Late Saturday afternoon, two girls (late teens, I think) came around looking for work. On a whim, "I said come back on Monday morning." I've been sick and even light efforts make my head hurt. I've been doing some laundry, some cooking, and keeping the kitchen reasonably clean, but nothing more than that. The floors and bathrooms are starting to look nasty.
Young girls generally are not reliable and are not likely to be a long-term solution, unless it is one of those situations where the parents can't feed them and they send them to live with and work for someone. But if you've been reading this blog, you know that the mature ladies haven't been any better, so what the heck. I decided to see what would happen.
I really just wanted someone to work this week to do some deep cleaning to get me by until I feel better. I thought that they might be enticed at the thought of making enough to buy a new outfit for the disco on Saturday or a cell phone, if on the off-off-off chance that they didn't already have a cell phone. Based on experience, I wasn't foolish enough to think that they were looking for a permanent job, but if they were, who knows where that would take us.
They repeated, "Come back on Monday?" and I said "Si." "What time?" "Come at 8 a.m." They said, "A las ocho. Gracias!" and sounded very happy.
El Jefe rolled his eyes when I told him later.
Monday morning rolls around. I get up at 7 a.m., take a shower, make the coffee, and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
Silly, silly, silly me.
It can't be the pay − because we didn't talk about that.
It can't be the hours − because we didn't talk about that.
It can't be the size or condition of the house − because they didn't see it.
It can't be me − because I didn't yell at them, insult them, or hit them. I merely gave them what they were asking for, a job.
Oh, yeah: "The women of La Ceiba do not want to work." When am I going to remember that?
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