Minimum Wage

"I'm going to lunch," Sandy calls as she pushes an empty bin into place next to me.

"Enjoy it," I reply, shielding my eyes from the bright sun as I look to see if another donor is driving up.

Sticking her head back out the door, Sandy follows up, "Don't forget to label the bin."

I nod and walk toward the table where our supplies are organized, finding a white china marker and magic eraser. I erase the writing on the slick black surface of the bin and write in white, "Books.”

The mask over my face is suffocating, so I use my gloved hand to pull it down for a moment while nobody is looking. It is hot and muggy for the first of March, but this is the Valley. The weather went from snowing in half of Texas last month to a swamp like it was the drunkest girl at the frat party.

Hearing a motor hum signaling a car driving up, I sigh as I pull my mask back into position.

The masked lady in the old sedan looks brown skinned so I make an assumption and greet her with, "Buenas dias."

"Hola, tengo ropa y zapatos para donar," she replies, and I’m glad my assumption was safe.

I point to the bin next to me filled halfway with trash bags, and instruct, "Ropa aqui," and indicating the furthest bin, "y zapatos alla."

I watch her struggle getting the large bags of clothing out of her car, feeling bad that I’m unable to help her. Before COVID, we could help donors get things out, but now we can't risk getting inside a donor's vehicle in case they are sick.

“Quieres recibo?” I ask, and she nods. I get my clipboard and clip a receipt to it, then tally how many bags and boxes she donates as she pulls them from her car and places them into the bins.

“Siete ropa y dos zapatos…” I say as I finish tallying and marking down her donations on the receipt. I give her the clipboard to fill out her information, then when she is done, I tear off the yellow carbon copy and hand it to her. I call, “Gracias! Buen dia,” as she gets back into her car.

After she is gone from sight, I glance through the items she brought us. We are trained that it’s not polite to “cherry pick” donations in front of the donors or act judgmental at all about what they bring. Sometimes it’s not sellable at our store, but over the border people will wear almost anything that doesn’t have holes in it.

After glancing through, I find a few pairs of shoes that we can sell and set them aside in a cart filled with good stuff. Someone in processing will sort through the bags of clothing later to determine what is good quality, and the rest is sent for bulk auctions.

I see another car silently driving toward me, and then realize it’s one of those fancy solar vehicles made by that billionaire guy. I figure that whoever gets out from behind those tinted windows has pretty decent donations, but I have been wrong before. I also had a lady in a Range Rover literally hand me bags of garbage, so people can really surprise you.

A light-haired man gets out of the car in a crisp white Polo shirt that’s probably a brand name, not some megastore knock off.

I make an assumption and greet him, “Hello.”

Turning his attention to me, he says, “Yeah, hi. I have some old books and clothes to donate.”

“Sure,” I reply, “do you want a receipt?"

Looking down at the open trunk, he considers for a moment, then shakes his head, “Nah. They’re not worth anything.”

“Books go here,” I indicate, pointing to the empty bin next to me that I had just labeled.

He takes a full cardboard box out of the car and places it into the bin, and then follows with two more boxes. I can see why he said they aren’t worth anything; most people with good books take them to Harlingen to sell at the used bookstore. These are old and tattered books with faded covers that probably can’t be sold for much, even to vintage collectors.

“Clothing?” he asks, and I point to the bin in the middle.

As he shuts the trunk he sighs in relief, “I’m so glad to get that junk out of my house. It’s been there for five years and now it’s gone. Thanks!”

“Have a good one,” I call out as he gets back in his car and drives away.

Once he’s gone, I check out the books that he placed in the bin. I enjoy finding interesting things in the book donations and I’m usually the only person who gets excited about books.

One of the boxes has a newer looking plain black book, and I pull it from inside of a box, setting it on top so I can see it better. It’s a leather journal with heavy paper, good quality binding, and a stretchy cord wrapped around it. I’ve seen these types of journals before and wish I had the money to buy one this nice.

We are only allowed to sell journals if they have never been used, so I open it up to see if it has any writing. It’s stiff as if it’s never been opened so I start to get hopeful. I see words written on the first page, so I disappointedly start to flip through, when something blue catches my eye.

