himself driving by the church where Anna Kerr preached, passing by it more slowly than the road allowed or that the drivers behind him enjoyed. He thought he caught a glimpse of her just as he passed it, a flash of red and green plaid, but the passing wind of a jacked-up pickup ripping by him and the blare of its horn pulled his eyes back to the road, and the receding image of the pickup driver’s upraised finger reminded him where he ought to focus. And he did focus thereupon for a while, but his mind began to wander yet again.

I probably ought to apologize to Mom, he thought. I really was an ass to her this morning, lashing out the way I did. She really was trying to help, and she did help, and I, well, I yelled at her like I was a stupid teenager again. I’m supposed to know better, to be better, to do better, and I wasn’t, and I didn’t. Why she and Dad still put up with me, I don’t know. So I suppose I’ll be working to move out as soon as I can; having the job will help, I think.

And I guess that’ll mean I’ll need to start looking at rental listings. There’s no way in hell I can afford to buy, not for a good long while, yet. But I’d guess that rental’s about to become dear, what with the Tuesday Storm ruining the homes it did; folks’ll be looking for places to live, and there aren’t as many as there were before. So maybe I’ll have to stay with Mom and Dad for a little longer, but I’ll be able to put some money back if I do, so that’ll be decent, at least.

He sighed again and shook his head as he turned onto his home street. I need to find a way to make it good. And I need to find it pretty fairly soon.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Asa Pemewan drove east on Texas State Highway 411 from its junction with Texas State Highway 701, soon passing by the Caída de Roca and the end of what got called East Park Street to where big-box stores and fast-food franchises clustered as near to San Antonio as they could be and still be in Pronghorn. Most of the national chains’ local branches had cleared the local tree branches out of their parking lots, and many were open and operating again–although to look at them, business still seemed to be down, as people in the county were more interested in setting things to rights than going out and having hamburgers or shopping for cheaply made imported goods. So there was plenty of parking at the pizza delivery place–there was only one in Pronghorn; one restaurant downtown made pizza, but it did not deliver, and the Tuesday Storm might well have closed it forever–when Asa reached it, and he pulled smoothly into a spot. And, on the door, was a sign that read “Hiring drivers.”

Asa went in and was greeted with a “Welcome to the Pizza Place! What can we get you today?” from a youngish woman he thought he recognized. And he replied, “I’m here to see about getting a job. I saw the sign up; are you still hiring?”

“We are, indeed!” The young woman came around the counter. “Hi, I’m Jennifer. I’m the manager here.” She extended her hand; Asa took it and replied “Asa Pemewan. It’s a pleasure.”

Jennifer gestured towards the back of the restaurant. “If you’d like to fill out an application, you can come on back with me; we’ve got a couple of tables back here, and my office. Have you got a resume with you?”

Asa nodded as he followed Jennifer back and she called out “Dave, keep an eye on the counter for a minute, would ya?” Something sounding like an assenting grunt came back, and Jennifer preceded Asa into a largish breakroom, one wall of which was hidden by stacks of pizza boxes, both folded and yet to be folded. Another wall had tables and chairs leaning against it; Jennifer pointed at one and said “Have a seat. I’ll be right back with an application form.” She exited through a door opposite that through which she and Asa had entered, and Asa thought It’s a better reception than I expected. But I haven’t filled out any paperwork yet, so we’ll see how long that lasts.

Jennifer returned a few moments later, a thin sheaf of papers in hand. “So I’ll need you to fill out some basic information, a work history, and a background check authorization. I’ll also need a copy of your driver’s license, Social Security card, and insurance card.” She smiled. “If you’re going to be a driver, you’ll be going lots of places. We’ve got to make sure you can go anywhere, and we’ve got to check to make sure you’re a safe driver.”

