I spent the first semester of my sophomore year in Guatemala, studying abroad and serving in a girls orphanage. Second semester, I moved back home to work and save money before moving to Fresno to finish my last two years. I had a variety of part-time jobs: house cleaning, baby sitting and assisting in the county’s ESL classes. My most interesting job during those months, was working for a fascinating woman named “Deanne Delacruz” (though I’m not convinced that was her real name). Deanne owned a small women’s boutique downtown and I, along with a couple of my besties (small town perks), would take shifts manning the shop. Deanne was eclectic, confident, and British. She was certain her little shop would be a trend setter for our sleepy mountain town. Sadly, but not surprisingly, her business closed after about 12 months.
Working at “Dee’s” wasn’t risky. It was easy and brainless and entertaining. One time a young high school girl came in to buy lingerie to surprise her boyfriend. I told her I needed to see ID to finalize the purchase. “I’m sorry. I can’t sell lingerie to a minor. It’s the law.” She left confused and empty handed.
Rabbit trial. Sorry. Back to my failed risk.
One afternoon, while I was manning the shop, a woman came in and began browsing. She had a young boy with her who looked to be around 3 years old. I said “hello” and offered to help if she had any questions. As I observed her from the back of the store, I quickly realized she was not there to shop but to get out of the cold. She walked around slowly, pretending to shop, and then, after about 5 minutes, said “Thank you” and left. A few other women came in and she went out and I quickly forgot about the young mother.