When I Found You

by Hyde, Catherine Ryan

  “Yes, sir. It is. Absolutely. I appreciate the shot. When do you want me to start work?”

  “I’ll take you out on the loading dock and you can start right now.”

  “Now?” Nat asked, reminding himself to close his mouth afterward.

  “Someplace you’d rather be?”

  “Um. No. No, sir. Now is fine. Now is perfect.”

  • • •

  Nat stood on the loading dock, staring at stack after stack of wooden crates, each containing sixteen milk bottles. Awaiting further instructions.

  The foreman, an old but muscular guy named Mr. Merino, came around and clapped him on the back. Then he set a printed form on top of the stack right in front of Nat’s belt.

  “LaPlante wants you to fill this out.”

  “What is it?”

  “Instructions for withholding. You know, from your paycheck.”

  “I can’t fill that out here.”

  “Why the hell can’t you?”

  “Because I promised Nathan McCann I’d bring it home and get his advice on it first.”

  “I’ll have to see what LaPlante thinks about that.”

  “He’ll think it’s fine. Because Nathan McCann said so.”

  “OK. Well, I’ll just double-check that.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s fine. Should I be doing something while I’m waiting?”

  “Yeah. I’d say so. I’d say you should be picking up those crates that are right under your nose. And loading them into that truck. That’s also right under your nose.”

  “OK. I just thought maybe there would be instructions.”

  Merino stood with hands on hips, his chin raised high. As if to be taller while looking down on the new guy. The one with the huge black mark against him. “You’re unclear on how to pick things up and then put them down again?”

  “No, sir. I’m not. Not at all. I can handle that. I’ll just get started.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Merino said. And turned his back to walk away.

  “Mr. Merino? What time is quitting?”

  Merino whirled back. “Excuse me?”

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  “You haven’t so much as lifted your first crate, and you already want to know what time you can stop?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. Not at all. Just that it’s a weird work day, you know. Not a regular one. Because I started late. And I just have to take the bus home, is all. And I just wanted to be sure it wouldn’t be after the buses stopped running.”

  Merino continued to eye him harshly. “Bus runs till ten at night.”

  “No problem, then,” Nat said. With a little salute.

  He lifted a crate. It was surprising how heavy sixteen quart bottles of milk in a wooden crate could be.

  • • •

  Merino came back around about ten crates later.

  “Boss says you can quit at five today. Tomorrow — and every weekday after — get here by six in the morning. And get off at three.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He also said if Nathan McCann told you to take that W-4 form home with you, then you take it home.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s what I figured he would say.”

  “Is that a smart-ass comment?”

  “No, sir. Not at all. No disrespect intended at all.”

  • • •

  By the time he got to Little Manny’s one-room apartment, it was after six.

  He was out of breath from running all the way from the bus stop. The muscles in his lower back and between his shoulder blades had locked into painful spasms. His biceps ached and stung from lifting those heavy crates all day long.

  And tomorrow he’d have to start all over again. Six A.M. Six in the morning till three in the afternoon. Imagine how his back and arms would feel by quitting time tomorrow.

  He knocked, hearing the dull drone of a Gilligan’s Island episode from behind the door. Nothing else. No movement. No answer to his knock.

  Well, he’d get used to it. He’d get in shape to do the work. Maybe it would even help him in his training. That is, if he still even had an offer of training.

  He knocked again.

  Little Manny opened the door. His hair looked wildly disheveled, as if he had been asleep. The smell of stale tobacco smoke practically slammed into Nat’s face, making him cough.

  “You stood me up, kid.” His voice sounded gravelly with sleep.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.”

  “I thought you wanted this more than anything.”

  “I do. I do want it more than anything.”

  “Nope, you just showed me you don’t. Obviously you don’t. Obviously whatever you were doing all day, you want more.”

  “I have to work. I don’t have any choice. I have to hold down a job to live where I’m living. I need a roof over my head. I’m off on the weekends. Couldn’t I just come over on the weekends?”

  “Weekends? I kind of like to keep my weekends free.”

  “For what?” Nat asked. And then prayed it hadn’t sounded as rude to Little Manny as it had to him.

  Long silence.

  “Well, that’s a point, I guess. OK. Saturday morning.” And he slammed the door shut again.

  • • •

  Nat ran all the way home. Trying to think of a good excuse for being so late.

  7 October 1978

  Pro

  Nat stood facing Little Manny in his tiny, smoky room, wearing unfamiliar and uncomfortable gloves. Holding them raised, poised, in perfect position. At least, as best he could remember.

  Feathers sat between them on the floorboards, panting, little drops of sweat flipping off his tongue and hitting Little Manny’s old, filthy wood floor.

  Little Manny wore two big padded punch mitts that he held up for Nat to jab at. He was so short he had to hold them above his head. Nat assumed their purpose was to allow his trainer to feel the force of his jabs.

  “That dog’s drooling on my floor.”

  “Sorry. You want me to tie him up outside?”

  “Nah. Who cares? Floor’s not clean anyway. Only, what’s he drooling for? It’s cold.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe from the walk over?”

