by Rose Kent
Doing everything required to launch a business can feel like Mission Impossible, but do not be deterred! Order takeout, drink plenty of coffee, and chip away at that to-do list.—The Inside Scoop
The weeks from January to mid-February blew by hard and fast, like the cold wintry winds that rattled the apartment windows. From Monday to Friday, Ma and I started having what we called Jordan handoffs. She would spend all morning at the shop fixing things up, then rush back to the apartment before Jordan’s bus arrived in the early afternoon. Then as soon as my bus got in an hour later, she’d return to A Cherry on Top for another work stretch.
Ma decided the Grand Opening would be on Sunday, April 15. Tax day. (Getting your taxes done, she reasoned, gave folks a good reason to treat themselves.) I’d fix Jordan’s dinner and help with homework and bath time. Most evenings Ma didn’t get back to the apartment until long after he was fast asleep. She always came in with her bag crammed with business papers. Sometimes she’d be holding a toolbox, looking worn and greasy like a mechanic. Once she showed up wearing her old deli smock, covered in blue paint. Her eyes always had charcoal shadows under them, but she never complained about being tired. She’d fix a pot of coffee and plop down on the futon for a few hours of studying the Inside Scoop and taking notes. She’d always pause after a while, look up, and ask, “How’s school?”
“School’s school,” I’d say, shrugging.
I didn’t tell her that I had straight A’s in my classes, including math. (Take that, Ms. Hockley!) Or that Pete and I played Texas hold ’em in study hall, and I beat him just about every time. And I didn’t tell her that Gabby and I had gotten to know each other better and that I didn’t mind her strange ways so much. I’d even confided in her a little about Ma’s new business and my worries about it. Gabby was a good listener. She kept encouraging me to join peer mediation, saying I’d get as much out of it as I gave, that I was exactly the kind of mediator who would “keep it real.” But because of Ma’s long workday, it would never happen. I had to take care of Jordan.
No, Ma and I didn’t talk about my life at school much, and I sure didn’t ask about the shop, even though I knew she wanted me to.
One drizzly Wednesday afternoon Winnie stopped by after school. I was slicing apples for Jordan’s snack, and she invited him to play in her apartment. “Just Jordan,” she said, winking at me. “Big sister here deserves a break.”
Jordan loved the idea, and off they went. Alone for the first time in weeks, I jumped onto the couch to watch a home-makeover show and work on a patch for Winnie’s piano-bench cushion. I was embroidering a nurse’s cap in mother-of-pearl thread using a scrap of white linen that Juanita’s grandmother gave me from an old skirt of hers.
But after an hour of embroidering, my hands started cramping and my chain stitches started looking sloppy. I got fed up with the show too, which was all about remodeling a bathroom on a shoestring budget. The host kept telling the money-strapped homeowners to retile, but personally I think stenciling and a fresh coat of paint give you more bang for your buck. That sure gave our run-down bathroom a fresh look on less than twenty dollars, and it only took a couple of hours to finish.
So I roamed over to Building Two—which was identical to Building One, even down to the fake tree missing leaves—and then on to Building Three, Assisted Living. Now that lobby was appealing. It had contemporary maple furniture with teal cushions and a set of sunflower paintings, even if it did smell like a hospital. The place was hopping with staff and residents. Next to the lobby was a hair salon, a game room with a Ping-Pong table and giant TV, a library, and a cafeteria where residents ate their meals.
I sank into a rocker by the front window of the lobby just as Chief walked in, pushing a metal cart stacked with grocery bags. Lots of them.
“Hi, Chief,” I called. He still had my vote for Schenectady’s oldest oddball, but I didn’t want him to think I was rude.
“Young lady,” he said as he passed, saluting with a brush of his hand to the fur trim around his parka hood.
The elevator opened and he pushed the cart in, but a wheel got stuck. He pushed it again, but it wouldn’t budge.
I jumped up to help, and together we wiggled it into the elevator. Before I knew it, the doors closed and we were headed up.
“This can’t all be yours,” I said, pointing to the groceries.
“’Course not. Plenty of folks around here can’t get out in winter, especially in Assisted Living, so we give them a hand.”