Asa nodded. “Makes sense,” he replied as he pulled a pen out of his pocket. “Oh, yeah, I know you’ll want the resume to fill out the work history bit, but I’ll need you to leave me a copy, too.” Asa nodded again and bent to the paperwork. For the address, he wrote his parents’. Hardly a point of pride, but it’s what’s true at the moment. Phone number, date of birth, email address were all his own, and on his work history, teaching job after teaching job. Adjunct work, visiting professorships, assistantships, fellowships, but all teaching, all the time, going back more than the four jobs for which the application form left room, more than the seven years common for job applications on the resume he had in hand. And all of it for nothing. All of that work, and the work that went into doing that work, all for nothing; I could’ve gotten a job delivering pizza straight out of high school.

He smirked a bit and snorted a laugh. Maybe it would’ve been a step up from working at the donut shop that first year of undergrad.

Jennifer returned from where she had been running copies of documents and checking on Asa’s background. “So that’s good. You’re clean. No tickets, no accidents, no criminal charges we need to worry about. One old charge of public intoxication, but that’s, what, ten years back? I think it’s okay. Clean driving record, good insurance record. So, yeah, that all looks good.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Asa replied. “And I think I’ve got everything filled out that you need.” He pushed his application forms and resume across the table to Jennifer. If you need anything else, I can, at least, try to get it to you.”

“Let me see.” Jennifer scanned over the forms and the resume. “You have reliable transportation, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She looked at him with an eyebrow arched. “Kind of weird to have you call me ‘ma’am,’ you know.”

Asa shrugged. “You’re the manager.”

“Well, yeah, but you’re still, what,” and she looked at the application form again, “a little older than me.”

“Probably more than a little.”

“Yeah. So. Weird.”

“‘Jennifer,’ then?”

“Only if you don’t want me to ‘Dr. Pemewan’ you all day.”

Asa cocked his head. “You know, I’ve not thought about that and dealing with it.”

“It’d be weird for a driver to go around getting ‘Doctor, Doctor’ all the time, right?”

Asa did a double-take. “Excuse me? I’m not sure I caught that right.”

“Oh, yeah. Pay starts at eight, plus a dollar per delivery. Claim your mileage, claim your tips. Can you start Monday, come in around 2 in the afternoon?”

“Full-time or part-time?”

“Part-time for now. After six months, if you’re doing well, and if you want it, and the store can use it–and it probably will–then, yeah, full-time. Paid vacation after a year either way. Medical and 401(k) if you’re full-time, partial matching contributions starting at two years, fully matching up to seven percent after five years. But all that’ll be in your packet on Monday, if you want the job.”

She stood and looked at Asa, her hand extended to shake his. After a moment or two of him not moving, she asked “Are you okay?”

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Continued from the last chapter, here.

A voice came from behind Asa Pemewan as he hunched over his laptop, reviewing job applications he had sent in and marking off updates to them. It was his mother’s, and it asked “What all are you up to, Asa?”

Asa turned in his seat to answer. “I’m looking over job stuff, Mom.”

“Any luck?”

“Only because bad luck counts as luck.”

“Oh, come on,” said Asa’s mother as she sat down across from him. “It can’t be that bad.”

“It can, indeed. Dozens of applications out, not one positive result. If I batted like I apply for jobs, I’d be cut from tee ball teams.”

Asa’s mother looked at him quizzically. “That’s a strange thing to hear from you.”

“What, that I haven’t been able to get a job?”

“Yes. That and a baseball simile. You’ve never really been into sports.”

“I know. But you have, so I figured I’d use it.”

“It doesn’t suit you. And something will come up for you.”

“Evidence would seem to deny that assertion. Hell, the only firm job offer I’ve gotten since I started applying came from the one person killed in the Tuesday Storm. It’s enough to make me think the universe is against me.”

“You know it’s not.” The tone was somewhat exasperated.

“You’re right. I’m not nearly important enough to attract that kind of attention.”

“You can stop that self-pity crap any time, Asa.”

“Am I supposed to be so arrogant as to think the universe cares, then?”

“No, but you’re also not supposed to wallow in feeling like you can’t do anything.”

“I fail to see why not, since all appearances are that I can’t do a damned thing. Hell, I can’t get hired to answer phones or to work a candle-shop counter.”

“Well, you just have to start at the bottom and pay your dues.”

