Part Two of “Establishing My First Home”
Stepping into an old family friend’s house, one I knew largely from the perspective of my adolescent years, changed my mode of functioning. The rent I payed did not make me a resident. I knew I belonged as a guest, and knew that as welcoming as the family was, I must abide with caution.
I already had a timeline for moving out: April. By that month, the family would leave their house for another, and I would not come with.
Driving around 18 hours over two days did not qualify me for much resting time. Instead, as many migrants know, I needed to find an economic resource—a way to provide for myself, pay for the next month of rent, and return the payment for gas to my mom. Luckily, I had yet to worry about feeding myself.
Through suggestion of the mother and daughter of this family, I applied to a local car wash. Minimum wage or not, I needed money.
Since the place employs most applicants, they employed me. I started working in full service, vigorously vacuuming out cars that came through my station, and sending them forward for further cleaning. Although I dressed in a white button-up with a red tie, I performed moderately intense manual labor. Some more experienced detail workers or other manual labors may disagree, and deserve to do so. But, as a girl who never had a job before, controlling a long tube vacuum to suck up dog hairs, kid’s gunk, and crumby crevices was hard.
Unfortunately, I still had yet to visit a doctor since my medical release from my mission. Having no money and no insurance gave me less incentive. Eventually, by the new year, I would be on my father’s insurance and then I would visit someone. Until then, I dealt with the issues gurgling within my stomach and intestines.
In the new job, I strove to perform my labor perfectly. If not perfectly, honestly and diligently. Cars would get clean. Hopefully, I would also get tips.
And, after a week of work, I planned in my mind where I would work instead as I pushed the vacuum up and down car floors. I imagined places that would not make me work on Sundays and would not exert my physical resources. Somewhere fatigue would not impede my ability to manage my mysterious stomach issues. Maybe Build-A-Bear? I could stuff the children’s new friends with life. Maybe. . .
I ran out of ideas quickly, but I needed to find another job.
Before I quit, I tried my chances at the car wash I already secured a standing at. I explained my situation and asked one of our full service managers if there was any other position. Through divine grace, a cashier had recently left.
He talked to the general manager, the general manager talked to me, and the next day I started my training as cashier. This job paid one dollar above minimum wage, along with commissions. I saved enough money to bail me out when plans changed at the end of December.
Sometimes it becomes easy to be a burden to another person. Or, at the very least, to be an element that creates anxiety in their life. The family I lived with did not need anymore burdens or anxieties. Constructing a new house gave them enough of both. Prompted to change my living situation, I started looking for an apartment in student town Provo.
After looking on Facebook market place, lo and behold, I found an apartment. I visited, thought it was beautiful because of the wall covered in magazines, and drove away satisfied. I only had one more I planned to look at, but I almost did not go since the other fit perfectly.
Before I walked in to look at the next place, I parked my car and called my mom. We fought. She insisted I needed to stay and wait until April to move, I knew otherwise. I proclaimed I found the perfect place, and she refuted that I must at the very least look at my next option.
Angry, but obliging, I strode over. I found the door in a hidden corner on the first floor. Knock. The younger girl opened and welcomed me. I walked into the dimness. Curtains covered the windows. Bushes covered the view of the parking lot. I faked enthusiasm. Poorly. Adequate bedroom with reclusive roommate. Nice bathroom. Horrible kitchen space. And I said goodbye and thank you.
The place I wanted sold and I decided to consider my mother’s point of view, only for her to insist a week later that I should move out soon. I scrolled and looked for some new apartments on Facebook Marketplace. After considering prices and the limited numbers in my bank account, I gave in.
I messaged the dimly lit place I looked at earlier, hidden in the corner. The monthly rent seemed decent, and the girl promised to pay the first month’s rent. After deposits and such, I barely had enough to pay for it. . .but, I had enough.
By January, I moved to Provo. This was the most crucial move I could make, but not the most difficult decision. Those would come in the following months with COVID-19, college applications, and romantic pursuits. To be continued next week in part three of “Establishing My First Home.”
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