The US isn’t France: My Jamaican friend at the mini-mart
The Barrister
Maggie’s Farm
11/9/2010
My cheerful, voluble friend at our local Cumbie/24-hr gas station has been working the night shift for 8 months. He’s about 25, a recent single Jamaican (legal) immigrant who lives with his Mom. He is not a Rastaman. His Mom is a hospital aide who also moonlights as a home helper. She sings in the church choir.
This morning at 6 AM he announced to me “Hey, Boss, good news. They finally agreed to up my hours. Now I’ll be able to work a minimum of 55 hrs/wk instead of 45.”
“Do they pay you time and a half for OT?” I ask.
“Of course they do, man. Every hour over 40. The good thing is, now I can begin to put some money aside. You watch me man, I’m gonna need an investment advisor soon.”
I asked “How about 60 hours minimum? I did that when I was young.”
“That’s my goal.” he replied. “If I keep doing a good job at 55 hours and don’t make mistakes, they will let me have 60. I already worked 60 last week with my extra OT.”
“Beats selling beads to tourists at the beach?”
“Oh man, I thank God every day that my Mom made me come to America with her. She forced me, man. I had no choice. She is fat and mean. I was a ganja beach bum. Next week, I’ll be an investor. I’m thinking of buying some some Apple Computer.”…
Please go to Maggie’s Farm to read the rest of this delightful conversation! Our headline comes from the comments section there.