“Retail counter-work isn’t exactly high-level employment, Mom. And you’d think that more than a decade working would count as ‘paying my dues.’ Especially since I actually paid dues for a lot of it.”

“Well, have you tried calling places?”

“Yes. The answer’s been ‘no’ every time there’s been an answer.”

“Did you call back again?”

“Why would I?”

“Persistence matters.”

Asa snorted. “Mom, nagging at you never did me any good, and you love me. Why would it work on people who don’t?”

“Maybe they’d give it to you to get you off of their phone.”

“Yeah, and starting off with a pissed-off boss is such a good idea.” Asa’s sarcasm dripped from his tongue.

“Asa, I’m just trying to help you.”

“I get that, Mom, but think about it. When was the last time you applied for a job? How many times in your life have you looked for work? How many applications have you put in? It’s been years since you’ve been on the market, Mom, and even when you were, you only had to put in, what, three before you got a call back and a job offer. I’ve put in dozens since the beginning of the year alone; I put in well over a hundred last year, and at least that many the year before. Not one has worked out. Not. One.”

“Well, then, have you looked at unemployment?”

“Yes. But since I was on a term contract, I’m not eligible for it where I was, and since I didn’t work here, I’m not eligible for it here, either. So that’s right out.”

“What about a job agency?”

“The only one in town’s at city hall. A tree fell through it, or close enough. Now’s not a good time for it.”

“I think I saw that the pizza place east on 411’s hiring.”

Asa opened his mouth to reply, paused, and said “I hadn’t seen that. When did you see it last?”

“Maybe last week or the week before?”

“Okay, then. That, I’ll go look at.”

“Good. And maybe you’ll think that your mother still has some idea what’s going on in the world, even if it has been a while since she’s had to look for work.”

Asa paused again. Then he offered “You know, you’re right. Of course, you’re right. And you always have been.” He began to speak more quickly, more forcefully, angrily. “I should never have headed to graduate school, should have taken the job that was waiting for me when I finished my bachelor’s. Or I should have majored in business or something actually useful, because it’s not like it matters that a poem can be read in such and such a way, or that a novel is borrowing from one source or another. No, you’re right again. And so I’ll apply at the pizza joint, and I’ll go in with the smile on my face that you’re going to suggest even though I already know to do it and you know I know it or would if you paid attention, and I’ll hand them my resume. They’ll see the cluster of letters at the end of my name, and the application will go in the garbage like damned near every other one I’ve put in in since the year started, and I won’t hear from them for weeks. And when I do call them to follow up, I’ll get the same kind of answer that I’ve been getting all day today and that I’ve been getting for months. They’ll have hired somebody else entirely, and I’ll be worse off than I am now, because I still won’t have a job, and I’ll have expended the effort in trying to no good end once again!”

By the end of the rant, Asa was nearly spitting his words. His mother stood and said “I really hope you get to feeling better, Asa.” And she left the room.

Asa sat in sullen silence.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

After Asa’s father left the house, Asa looked back over the list of job applications he had put in recently. The ones in Pronghorn are a bit too new to worry about yet, and the Tuesday Storm’s thrown everything off, anyway, he thought. Still, there’re a few I probably ought to check on. So he began pulling up websites, fingers flying over the keyboard, entering his username and password on each–always “AsaPemewan” and a variation of “8Chars!,” respectively, with the character after the exclamation point cycling from one through nine to zero and back again.

The results were disappointing. An inventory position that would have had him driving around to small towns and highway gas stations, counting candy bars and quarts of 10W-30 motor oil showed “Does not meet minimum hiring requirements.” It had advertised only needing a high school diploma or GED, no experience required. And with a doctorate, I don’t meet minimum requirements. Great.

A marketing position, the kind that has people standing in big-box stores and hocking cell phone plans or satellite television service, had asked for much the same: high school diploma and a willingness to learn. “Position  filled,” it read, and Asa knew he had not been made the offer.

A test-development position, one that had asked applicants to have terminal degrees in “English, history, philosophy, mathematics, political science, and other fields,” as well as teaching experience–And I’ve only worked in the classroom for years, Asa thought–showed an in-browser message. “Thank you for applying. After careful consideration, we have determined that you do not meet our needs at this time. Please keep looking at our job postings for positions that might be a better fit for you. Good luck in your continued search.”