  “What’re you waiting for? An engraved invitation to arrive by messenger?”

  “Oh. Right.”

  He jabbed with his right, glancing off one of Little Manny’s training mitts.

  “What? Are you joking?”

  He jabbed again. Harder this time.

  “No, seriously. Is that a joke? Most guys work out in the can. What the hell did you do in there for three years? Like I can’t guess. Only, even if that’s true, your right hand should be in better shape than that.”

  “It’s just that I’m thrashed from this new job. Geez. You have no idea. My arms feel like they’re about to fall off. Thank God I started on a Thursday. If I’d started on Monday I think the week would’ve just about killed me.”

  He tried a couple more jabs, but he knew they were every bit as pathetic.

  “You’re gonna have to start on Monday next week.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, maybe I’ll be more used to it by then.”

  Little Manny let out a sudden sound, a cross between a sharp laugh and blowing a raspberry. It startled Feathers, who skittered off into the corner. “Very funny. You’re a bundle o’ laughs, kid. Heavy labor like that? Eight hours a day? Take you four, five weeks to get used to it. Minimum.”

  Nat’s gloved hands fell to his sides. “Four or five weeks?”

  “Don’t stop, kid. Keep jabbing. You were doing lousy but at least you were doing.”

  A couple more jabs. It was starting to hurt a lot. Not only throwing the punches. That had hurt all along. Just holding his arms in position was getting hard to bear.

  “Now, one good thing, though,” Little Manny said. “When you do get used to it, you’ll be in much better shape. They’re paying you to work out.”

  “That’s what I was h
oping, yeah. I had to think of something good about that job. The foreman hates me. And it takes me forty-five minutes each way on the bus.”

  “What do you think about all that time you’re riding the bus?”

  “How much better everything’s going to be when I go pro.”

  “Pro? Who said nothing about going pro? I never said I thought you could go pro.”

  “Well, screw you, then. I’m going pro no matter what you think.” And he jabbed again. Harder this time.

  “Aha. Now I know how to get something out of you. You’re one of those guys has to get mad.”

  “Is that why you said it?”

  “No. I said it because I never told you I thought you could go pro.”

  “Why the hell can’t I?”

  “I never said you couldn’t, either. Just stop getting so ahead of yourself, kid. I can’t even get you to hit these mitts so’s I can feel it, and you’re already accepting the featherweight title in your head.”

  “I’m not featherweight.”

  Another jab.

  “Better. Hell you’re not.”

  “Welter, maybe.”

  “In your dreams, little boy.”

  “Don’t even do that. It’s not funny.”

  “Well then, hit me.”

  Nat aimed a shot between and well below the mitts. Right at the little man’s torso. Little Manny blocked it perfectly. Then he dropped the mitts to his sides and looked Nat in the eye. Nat looked down at the floorboards.

  “The anger thing’ll help your cause in the ring. Breaking the rules won’t. That’s what the officials are there for. Make sure you don’t get away with nothing. No shit. You know? And don’t think they won’t be watching you every minute.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You don’t gotta be sorry. You just have to learn to channel what you feel. Use it, you know? Right now it’s your worst enemy. It could be your best friend.”

  “How?”

  “What do you think I’m trying to teach you? Why do you think you gotta show up here every day you don’t work?”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “Now. You gonna hit me, Little Featherweight, or what?”

  14 October 1978

  Payday

  “Yesterday was payday,” Nat said. In-between punches on the heavy bag.

  “First payday ever?”

  “Yup.”

  “How’d it feel?”

  “It sucked. I couldn’t believe it. They took so much out for taxes. And unemployment. And all this other stuff I never even heard of. And then I had to pay the old guy back for the bus fare. And put aside for bus fare till next payday. So I look at what’s left, and I’m like, ‘I went through all those days of hell for this?’ I couldn’t believe it. If I didn’t have a free roof over my head … I mean, how do people even do it? I don’t get it at all.”

  After a couple more good punches Little Manny said, “Welcome to the real world, kid.”

  A few minutes of solid blows. No comments.

  Then Nat said, “What time is it?”

  “Five to eleven.”

  “I need to take a break.”

  “We only just barely started.”

  “I need a chocolate milkshake. All of a sudden I’m just in the mood for a chocolate milkshake. How far a walk is the Frosty Freeze from here?”

  • • •

  Nat stepped up to the window with Feathers at his heel. Behind the counter he saw a skinny guy about his own age with glasses, a paper hat, and a red-and-white striped Frosty Freeze shirt.

  The other window was still closed, and Nat craned his neck to see if anyone else was working in the back. He could hear someone moving around back there. But when the someone finally moved into view Nat saw a tall, very fat man.

  “Welcome to Frosty Freeze. Can I take your order?”

  “Oh. Chocolate shake.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It felt weird to be called “sir” by a guy his own age. I guess work’ll do that to you, Nat thought. Cut you right down to size.

  “So, where’s that girl who works here?”

  “Which one? Lot of girls work here. Oh, by the way. No dogs on the patio.”