The doors opened, and I pushed the cart out. Chief followed. I could tell steering the cart on carpeting was hard for him, what with his prosthesis.
An aide passed beside an old man. The aide was telling a joke as he helped wheel the old man’s oxygen tank.
“Doesn’t the staff help with groceries?” I asked.
Chief looked annoyed at my question. “They only make deliveries once a week, so we supplement with a midweek run. A week’s a long time to wait if you run out of something, don’t you think?”
I nodded. Chief kept saying we, but he was the only one here besides me.
From one apartment to the next, we canvassed the second floor, delivering drug prescriptions, shampoo, cold medicine, and aspirin, as well as candy bars and all sorts of snacks. Chief double-checked each order before we made a delivery, and he chitchatted with everyone. He took the job seriously, that’s for sure, until we headed to the third floor.
Then his face lit up like a kid getting presents. And just as we stopped at apartment 333, he ran a comb over his crew cut and popped a mint into his mouth.
Boy, was I curious who lived behind that door.
A tiny lady in wool slacks and a bright red turtleneck slowly opened the door, releasing a soapy scent into the hallway. She leaned on a walker and grinned through cherry lipstick when she saw Chief. “At last, my prince arrives!”
“You look sweeter than Vermont maple syrup, Adelaine. How’s rehab helping that hip?” he asked.
“I’m up and moving. Even if I am a slowpoke,” she said.
“The turtle beat the hare. That’s what I say,” Chief answered, serious like he was dishing out deep psychological wisdom.
“I’ve been looking forward to your visit all day. I gave my last cookie to my granddaughter when she stopped by earlier.”
Chief turned to me. “Look for the bag marked ‘Heisey.’ Adelaine Heisey,” he whispered.
“Mine has cookies, dear,” she said. “Sugar-free cookies. I’m a diabetic. I go through a bag a week.”
I held out the package for her, but Chief grabbed it first. “We’re full-service, Tess. We don’t let customers with walkers lift heavy bags.” He scowled as he walked into her apartment and put the bag on the kitchen counter.
Adelaine handed me money. “I saw you at your mother’s ice cream sampling party, but I don’t remember your name. I’ve never been good with names.”
I smiled. “I’m Tess Dobson.”
“Nice of you to help, Tess. Isn’t Frederick wonderful? I call him the Good Samaritan of Schenectady.”
I could think of better nicknames for Chief, but I didn’t tell Adelaine that.
Chief blushed like a teenager. “Aw, no trouble at all,” he said, kicking his good leg against the cart before he kissed her hand and “bid her farewell.” My oh my, Adelaine’s face turned as red as her turtleneck.
It took us two hours to make all the deliveries. Most of them were for Assisted Living folks, but we brought some to the other two buildings too. We had to go back up to the fifth floor in Building Two twice, being that Mr. Gulden in 529 was blasting opera music and didn’t hear us knock. And there was a mix-up with a lady in 305 who thought her prescription was filled incorrectly. Chief had to call the pharmacist, who explained that she got the generic version. It was the same drug but with a different name, and he had to tell her four times before she finally believed him.
“Same drug, same drug,” Chief whispered to me after we left her apartment, and I
grinned.
The most unusual customer was the guy wearing a leather bomber jacket and smelling like he’d been dipped in aftershave. He practically sprinted past us in the lobby of Building Two.
“Got an order for ya, Cal!” Chief called to him.
“Leave it next door with Jessie. I’m running late,” he said. I recognized the Oakley sunglasses on top of his head. As in hip-hop-happening and pricey.
“Will do. Everything okay?” Chief asked.
“Never been better. I’m meeting the 1956 Miss New York for coffee at Starbucks. Match.com says we could be soul mates!”
Making deliveries wasn’t the end of Operation Homebound. That’s what Chief called it too, like it was a military mission. After we stowed the cart in the basement, we returned to the building lobby to stuff “chits” (order forms) in the mailboxes for next week’s run. Had I been the boss, I would’ve tucked the flyers in the delivery bags, but Chief didn’t take too kindly to having his authority questioned. Last but not least, he posted the supermarket sale sheet and the Seniors’ Special flyer from the Chinese takeout on the bulletin board: “General Tsao’s chicken, rice, egg roll, miso soup, and a fortune cookie: $8.99 plus tax.”