An administrative assistant job in Kerr County was also on the list. It had asked for someone who could type 25 words per minute, run standard office equipment, handle word processing and spreadsheets, and offer a pleasant demeanor in customer service.. It also showed “Position cancelled” on the company website. At least they didn’t hire somebody else, thought Asa as he navigated to the next hiring site.

Another administrative assistantship that Asa had applied for, one looking for someone with the same general qualifications–with the addition of “go-getter” the only difference–showed “Application under review” and a last update of a month gone. Asa checked the location and the time, noting that it was in business hours. The call went to voice mail, and Asa left his name and number. He also said “I’m calling to follow up on an application for an administrative assistant position I put in a while back. The website still lists it as under review, but any update would be welcome.”

The next position on his list was one that had taken a resume through email. It was for another administrative assistant position, and Asa dialed the number. A human voice greeted him, and Asa said “Yes, hi, this is Asa Pemewan. I applied for an administrative assistant job with you a couple of weeks ago, and I was calling to follow up.”

“Oh, yeah, we hired somebody else.”

“I see. Is there something I should have done differently when I put in for the job?”

“Nah. We had a lot of really good candidates. You just didn’t read as being a good fit.”

“I see. Well, thanks for your time.”

“No problem.” The line went dead, and Asa shook his head. He also dialed the next number on his list. It was for a position as a library clerk, and when the call was answered, Asa gave his introduction again: “Hi, I’m Asa Pemewan. I applied for a library clerk position with you a couple of weeks back, and I was calling to follow up on it.”

“Well, sir, the person who handles hiring is out today. But if you’ll give me your number, I’ll leave a message for her, and I’m sure she’ll call you back tomorrow or the next day.”

“Thank you, ma’am; that’d be fine,” said Asa, and he gave her the number. The voice on the other end of the line confirmed it, and after a brief politeness, the line went dead again.

As Asa went along, he continued to make notes on his list. I don’t know why I keep doing this, he thought. I suppose it’s so I remember what I said to whom and when, but looking back over dozens of failed attempts is less a record of progress and more a litany of failures. And I don’t need to have another one of those; I’ve enough for a catechism and a half already.

Asa sighed heavily and muttered to himself “Why do I have to keep doing this? It’s not doing any good, so far as I can see.” But he bent back to the work, checking up on applications he had filled out and sent off in the hopes of finding some job, any job, that would offer him full-time work.

One phone number had been disconnected.

Another was answered brusquely. “We hired somebody else. You’ve got how many degrees? We need an entry-level worker.”

Yet another was more polite. “You’re entirely too qualified for the job. We’d never be able to offer you what you’re worth.” Asa replied to it “I’m happy to work my way up from an entry-level spot and learn how the company works.” “But we’ve already filled the position, sir, so there’s nothing we can do.”

Still another was somewhat incredulous. “I can’t imagine why someone with your credentials would want to work here instead of teaching.” “As to that, I’d been thinking that a switch might be good” replied Asa. “Okay, but then how long would it be before you decided another switch would be good?” “That’d depend on how I was treated, of course.” Wouldn’t it be for anyone? “Well, we were looking for someone who was looking for a long-term position, and we found one.” “Ah. Thanks, then.”

Another position was struck from the list of those still outstanding. And there aren’t as many of those as I’d like, anymore.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

The ringing of his cell phone woke Asa Pemewan in the bed he was using at his parents’ house. Tossing sheet and blanket aside, he groggily reached over to it, fumbled to answer, and hoarsely said “Hello?” into it. “Who’s calling?”

A voice sounding like it belonged to a middle-aged woman replied “I’m sorry to call so early, but I’m trying to reach Asa Pemewan. My name’s Olivia Smitherson, and I run Smitherson Chandlery.”

Asa sat up. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Asa.”

“Hi, Asa. Again, I’m sorry to wake you, but I wanted to return your call and to get hold of you before you tried to come in to work.” A choked sob reached Asa’s ears. “Papa didn’t let any of us know what he was going to have you do for him, and the office is in a shambles, anyway, because of the Tuesday Storm.”

