Then my mom offered me labor at my uncle’s appliance store
At 13, my mom offered me labor at my uncle’s appliance store.
It was part of an arrangement for not telling her. I had come really close to being expelled from school.
Did I say arrangement?
I meant punishment.
During my entire two-month winter break, I would wake up with the roosters, walk a block to catch a bus that would an hour later drop me a few blocks from my first job in Barranquilla’s seedy downtown.
Did I tell you I was 13?
Yeah?
Okay, moving on.
I was surrounded by friendly people, working hard in the store, but I didn’t spend much time there.
My uncle had a different plan for me. While my friends slept late, played soccer or watched TV, I loaded a small pickup truck with appliances to deliver to our customers.
I was delivering this merchandise in neighborhoods like La Chinita, La Luz, and Rebolo. These places were on the news daily, and not for their art walks and coffee shops.
No, no, no.
People were getting mugged, stabbed, and killed in places.
I was 13.
Don’t you forget it.
But man, did those bad neighbors have good food.
A local would set up a tent on the side of the road, put together a makeshift kitchen and go to town making corrientazos.
They sold for something like one to two thousand pesos or what would be the equivalent then of a dollar or two — much less than what a Big Mac would go for, because Big Macs were actually expensive in Barranquilla and reserved for the rich kids in town.
The little translation of a corrientazo is when you stick your finger in an electric outlet and it passes a corrientazo through your body.
So is the name for when you are electrocuted.
But, when it came to food, that’s not where the name came from. Corriente means average or ordinary. So the name of the dish is basically a big ordinary lunch.
It was meant to be an average meal sold to the working Colombians who needed something to eat, but didn’t have enough time to go home for lunch and a siesta.
A working class I was now a part of at… THIRTEEN!!
The corrientazo typically had rice with another starch like plantain or yucca, because Colombians believe in starch almost as much as they believe in the Catholic church.
Then a meat of dubious origin, maybe a horse or a donkey buried under sautéed tomatoes and onions.
Finally, the juice of the day, minimal pulp from a squeezed tropical fruit, a lot of water, and a burlap sack of cane sugar.
My other job duties at work included spending weekends in the store’s warehouse, cleaning dirty fridges, freezers and stove.
But Carlos, how did the appliances get dirty?
Well, I’m so glad you asked.
We repossessed them from the people who fell behind on their payments, and by we, I don’t mean the abstract and generic we, but the actual factual and concrete we.
We was comprised of me and my uncle’s drivers, Alberto.
You heard that right.
At the tender age of 13, I was responsible for going into people’s homes and telling them:
“Oh, if you like ice, refrigerating dairy, and keeping your meat fresh, then you should’ve paid for your fridge. Here, ma’am, here are all your perishables. You can leave them in the sun so they can be cooked because, at 105 degrees in the shade, they will be cooked. Now I’m going to turn my back on you to carry this heavy appliance out of here. Please do not shoot me, or like we like to say in the business, don’t shoot the repo man.”
What qualities did I precociously possess to do this job, usually reserved for burly, intimidating men with chest hair?
None.
I wasn’t tall.
I wasn’t muscular.
But I was, however, 13.
I was tall for my age; I was what is scientifically known as almost five nine.
A term I still use to this day, despite my wife’s insistence that I just say I’m five eight.
But Alberto…
Oh, Alberto.
Alberto, on the other hand, was even shorter than I was.
He was five four.
Could he have found a way to get a gun in Colombia?
Yes.
Did he?
No.
He did not have a weapon.
That’s if you don’t count his wispy mustache, which only inflicted pain in his love life.
So we were just a couple of goombas with no guns, going into people’s houses in bad neighborhoods to deprive them of probably one of the only few good things in their lives.
How neither of us was ever shot, stabbed, or even cursed at is still a mystery to me.
My first job ended before I started school.
After working for my uncle, I decided to get my life together and never disappoint my mom again.
I failed, but at least I survived my first job to keep doing so.
