'The Employment Office' by Juan Ovalle

The first thing I thought about was Richard.

We’d gone to the bowling alley in Mission, about twenty miles from our town. There was a bowling alley in Edinburg, but the one in Mission was the one we liked; this one not only had an archery range, it also had a skating rink. And sometimes we liked to skate. But that Saturday evening, we went bowling.

As usual, Willie was keeping score. Mario, Frankie, Bear, and I cheered or jeered when we weren’t taking a turn on the lane. Willie had taken bowling in college, so he was more experienced at keeping score and had more experience at actually playing a game.

So we were drinking our cokes, talking, and looking all around. Willie had just put the pencil down after jotting down a figure on the score sheet when we heard someone say, “Hi, guy!”

We turned and recognized Richard, who once lived in our town and had gone to school with us. He’d moved to Mission a few years ago, but he’d recognized us when he and his friends had gone into the bowling alley. We all said hi, glad to see him as one is glad to see an old friend. After a brief conversation, he went back to his friends.

The thing about Richard was his right hand. He’d lost his fingers years before when he’d worked at a meat market. He’d started working for a butcher, starting when he was very young and still in school. One day he’d had an accident cutting meat with the butcher’s saw.

And so, when the man at the employment office stood in front of me and pointed at me while I was filling out some papers and said to me, “You’re going to be a butcher,” the first thing I thought about was Richard and his mangled hand.

“No, I’m not,” I immediately replied.

“Yes, I just got a call from someone at a meat market who needs a butcher, and as soon as you finish with the papers, I’ll send your right over,” he said.

“No, I don’t want to be a butcher,” I told him.

He stared at me, as if not quite believing I had refused to take any job he offered me, and asked, “Why not?”

“Because I’m afraid of knives,” I answered.

He stared at me in disbelief while the people who had overheard us started laughing.

“You’re a Mexican and you’re afraid of knives?” he asked, again in disbelief.

I looked at him, another Mexican but one in a business suit, and I wondered if he’d ever considered being a butcher. I also wondered what being Mexican had to do with knives.

“Yes,” I answered, while the staff behind him continued laughing. He glared at me for a couple of minutes then turned around and walked back to his desk in disbelief.

I finished filling out my paperwork, gave it to someone at a desk, and left.