Since it's Tuesday, I went across the street for my guitar lesson. Today I brought along some music to try and learn (the Dead's Box of Rain and CCR's Proud Mary). After giving Box of Rain a listen, Gary pronounced me not ready for it. (I'm not sure it's because I'm not ready for it or he had a hard time trying to pick it up.) He then cued up Proud Mary and we started strumming along. I sort of got the strokes down for the intro, but still need to work on the last three chords of the intro.
After guitar, I headed over to Lee Road Deli for a Reuben. Since baseball practice is Tuesday nights, I don't have time to head home for lunch, so I typically stop by there and grab a sandwich to fill out my lunch. They have pretty good meatball sub's too -- four LARGE meatballs with three slices of cheese on a nice soft baguette -- they blow doors off of Subway's meatball sub. Anyway, as I'm standing there waiting for my sandwich to be ready, a teenager walks in and just stands at the counter not saying a thing.
The owner's wife looks at him and asks him if he wants to order anything.
He mumbles something in Español, but that falls on deaf ears.
"Honey, I don't speak Spanish, so you're wasting your time. Do you want a steak? One of these?" she asks, picking up a steak. "With some onions?" she adds, tilting the bin of chopped onions so he could see them.
Silence.
"Does anyone here know Spanish?" she asks to the three of us that are at the counter.
No one says anything and the look in the kids eyes have such a look of desperation that I overcame my fear of using my Spanish skills in public and stepped up.
"Un poquito," I said. A little.
I turned to him and he started talking in a voice just barely above a whisper. The only word I picked up was trabajar. To work.
"¿Quieres usted trabajar en la tienda?" I asked him. Do you want to work in the store?
Store? Why did I use store? This isn't a store! I thought to myself. Oh well, he'll understand.
I guess he did as his eyes lit up when he discovered he could communicate with someone. "Si!" he told me, which I then relayed to the owner.
"Sorry, honey, I don't speak Spanish. You'll have to wait for my husband."
"Un momento por favor," I told him, just a minute please, the phrase rolling off my tongue as if it were my natural language.
A few seconds later, the owner came out and the boy walked back to him. I could hear them conversing in Spanish as I walked out the door. I wonder whether he was hired.
I wonder if he was illegal.
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