I thought the staff here must love having a stubborn take-charge guy like Chief around. Sure saves them some work.
Afterward, Chief insisted on walking me back to Building One since it was dark out, even though I said it wasn’t necessary. My stomach was growling like a grizzly bear. And I still had to get Jordan from Winnie’s apartment.
When we got to the lobby, he reached into a bag, pulled out a bakery box, and handed it to me. “Payment for services rendered,” he said.
An angel food cake.
“Thanks but you keep it,” I said, knowing it was his.
“I insist. Nobody accuses Chief Morrow of not paying his crew.”
There was no sense arguing with the commander in chief of Operation Homebound. I thanked him and took the cake.
As I turned toward Winnie’s apartment, Chief called my name. “We get under way every Wednesday at 1630 sharp.”
I could see myself enjoying doing this every week. Winnie was right about all the colorful characters in this place. One guy had shown me his collection of Civil War relics, including a letter written by General Ulysses S. Grant before the siege of Vicksburg. A lady with a British accent told me she spoke seven different languages, including Dutch, which she picked up when she aided the underground resistance in Holland during World War II. I had to admit there was far more to these White Hairs than met the eye. And I liked how excited they got when I handed them their favorite snacks.
Still, something stood in the way of my accepting this job, no different than it was with peer mediation: Jordan. I had to take care of him.
“I can’t make it,” I said.
Chief’s weathered face looked confused. “If it helps, I can talk to your mother, explain about Operation Homebound.”
I didn’t want to get into it with him about Ma and her new business and my watching Jordan. “Sorry, I just can’t,” I said, and I walked away.
Jordan was feeding the fish when I got to Winnie’s apartment. It smelled spicy and meaty-delicious inside, and I was dying to peek in the oven.
“Sure hope you did something pleasant for yourself with your free time, Tess,” Winnie said as we both watched Jordan sprinkle fish food in the water.
I told her I did some embroidery, which always makes me happy. I sure wasn’t going to tell her the cushion I was working on was for her.
“Nice to know someone with design flair. If you ask me, folks around here get stuck in their old ways, including fashion and home decorating,” Winnie said. “Well, Jordan and I had ourselves one blow-the-roof-down jam session. If you and your ma don’t mind, I think he and I should spend every Wednesday together. It’s good for me to have an audience while I’m rehearsing for my band gigs. And he does a nice job feeding my fish. They smile back at him.”
My eyes got big. Every Wednesday? That would mean I could go to peer mediation! And if I took the late bus, I’d still be back in time to help Chief with Operation Homebound afterward. Of course Ma would approve. Winnie was a nurse, an entertainer, and a soulful fairy godmother wrapped in one. I looked over at Jordan. He was staring into the fish tank again, with his cheeks puffed and his arms moving like flippers. He loved it here.
“Winnie, that’s the best plan I’ve heard in a while. Thanks!”
As we headed out the door, Winnie gave me a grocery bag to take with me. “Hold it from the bottom and don’t peek until you get in,” she said.
As soon as we got back to our apartment, I put down the cake from Chief and pulled the foil-covered tray out of the bag from Winnie.
A note was taped on top:
Dinner’s served just like the San Antonio patient ordered, with skins on the taters & Tapatío sauce sprinkled in the gravy. Nothing’s impossible when you know where to shop!
Chapter 11
Conflict is unavoidable in business. Think win-win: allow all parties to express themselves in a constructive manner. Always seek a peaceful resolution.—The Inside Scoop
“Watch out, world. The great state of Texas just brought us their best mediator!” Gabby shouted as I walked into the peer-mediation conference room the next Wednesday.
