He was your quintessential 90’s boy. He wore torn denim pants and a black shirt with “Furniture” printed on it in yellow letters. A week’s length of dark brown hair poked out on different locations on his face. His eyes had the squint that defied the very light of the sun itself. He was chewing a gum from yesterday. He was not tattooed, but he had his right hand in the left back pocket of his jeans. Presently he took it out only to pick and elongate by pulling out one end, while holding down between his semi-crooked teeth the other, his expired gum. He put the gum back to his mouth and faced the setting sun, still wearing that defiant squint. He mumbled a promise only he could hear, stretched out the sleeves of his shirt, and walked into the 24-hour convenience store.
This story took place in Wamahoo County, in the heart of America’s heartland. The name of the 24-hour convenience store will be kept from the knowledge of the general public, but the name of the attendant present that afternoon won’t. The attendant’s name was Lester. He was around the same age as our quintessential 90’s boy. He also had five days’ growth of unshaved facial hair, and was also chewing gum. Whether or not the gum was expired, however, is made less of a question by the presence of an empty wrapper of Wrigley’s™ gum on top of his counter. What remained a question was whether or not it was actually paid.
He greeted his only customer for the afternoon, our quintessential 90’s boy, with a courteous bow, and the question: “How may I be of any help whatsoever?”
Our quintessential 90’s boy ignored him. Our quintessential 90’s boy ignored everything. He entered the 24-hour convenience store with one—and only one—purpose in mind, and he believed he could carry it out without help from anyone, especially from some 24-hour convenience store attendant around his age.
He swivelled his upper body around, scanning the signs hanging on the ceilings describing the goods available on their respective aisles, for the item he was looking for. It took him awhile, but when he spotted the sign that said “Bread and Pastries,” he exclaimed, “Aha!” that almost gave Lester, the attendant, a heart attack.
Lester wasn’t a very healthy boy. He was one boy who more often than not on medical diagnoses would be described by the diagnosing physician as being unhealthy. Very few qualities of a sound health could be found contained within his physical body. He wasn’t a boy any sensible staffing officer would think of entrusting a responsibility that requires good health. He wouldn’t as a matter of fact, have been accepted to work for the 24-hour convenience store he was working in if not for his clever uncle, who doctored the results of his medical evaluation, declaring him instead to be “as a matter of fact, a very healthy human being.”
This wasn’t the first time a job-related incident had almost caused Lester his life. Around two weeks prior to the events described in this account, Lester was unloading a fresh supply of canned vegetables when suddenly, he felt dizzy, and in a cautious, step-by-step manner of collapsing—first on his knees, until finally he was lying on his side—he dropped to the floor with tens of cans of canned vegetables. Co-workers rushed to his aid, many of them convinced that Lester was having a physical breakdown.
Lester, of course, with what little strength that remained in him, denied this by a confident laugh, and informed everyone that he was as a matter of fact, a very healthy human being.
Everybody refused to believe this, though, and expressed further how they had been noticing that Lester seemed to be having a fast-declining health, especially during the past few days.
If anybody had delivered the funniest, most easily-comprehensible joke, and Lester heard it, he wouldn’t have laughed as hard as he did hearing that observation from his co-workers.
“But I’ve only been hired yesterday,” he said.
This was true. Lester had indeed been hired just a day prior to his new-canned-vegetable-delivery-related incident. And this was in spite of the fact that he had applied for the job, been interviewed, and passed the written exam, some six months earlier. He was still in the ninth grade when he applied, was interviewed, and took the written exam. Knowing that it was only a couple more years until college, Lester had taken it upon himself to help his parents save up money to send him to a respectable “Boston-based college” when that time came. He sought part time employment on many various establishments within their locality other than the 24-hour convenience store he would in six months be employed in. Among them were their town’s furniture repair shop, a meat/butcher shop, a fast food restaurant, a car wash, a leading real estates appraisal firm, and their school’s football team, where he applied as a mascot.
All those applications yielded first interviews, and all except the real estates appraisal firm written exams. Of all the things Lester was thrilled about in all that practically crawling on his belly begging for temporary employment, it was taking those written tests. He liked written tests. In school, he couldn’t get enough of them. Taking written tests was even his primary reason for wanting to attend college. His first choice for his major—one he still hadn’t made up his mind about at the moment—was one that would present him with the most written tests as possible. One reason he loved taking written tests—and probably the only reason—was he passed them. Sometimes he not only passed them, but he got a perfect score.