I open the book further and notice that there are pages cut out from the middle, in such a way that if you didn’t open the book you wouldn’t see they were missing, like a hiding spot. Inside is what looks like hundred-dollar bills. My eyes get wide.

I have seen fake bills before, not just counterfeits which have come across the front counter once or twice, but also the ones they give out at churches that have a picture of Jesus in the middle and say “Worth More Than Gold” or something. So at first, I assume it’s a stack of those.

It is not.

It is money.

Real, actual hundred-dollar bills.

I look around to see if anyone is there, but I’m alone outside. My manager is at lunch, the assistant manager is busy sorting and pricing in the warehouse, and the salesperson is at the register. It’s just me and the cameras.

Oh, shoot. The cameras.

Without trying to look conspicuous, I step forward and bend over the large bin which blocks the camera from seeing below my neck. We are absolutely not allowed to take donations for ourselves, even things that would be thrown in the trash like an old notebook. And if we find money, we are required to report it immediately to our supervisor, and it will be logged in the lost and found for two weeks before sending it to accounting to be part of our donation fund.

I remember hearing about an employee who found a couple hundred dollars in a coat pocket and turned it in. He was given a pin for having integrity and nothing else, not even a raise.

My heart is beating so fast I can feel it in my throat. The heat and humidity are building pressure in the atmosphere around me and I feel like I can’t breathe for a moment. This is not a couple of hundred dollars. I flip through the stack and realize it’s thousands of dollars. Thousands! I stick the notebook inside the waistband of my pants so no one else will find it while I decide what to do.

My stomach lurches. I can feel the notebook there, tempting me with the money contained inside. I’ve been working here two long years, sweating, laboring, taking verbal abuse from wealthy people while sorting through trash that hopefully contains some treasure.

All I’ve been doing is putting money away for college but it’s only part-time work. I’ve never received a raise from minimum wage, $7.25 per hour, even during the pandemic. When I’m not working, all I do is read, watch movies with my siblings and helped my mom take care of the house. She works cleaning hotels during the day and at a taco shop in the evenings. Thousands of dollars can change our lives.

What am I thinking??

There are no other cars coming, and I need to get my head straight without being seen. I walk inside the warehouse and tell my assistant manager I need to use the restroom so she can cover me.

Once in the bathroom, I lock the door and take the notebook out of my waistband. My hands are shaking as I open it again, this time taking a moment to read the note written on the first page.

“Son,

Happy 40th birthday. I bet you thought this was just a journal. Well, surprise! I’ve watched you grow up and I know we have not always seen eye to eye. It’s hard for me to say how I feel. I worked hard so that your mom and you and your sisters could have a good life. I know I was not there as much as I wanted to be, but I love you very much and I’m proud of the man and father you have become. To show you how much I love you, I am giving you $20,000 to do with whatever you want. You can start saving for Cody’s college fund, or invest it, or put it as the down payment on that car you’ve been wanting. Whatever you do, I hope you know that I will always be there for you.

Love,

Dad”

The letter is dated June 4, 2016. Almost five years it has been sitting there and nobody even knew it existed? I open the notebook again and take out the cash. I’ve never held this much money in my hands before. Twenty thousand dollars. I do a rough calculation and realize that is two years of income for me. Two years of work, sitting there in my hands, and nobody at all will miss it!

Even if I want to return it, the donor had not gotten a receipt and I don’t have his information. If I turn it into lost and found, it will never get claimed because the donor didn’t know it was in the book. The corporation will get extra money and I will get… nothing. Maybe a pin and a mention in the monthly newsletter.

Or… and I can’t believe I’m thinking this… I can take it, keep it, help my family. Twenty thousand dollars can buy a lot. We could move up by my Tio in Waco and rent a house and get out of the two bedroom we’re all stuffed into. I can go to the community college and my mom can get a job there at the candy plant where my Tia works and they pay really good…

This is too much. I can’t imagine stealing money. I’ve returned extra change to cashiers when they made a mistake. But, is it stealing if no one knows it exists? The recipient of this gift never opened it and the corporation doesn’t need it… not like I need it, like my mom and brother and sister need it. I don’t know what to do.

Do the “right thing,” turn the money in, and keep working here for a few more years to save up for college?

Take the money that no one will ever miss and start a new life for my family?

I know what to do.

I clutch my stomach, take a deep breath, and open the door.