All the kids standing near Gabby flashed welcoming smiles my way, and I felt my neck get blotchy like a giraffe’s. Living with Ma for twelve years, I’ve got tons of experience facing problems—but judging from my parents’ past shouting matches and our ongoing money troubles, I can’t say I own bragging rights to solving any of them. I wondered, too, if kids had heard about that pear I’d tossed at Pete. Thinking about that made me feel out of place here in peer mediation, like a drunk sitting front and center at Alcoholics Anonymous guzzling a beer.
“Hey, Tess!” Ritchie called.
A large oval table filled most of the room, and there was a desk in the back. Ritchie and Gabby and six others were standing near the desk, hovering over a tray of chocolate chip cookies. Right away Gabby introduced me to everybody. They were discussing what kind of team shirt would best represent peer mediation.
“I say one with a collar so we look slick,” Ritchie said.
“I vote for a casual T-shirt in a cheery color, to put everyone at ease,” Gabby said.
“I don’t care as long as it’s baggy,” Kim said. “I love baggy shirts!”
Watching them, I was struck by how different they all looked. Kim was tiny and freckled. Gavin was Asian and “into skateboarding,” as he explained. Devin, a skinny black kid who rode the same bus as me, always carried a violin case. Malika, who sat in front of me in social studies, always wore a scarf over her head. Yesterday the social studies teacher asked the class what infamous general contributed to the colonists’ victories at the battles of Ticonderoga and Saratoga in the Revolutionary War, and hers was the first hand up. (“Benedict Arnold, the traitor!” she answered quickly like she was on a game show.)
A teacher walked into the room and greeted me. “Hello, Tess. I’m Mr. Winecki, but this group has given me the notable nickname Mr. Win.”
Ritchie shoved a cookie in his mouth, chewed, and then began speaking. “Yup, our motto is, ‘Win-win solutions please Mr. Win.’”
I half expected a peer-mediation advisor to look stern like a judge, but Mr. Win didn’t come across that way. He reminded me of that sweet, innocent guy in the movie Forrest Gump, fully expecting life to be like a box of chocolates. He wore suspenders, and he kept a pencil tucked behind his ear.
“Gabby has probably told you that we like to think of ourselves as advocates for peace in progress,” he said, reaching for a cookie from the tray.
“Peace sounds good to me,” I said, smiling.
“Spoken like a true mediator. I like that southwestern accent of yours. Disputants will pay attention when you speak.”
Don’t count on it, I thought.
Mr. Win gave
me a thick folder labeled “Peer Mediation Training” to take home and read. “For today, observe what goes on in the session and how the mediators respond. Mediators don’t judge who’s right and who’s wrong. Two mediators guide the process along to a win-win outcome; the rest of us will be nonparticipating observers, sworn to confidentiality. The ultimate objective of the peer mediator is to empower the disputants to resolve their conflict themselves—”
“Nothing personal, Mr. Win,” Gabby interrupted. “But you’re making us sound like a bunch of boring guidance counselors.” Pointing to Ritchie and the others, she added, “Mind if we give Tess the skinny on what this is really about?”
“By all means,” he said with an amused grin as he tightened his suspenders. “We have about ten minutes.”
Mr. Win closed the door, and we gathered around the table. Gabby sipped from a water bottle, then began speaking in a no-nonsense tone. “Ottawa Creek Middle School might look like a picture postcard for tranquil, cooperative learning, but don’t be duped, Tess. This place is a war zone. Enemy combatants launch strikes in the lunchroom, in the hallways, and even in the restrooms, inflicting pain and causing destruction. Our job as peer mediators is to: one, help heal the emotional wounds; and two, get to the root of each conflict to resolve it and prevent further explosions.”
With that, Ritchie and the others described the problems that bring kids to peer mediation: rumors beings spread; taunting and teasing about everything from who couldn’t do a single pull-up in gym class to whose iPod has better tunes; nasty boyfriend-girlfriend breakups; and the occasional shove in the hallway or on the school bus. It sounded like the same type of troubles back in my old school. The difference here was that kids involved had some say-so in how things got resolved. As long as the conflict wasn’t violent and didn’t involve drugs or weapons, teachers could recommend that students attend peer mediation rather than have their fate decided by adults. (Or students could request peer mediation on their own.) And if they didn’t want to, that was fine too.