  “Oh. Sorry. I couldn’t see anyplace to tie him up.”

  “Yeah, OK, but just … if the boss comes … I told you the rule.”

  “Right. You did. She has brown hair and brown eyes.”

  “That could be about three of ’em.” Then, over his shoulder, “Freddy? One chocolate shake.”

  “And freckles on her nose.”

  “Sounds like Carol.”

  “OK. Where’s Carol?”

  “She doesn’t come in till two on Saturday.”

  “Shit,” Nat said under his breath.

  Then, having already ordered the chocolate shake, he had no choice but to pay for it, and walk back to Little Manny’s with it, straining to draw the challenging thickness of it up the straw as he walked.

  • • •

  “You got an alarm clock here?” Nat asked Little Manny.

  “No, why would I need an alarm clock? I don’t gotta be at work till closing time.”

  “Kitchen timer?”

  “There’s one on the stove, but I don’t know if it works. I’m not much of a cook. Why? You got someplace better to be?”

  “I’m just thinking at two o’clock I might get in the mood for another chocolate shake.”

  Little Manny sighed and shook his head. “I know what you’re doing. And it’s not gonna work.”

  “Why isn’t it?”

  “‘Cause it’ll just put fat on you. What you want to do is to bulk up, but with muscle. You wanna gain weight, ask me how. Let me show you how to do it the right way. I’m your trainer. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “OK. Show me how to gain weight. That would be good. But I’m still going back to the Frosty Freeze at two.”

  “So tell me what’s at that Frosty place besides the chocolate milkshakes.”

  “This girl.”

  “That explains a lot.”

  “Were you worried it was something dangerous? Like drug deals at the Frosty Freeze?”

  “Nothing’s more dangerous than a girl,” Little Manny said.

  • • •

  Carol was standing behind the window as Nat stepped up to the counter. She looked cute in her paper hat and red-and-white striped shirt. She had her short sleeves rolled up high, and her upper arms looked smooth and thin. She wore her hair pulled back in a ponytail, then shoved into a hairnet and crowned by the silly hat. Only, it was sillier on the skinny guy. On her it was sort of … adorable.

  “Welcome to Frosty Freeze. Can I take your order, strange boy with the bird dog? Who, by the way, is not supposed to be on the patio?”

  “Who, me or the dog?”

  She smiled, though she appeared to be trying not to. “The dog.”

  “If the owner comes, I’ll be sure to tell him you told me the rule.”

  “You don’t follow directions very well, do you?”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “I still think that’s a silly name for a dog.”

  “Well. I think Frosty Freeze is a silly name for your work. Because Frosty and Freeze both mean the same thing. It’s like saying Wet Water.”

  “You can think whatever you want about it, Strange Boy, but I didn’t name the Frosty Freeze. I just work here. You named that dog yourself.”

  “I guess you got a point,” Nat said.

  “Can I take your order?”

  “Yes. Thank you. I’d like a chocolate shake. I was training. You know. Working out. And I just got in the mood for a chocolate shake.”

  “You get in the mood for a chocolate shake a lot, don’t you?”

  “Now why would you say that?”

  “Kenny said you were here about three hours ago getting a chocolate shake—”

  “I’m trying to put on weight. Trying to go from … To get up to welterweight.”

  “…
and asking about me.”

  “Seemed rude to come by your work and not even say hello.”

  To his dismay, Nat was unable to force his facial muscles not to smile. They insisted on contracting, like a muscle spasm, into just the type of idiot grin he was hoping to avoid.

  “Hey, Freddy. Another chocolate shake for the bottomless pit.”

  Nat glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was waiting in line behind him. If he’d have to step away from the window. Nobody back there. He breathed again.

  “So, Strange Boy, are you a boxer?”

  “How’d you know that?” Proud and flattered. As if she had seen it just by looking.

  “You said you were trying to get up to welterweight.”

  “Oh. Right. Yes. I’m a boxer.”

  “Is that what you do?”

  “Well, it’s not the only thing I do. But it will be. I mean, in the short run I’m having to hold down a day job. There’s a lot involved with going pro. It’s a serious business. But that’s definitely where I’m going.”

  “So, now I know everything about you—”

  “Well, not—”

  “… except your name.”

  “Nat.”

  “Like Nat King Cole.”

  “Yes. Like Nat King Cole.”

  “I love Nat King Cole. I know his music probably seems old-fashioned now. I mean, to most people our age. But he’s my favorite crooner.”

  Not two weeks earlier, if anybody had told Nat they had a favorite crooner, he would have thought they were from outer space. Now he made a mental note to get a record by Nat King Cole. Or maybe even go to the record store and listen to a few different crooners in that little booth. See if he had a favorite.

  No, that wouldn’t be necessary. Nat King Cole would definitely be his favorite.

  Unfortunately, Fat Freddy waddled by and set the chocolate shake on the counter beside Carol’s porcelain arm. And, fortunately, kept waddling. Nat had been hoping he’d work far more slowly.

  “What do I owe you for that?” Nat asked her.

  “You should know what a chocolate shake costs. After all, it’s your second one today.”