Tiny
Hot tears burned my eyes as I leaned down to pick up another stack of J.C. Penney winter catalogs. I dropped the stack on the rumbling conveyor belt and brushed away the tears with my fingers. Crying out in pain, I looked down at my stinging hands. They were red and raw, covered in hundreds of little paper cuts from the thin pages of the catalogs. The salty tears had seeped into the cuts, causing even more pain.
I looked around, embarrassed, and picked up another stack of books—carefully, so that I didn’t incur more tiny flesh wounds.
It was my first night working at R.R. Donnelley & Sons. I had graduated from high school just three days earlier and was excited about a good-paying job at the printing factory. I quickly learned that I would be earning my money that summer.
By 11 p.m., my back ached and my hands were bleeding. I picked up my lunch bag, clocked out, and stepped out into the muggy night. The tears were back in my eyes. I was alone now, so I let them slide down my cheek before wiping them away with my shirt sleeve. I sat down on a picnic table to wait on my father, who worked in another part of the factory.
After about five minutes, I saw a large man walking towards me. His tattooed arms and cut-off shirt were typical of many of the factory workers, but he had a sympathetic smile on his face as he sat down next to me. I looked away, not wanting to talk to this stranger.
“Name’s Tiny,” he said, sticking out a thick hand. I looked over at him and laughed. At about 350 pounds, he was anything but tiny. His chubby arms boasted no muscle definition and he had two double chins. “I saw you working pile-on. Pretty rough first night, eh?”
“Yeah…wasn’t quite what I expected.” I looked down at my hands, unsure of what to say. Obviously he had noticed me having a hard time that night.
“Well here, take these. These will help.” He tossed me a pair of blue work gloves tied together with ear plugs. “They have extra in the main office if you need them. Don’t worry—they’re brand new.”
I managed to get in a quiet “thank you” before Tiny jumped off the table and walked away. I was grateful for his small act of kindness. I hadn’t expected it—not from a tattooed stranger who looked like someone I wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley.
Tiny became a good friend that summer. We always shared our supper breaks, and he often took me on forklift rides around the factory. He was cheerful, friendly to everyone, and a merciless practical joker.
On my last night of work before leaving for college, Tiny walked me out to my car to say good-bye. As I opened my car door, he tossed another pair of gloves at me. As he winked and walked away, he yelled back, “Just in case college gets overwhelming.”
I smiled and shut the door, thankful for my friend Tiny.
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