Lester was your quintessential written test passer. If there was a record of having the most written tests passed for a boy his age, Lester would probably hold the number one spot. There wasn’t a written test Lester took in his entire life in which he failed.
This story took place in Wamahoo County, in the heart of America’s heartland. The name of the 24-hour convenience store will be kept from the knowledge of the general public, but the name of the attendant present that afternoon won’t. The attendant’s name was Lester. He was around the same age as our quintessential 90’s boy. He also had five days’ growth of unshaved facial hair, and was also chewing gum. Whether or not the gum was expired, however, is made less of a question by the presence of an empty wrapper of Wrigley’s™ gum on top of his counter. What remained a question was whether or not it was actually paid.
He greeted his only customer for the afternoon, our quintessential 90’s boy, with a courteous bow, and the question: “How may I be of any help whatsoever?”
Our quintessential 90’s boy ignored him. Our quintessential 90’s boy ignored everything. He entered the 24-hour convenience store with one—and only one—purpose in mind, and he believed he could carry it out without help from anyone, especially from some 24-hour convenience store attendant around his age.
He swivelled his upper body around, scanning the signs hanging on the ceilings describing the goods available on their respective aisles, for the item he was looking for. It took him awhile, but when he spotted the sign that said “Bread and Pastries,” he exclaimed, “Aha!” that almost gave Lester, the attendant, a heart attack.
Lester wasn’t a very healthy boy. He was one boy who more often than not on medical diagnoses would be described by the diagnosing physician as being unhealthy. Very few qualities of a sound health could be found contained within his physical body. He wasn’t a boy any sensible staffing officer would think of entrusting a responsibility that requires good health. He wouldn’t as a matter of fact, have been accepted to work for the 24-hour convenience store he was working in if not for his clever uncle, who doctored the results of his medical evaluation, declaring him instead to be “as a matter of fact, a very healthy human being.”
This wasn’t the first time a job-related incident had almost caused Lester his life. Around two weeks prior to the events described in this account, Lester was unloading a fresh supply of canned vegetables when suddenly, he felt dizzy, and in a cautious, step-by-step manner of collapsing—first on his knees, until finally he was lying on his side—he dropped to the floor with tens of cans of canned vegetables. Co-workers rushed to his aid, many of them convinced that Lester was having a physical breakdown.
Lester, of course, with what little strength that remained in him, denied this by a confident laugh, and informed everyone that he was as a matter of fact, a very healthy human being.
Everybody refused to believe this, though, and expressed further how they had been noticing that Lester seemed to be having a fast-declining health, especially during the past few days.
If anybody had delivered the funniest, most easily-comprehensible joke, and Lester heard it, he wouldn’t have laughed as hard as he did hearing that observation from his co-workers.
“But I’ve only been hired yesterday,” he said.
This was true. Lester had indeed been hired just a day prior to his new-canned-vegetable-delivery-related incident. And this was in spite of the fact that he had applied for the job, been interviewed, and passed the written exam, some six months earlier. He was still in the ninth grade when he applied, was interviewed, and took the written exam. Knowing that it was only a couple more years until college, Lester had taken it upon himself to help his parents save up money to send him to a respectable “Boston-based college” when that time came. He sought part time employment on many various establishments within their locality other than the 24-hour convenience store he would in six months be employed in. Among them were their town’s furniture repair shop, a meat/butcher shop, a fast food restaurant, a car wash, a leading real estates appraisal firm, and their school’s football team, where he applied as a mascot.
All those applications yielded first interviews, and all except the real estates appraisal firm written exams. Of all the things Lester was thrilled about in all that practically crawling on his belly begging for temporary employment, it was taking those written tests. He liked written tests. In school, he couldn’t get enough of them. Taking written tests was even his primary reason for wanting to attend college. His first choice for his major—one he still hadn’t made up his mind about at the moment—was one that would present him with the most written tests as possible. One reason he loved taking written tests—and probably the only reason—was he passed them. Sometimes he not only passed them, but he got a perfect score.
Lester was your quintessential written test passer. If there was a record of having the most written tests passed for a boy his age, Lester would probably hold the number one spot. There wasn’t a written test Lester took in his entire life in which he failed.
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