Cupid's Sabotage (COMPLETED)

Chapter 14

Tough Tools Too is the name of the hardware store that I'll be working at; the second of two locations. The original store is on the other side of town, which is called Tough Tools. From the tidbits of information dad has told me over the years, the owner, Isaac Pearson, worked in that very store for thirty-five years until he purchased it from the gentleman that had owned it since the mid-1940s. After the transition of ownership, Pearson built a second store two years later—the one I'll be working at—and just recently he announced that they are renovating a building downtown for their third location. I'm curious to see what they will name it: Tough Tools Again?

The store's name is a bit misleading, however. The tools they sell are anything but tough. True, they're inexpensive, but they're well-known to be poor quality. Yet, that doesn't deter the store from having a strong and loyal customer base.

After the school day had ended, I hopped on the bus, but I didn't get off at my usual stop. Instead, I rode it to its furthest stop, then hiked to the hardware store from there. I really need my own car. Maybe they will give me a signing bonus, so I can at least afford something with four wheels and an engine. Oh, who am I kidding? I'm part-time. They aren't going to give someone like me a signing bonus. I'll just have to work hard, put in some overtime on the weekends, and pick up extra hours here and there. Once Summer break comes, I'll be able to work full-time and make even more money. Maybe by the time the new school year starts, I will have saved enough to buy a car. It's a goal at least, even if it is a little unrealistic. Without goals, we would never achieve success.

After leaving the bus stop, I walk two miles to the hardware store. It's a narrow yet long building with the word Hardware in big, bold letters mounted to the front of the building. It's a unique place. Each store has kept a lot of the architecture that was used in the forties. The wood floors are faded and beat to death, but that adds character, as dad would say, to its antiquated appearance. A few of the taller shelves have rolling ladders mounted to them, much like the ones you find in large libraries. They even salvaged the old cash registers that were used in the original store.

I pass through the front door, and a bell jingles upon my entrance. I feel as if I've been warped back to the 1940s. The place is quiet. Only a single customer is perusing the aisles of tools. A gray-haired gentleman with a matching mustache is behind the counter. He's writing something down in a notebook, checking it with a second book beside it as if he's logging information into a journal. He's wearing the store's workshop apron over a plaid shirt and jeans. I wonder if I get an apron.

I survey the room, but I don't see dad anywhere. On my way inside, I noticed his Ford pickup parked in its usual parking spot, so I know he's here. Maybe he's doing inventory in the back. I move to the back of the store and through a pair of double doors marked Employees Only, my lone footsteps clacking across the wood floor. This part of the store lacks a retro touch and is more industrial in appearance; floor to ceiling metal shelves housing large wooden crates full of tools.

I move from one row to the next, glancing down each one until I find dad. He looks up from the clipboard in his hand. "Christian! Glad you could make it." He takes a glance at his wristwatch. "Even if you are fifteen minutes late."

"Yeah, sorry about that. The bus took longer than I expected."

"Hmm. We'll have to do something about that. But first, follow me." He leads me past the loading dock and to a private office with metal lockers like the ones we have at school, all side by side against a white wall. He opens one of the locker doors and tosses me an apron and name tag. Ah-ha! I do get an apron. At least now I will look more official. "Put those on," he says. He takes a long look at me after I had put them on. "Not bad. You almost look like you work here." He laughs.