El movimiento de la bicicleta de bambú
Por Álvaro Espa
I figured slinging shirts at the shop that summer’d be a breeze - toss stuff on shelves, smile at customers, walk away with spare cash. No clue I’d end up stuck on my feet all day, chatting nonstop, faking good vibes from open to close.
He handed me a bunch of hangers my first morning, said, "Sort out the floor." I just nodded - had zero clue what he was talking about. Basically? It meant straightening shirts, tidying messes left behind. After sixty minutes, it hit me: folks barely noticed. Stack up jeans nice and tight, then someone yanks one from underneath, everything tumbles, back to square one.
The shop blasted identical tunes daily - I recall one looping hourly. At first, it stuck in my head nicely, though later I couldn’t stand hearing it, but come late August, I could mouth each line without thinking. The scent hung heavy - fresh clothes blended with sharp cleaner fumes. Sometimes the cooler cranked too hard, other times it barely hummed at all. That dark top? Wore it every time I clocked in - it passed inspection fine - even if fuzz clung to it fresh out of the wash.
Customers came from all walks of life: some were friendly, grinning at me, yet others acted as though I didn’t exist. A lady once questioned whether a dress made her seem aged; right after, without waiting, she muttered, “Forget it.” Some guy insisted I confirm if his jacket gave off a rich vibe. Over time, I picked up the habit - grin and reply with lines like “You rock that look,” doubts or not.
The back room felt calmer. A mix of cardboard fumes plus cleaning soap hung in the air - probably from all the stacked clothing crates still sealed tight. Every now and then, I’d duck inside, stay a moment before heading out again, mostly so my legs could take it easy. Mia showed up nearby sometimes, handling her shift right beside mine. She'd stuck around way longer than the rest, yet sized people up with just one look. Next came Jordan - moaning nonstop through each shift - though he’d dive in fast once cleanup started after hours.
The toughest bit came when it shut. Once the locks clicked, we started tidying up instead. Stuff lay everywhere - shirts dumped on the ground, footwear mixed into wrong spots, hooks twisted in knots. The boss strolled past, muttering things about wrapping up fast; except it never actually happened that quickly. One evening sticks out - dead on my feet, I propped myself on a counter, barely staying awake while upright.
Even so, some moments felt nice. One day, a kid sprinted over just to show off his glowing shoes with every step. Later on, a lady pulled out a sweet from her bag, handed it to me, saying I looked like her grandson. By the time summer wrapped up, I left the job to return to class. Before walking out, my boss gave me this tiny silver pin - read "Employee of the Month." Might’ve been nothing special, yet I held onto it. Every now and then, digging through the drawer, I spot it - and suddenly I’m back under those bright store lamps, sniffing fresh fabric, watching how the glass doors caught the nighttime streets once we locked up.