Immigrant Story part 2

In the early 90’s there were some murmuring at the University of Miami about possible cutbacks to the staff.  All the employees of my father’s department were herded into a meeting and assured that the cutbacks would not affect them.  A few months later my father was the only one laid off.  We were in a state of shock.  It was as if a wall had suddenly come crashing down on them.  The patriarch who supported the household and all the guests to paradise was suddenly unemployed.  The road ahead would be difficult.  Instead of receiving an occasional stipend from the parents we were mailing them extra money.  When we visited Miami, dinner was on us.  I was married during that stressful period and as a present my parents gave us a generous check.  My husband and I agreed to tear up the check; we destroyed it the night of the wedding and never discussed it with my parents. 

 Daddy now faced the daunting task of trying to find a job in his mid-fifties.  While most of his peers were looking forward to retirement Daniel was out job hunting.  This was a fruitless, humiliating, exhausting endeavor.  Age discrimination is alive and well.  He simply could not find a job even though he kept lowering his sights and salary requirement and was eminently qualified or over-qualified for most of them.  My parents knew the solution—his age would have to be disguised, but how?  One day as they watched TV they saw the infomercial for “Hair in a Can.”  It miraculously made you look 10 years younger with one spray.  Daddy started losing his hair in his mid-thirties and by his mid-fifties he had the hairline of a Franciscan monk.  Everything in the middle and top was gone and he had a ring of meager gray struggling to surround the crown of his head.  My mother sent in her $19.95 and got a can and a free set of knives.  The day before my father’s next job interview she whipped out the can.  Mother started spraying with my father as her first willing, desperate client.  The hair went on like black spray paint and, instead of a head full of luxurious curly hair, Daddy now had a painted head.  Mother tried for a while to scrub and scrape away the paint and then resorted to nail polish remover, neither of which was effective and, at most, it diminished the look from bald and gray to speckled.  “Hair in a Can” was hair to stay… and my father was forced to go to the interview looking, not younger but, like a freak.  He offered no explanation and no one had the courage to ask what happened to his head.  Surprisingly, he didn’t get that job. 

A few months later, however, he obtained a job of repairing small appliances at a Black and Decker storefront.  While his salary was small he seemed to enjoy the simple repair work.  Because the appliances were low priced, he was only allowed to attempt a repair for a short time period, something in the area of half an hour.  If the repair could not be completed the appliance would be thrown in the back dumpster and the customer would be given a new appliance.  Growing up poor gives a person a dislike of waste, therefore, my father spent his time after work dumpster diving.  He brought home dozens of irons, cordless screwdrivers and other small appliances.  On his evenings and weekends he would spend hours repairing the items.  Every family member had closets full of irons, hand mixers and cordless screwdrivers.  

Daddy’s last job was working for the Florida Dept. of Transportation.  He was relieved to get a job with the state as it provided good benefits.  He again had insurance and retirement benefits, however, the big house in Miami was sold for a more modest ranch in Coconut Creek; the beloved boat was gone too.   He was looking forward to retirement, desperately; as I think he was tired with the battle of working.  His feet bothered him and his hands and back ached.  He was no longer the young, strong man he used to be and tried as hard as he could to keep up with the younger guys at work, even cutting out pieces of foam to act at insoles in his work shoes so he could walk more comfortably.  His job was to repair toll machines on the Florida Turnpike.  If a machine jammed or refused to count the coins tossed into the basket, he was dispatched to repair it. His plan was to hold on for three years so he could finally have the retirement he’d dreamed of.   Unfortunately that dream never materialized; it was at one of these assignments, at the age of 62, that Daddy had his final heart attack.  His supervisor found him slumped over the front passenger seat of his work vehicle at the side of the toll island in the Everglades.  It was a beautiful, sunny August day in 1998 when he went to his final rest.  I remember thinking of how he would tease me about being so devoted to planning.  He would say, “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.”