An old coffee can sat in the back filled with mixed screws from a damaged shipment.
I dumped them on the counter.
Three empty jars.
Charlie looked worried.
“What?”
“Wood screws.”
“Sheet metal.”
“Drywall.”
“Sort.”
“I don't know how.”
“Neither did I.”
I showed him the threads.
Heads.
Tips.
Differences.
Ten minutes.
He listened like I was teaching explosive disposal.
Then he started.
Tongue out the corner of his mouth.
One screw at a time.
Serious.
When Clare arrived, he had sorted maybe half.
She looked at the jars.
“Did you put my son to work?”
“Child labor keeps costs down.”
“Dean.”
“He volunteered.”
Charlie immediately said:
“I did not.”
Clare laughed.
I looked at him.
“Traitor.”
He smiled.
That smile was the beginning.
Not anything dramatic.
Just the first sign he felt safe enough to be difficult.
Over the next month, Charlie became part of the store.
He arrived after school.
Hung his backpack on the hook beside my office.
Sat on the stool.
Finished homework.
Then found work.
Real work sometimes.
Harmless work usually.
Sorting washers.
Folding paper bags.
Matching paint chips.
Counting empty key blanks.
He loved the key-cutting machine.
I never let him operate it alone.
I showed him how it worked.
He stood on a milk crate beside me, eyes huge as the cutter traced the original.
“It's copying.”
“Basically.”
“Can it copy anything?”
“No.”
“Can it copy a house?”
“That would be an extremely large machine.”
He considered this.
“Could you build one?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I sell hammers, Charlie.”
He looked disappointed in me.
Third week, I made him a name badge.
We had a little engraving machine in back for signs, tags, mailbox plates.
I cut a white plastic rectangle.
Black letters.
CHARLIE
ASSISTANT MANAGER
When I clipped it onto his shirt, he stared down.
Did not speak.
Then looked at me.
“I’m manager?”
“Assistant.”
“What’s that?”
“Less power.”
“How much less?”
“All of it.”
He grinned.
Clare arrived at five.
Charlie ran toward her.
“Mom!”
He pointed.
She read the badge.
Her face changed.
Just for a second.
Something soft and sad.
Then she smiled.
“Assistant manager?”
“I work here.”
I said:
“Unpaid internship.”
Clare looked at me.
“Dean.”
“What?”
“You didn't have to do that.”
I shrugged.
“He was demanding a title.”
Charlie said:
“I did not.”
“He has become very dishonest since promotion.”
Clare laughed again.