Our Little Boy

I sighed deeply as I looked at my already worn-out steel locker. During all these years of working for Mr. String, he never once gave me a promotion. Life was unfair and it was harder being a woman. Whoever said women had charms, lied. I was being paid peanuts, but I didn’t have a choice. I had to cater for my family because my father had abandoned us when I was just fifteen years old, leaving my mother who was pregnant at the time.

My mother was the backbone of our family, working tirelessly to support us by baking and supplying the goods to a local bakery. Every day, before the crack of dawn, she would be in the kitchen, kneading dough with her tired hands, yet her pay was meagre; barely enough to keep us afloat.

Our financial struggles were a daily battle, a relentless storm that showed no sign of reduction. Her baking was the only dependable thing in our home and we dared not to tamper with the oven. The oven received better care and attention than the rest of our family. It was serviced regularly, its knobs cleaned meticulously, and its temperature calibrated to perfection. But I had to assist my mother pay the bills her power didn’t permit her to and it was tiring. The rich had it easy; money was everything; whoever said money wasn’t everything, must have been poor. Guess we have all had our equal shares of life. I wished we would one day wake up and realize all our suffering was all part of a collective dream we had.

I opened my rusty locker and smiled. At least, it was more beautiful on the inside. I had carefully selected and designed my locker with pictures of myself and my family, some of my friends and aesthetic stickers. The photographs on the inside of my locker captured a moment of rare happiness. Every morning, I would glance at the faded family photo on the inside of my locker and be thankful. My mother wore a brave smile, even though her eyes revealed the exhaustion and pain she hid from the world. A father figure was noticeably absent in all our pictures, a constant reminder of our abandonment. And when people asked about him, we told them he was dead…out of habit. I had learned to enjoy the family I have, and our photographs were a testament to our resilience, but it couldn’t fill the void in our hearts.

I looked up at my uniform and my stomach churned. My mood changed instantly at the sight of it, dreadfully hanging there. My uniform, hanging limply, symbolized another day of fruitless hard work, of enduring Mr. String’s verbal abuse. I worked at Shop and Wash, a famous car wash, as the only female wash guide. I took off my blouse and was about to pull down my trouser when suddenly, I heard distant masculine voices, and hurried into a cramped room I had discovered behind some old lockers in the back before quickly changing reflexively into it—a simple black jean trouser and a blue shirt—the uniform that marked my daily journey to hell. I put on my black face cap and changed from my purple crocs to a black sneaker. I snuck out of the locker room.

The relentless stream of masculine voices in the locker room echoed the imbalance I faced every day. I had complained countless times about the lack of a separate locker room for females, but my voice was drowned by the silence of other female employees who tolerated Mr. String’s misconduct. I truly wondered what would be taken away from Mr. String if he complied but the whole situation was making me feel like I was the only ungrateful person working for him. Sometimes I was scared of how much I tolerated him or anyone, in a day. I felt trapped, trapped in a world where I had to endure more than just the dirt on the cars.

“May!” Mr. String’s voice snapped me back to the present as I made my way to my duty post. “You are five minutes late. Three cars are already lined up, waiting for a goddamned operator to let them through the washing machine!”

“Morning boss,” I forced a smile through the knot of anxiety in my chest. “Yes sir...I know.” I gestured.

“Thing is…I had a little hiccup on the way.” I lied. I intentionally wasted time arriving at work late. I went to feed some ducklings I had seen the previous day.

“If you had one, you should have drunk water. A hiccup is not a good enough excuse!” He yelled.

“Yesterday you said you had to bury your dead dog. How much excuses do you think I can take?” He asked. Mr. String’s scolding words faded into the background as my thoughts raced. The relentless pressure to support my mother, who worked long hours for the bakery to provide for us, and my two younger brothers who were being homeschooled by her, gnawed at me every day. I had sacrificed college to help shoulder the burden of our family’s finances. How had our lives come to this? I thought bitterly. I longed for the day when our suffocation—our suffering would end, when we would wake up from this collective nightmare. “You know what?” I shook my head slowly. “Meet me in my office after attending to the customers. Pray you don’t get fired!”

“What?”