“I understand, Ms. Smitherson. Thanks for letting me know. And please accept my condolences.”

“Thank you.” The line went dead, leaving Asa sitting in the dark. The air conditioner whirred to life, and Asa looked at his phone. I can get another hour of sleep, or I can go ahead and get up and try for other jobs. Maybe something in San Antonio’s hiring.

With that thought, Asa realized he would not be getting back to sleep anytime soon. So he staggered towards the kitchen to turn on the morning’s coffee, and while it began to brew, he used the one bathroom in the house ahead of his father’s waking. That done, he took a look at want-ads in and around the Alamo City. Education jobs on Craigslist spoke of the need for daycare teachers to work with the very young, as well as tutors for various agencies to offer supplemental instruction at all grade levels; Asa clicked on one of the latter, finding that it promised high pay and flexible hours. Clicking through, however, demanded a lengthy application process.

Seeing it, Asa shrugged before he went to get his coffee. Cup in hand, he sat back down and put himself to filling out the application. Questions about his programs of study, his grades, his teaching experience, and his test scores leapt at him from the screen. Hell, I haven’t taken the ACT or SAT since high school, and that was twenty years ago. Even the GRE’s a way back for me; I don’t know if I’d be any good helping with it, he thought. Still, I can do lit–all of it, really. And I can teach writing, so that should help. He typed furiously, clicked repeatedly, and, at length, the application was completed.

Form behind him, his father, dressed for work, asked “What was all that?”

“Job application. Tutoring, so irregular as all hell–if it works. It’s summer, now, so tutoring won’t be in much demand. But I’ve got to keep looking, right?”

His father nodded and moved to get his own coffee. “Y’ do. And somethin’ll come up. Y’re bright and a hard worker with y’r head and y’r words. Somethin’s coming.”

Asa took a pull from his cup. “I hope you’re right.”

“Y’ ain’t been here long, either, Asa. Tuesday Storm screwed things around, sure, but y’d need to be patient even without it.”

“If I’d only started looking when I came back, I’d believe you. But I was putting stuff out middle of last year, and I haven’t heard back on hardly anything that wasn’t a ‘no,’ here or otherwise. Hell, even my friend could only get me a ‘maybe.'”

“Y’ve still got to keep going.”

“Who’s talking about not? I’m just frustrated with the thing, is all. And so I’m looking for whatever I can slap together to get some money in in the meantime.” He took another pull from his mug. “Not that it’s helping at the moment. But I’m trying.”

Asa’s father drank from his own mug. “I know y’ are, son. I know y’are. And I know looking for work and not finding it sucks. And even when y’ do find work, and y’ work y’r ass off, and the bills don’t get paid the way they need to, that sucks, too. But y’re at least in a decent spot. Y’ve got food and a place to sleep, and that’s better than it could be.”

Asa nodded. “I know, Dad. I know. And I appreciate that you and Mom’re letting me stay here; I know you don’t have to.”

“Y’re our son. We weren’t going to turn y’ away.”

“But some folks would’ve. You didn’t, and I appreciate it. And I know I’ve been kind of a pain in the ass.”

“We’re used to that from y’.”

Asa shook his head. “I’m being serious. I really do appreciate you putting up with me–and continuing to do so. Because it doesn’t look like I’m going to be able to move back out anytime soon.” He smiled. “You and Mom’ll have to keep your clothes on around the house a little longer.”

Asa’s father smiled back. “Y’ stay in y’r room like y’ used to, and we’ll do like we did then, too.”

Asa pantomimed vomiting, and his father chuckled. “How’d y’ think we got y’ and y’r sister?” He finished his cup of coffee. “But I’ve got to head in soon, so I’ll leave y’ to it. Should be a nice day out; see if y’ can get some of it on y’, okay? Staying in all the time’s not good for y’, and y’ need every bit of help y’ can get.”

“I will, Dad. But I’m going to see about putting in some more applications first.”

“Sounds good, son. Sounds good.”

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