“Go on in,” the lady at the front desk told me. “She’s expecting you.”
I walked into the office. The tall woman looked to be about 30 years old, give or take. She had thick, black hair held in place on top of her head by a giant claw clip. Her unmanicured nails were cut short, and she wore little makeup, but she was glowing with a combination of youthful energy and end-of-summer exhaustion.
“Come on in!” she urged, standing up and reaching out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Gabby. Thanks for coming.”
“Nice to meet you, too. Thank you for having me,” I replied.
Gabby motioned for me to have a seat on a wood chair on the opposite side of the desk. She shuffled through a pile of papers, pulling out my resumé. On the floor, I noticed a cardboard filing box that was half-filled with what looked to be personal effects: framed photos, a coffee mug, a stack of books, and a small, glass award of some sort.
“Ah, here it is,” Gabby began, as she scanned the resume. She noticed me ingesting the room. “Excuse the mess. It’s been kind of crazy over here.”
“No worries. I understand. It’s camp cleanup week where I work. This time of year is crazy for us, too.”
“Right?” she smiled. Her easy nature made me exhale comfortably, the butterflies in my stomach settling.
“So, let’s see,” she began, reviewing the page in her hand. “Let’s start with your summer, I guess. Tell me about the camp you work at.”
“Well, I grew up there, believe it or not.”
“Really?”
I nodded. “I started going there when I was six years old and went every summer until college. It’s an agriculturally focused sleep away camp with very little screens or media—mostly just outdoor, natural experiences. It’s rustic. The kids sleep in cabins with shared washhouses. There’s a beach and a working farm. I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “It’s not like Queens.”
“Are you from out that way?” Gabby asked.
“Oh, no,” I replied. “I’m from here, actually. Well, not Jamaica, exactly. Forest Hills, border of Kew Gardens. About five stops away on the E train.”
“Wow! Small world. I live over that way.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. My family owns a small laundromat on Queens Boulevard and 73rdAvenue. I live in the apartment over the shop.”
“Wait.”No way.“Is it the one with the blue sign? With the bubbles?”
Gabby laughed. “Not anymore. We used to have a blue awning, back when the shop was called Soapy Suds. Dad changed the name a few years ago to Laundry King of Queens. Now it has a gold colored sign. Very regal.”
“Soapy Suds! That’s right!”
“You know it?”
“I used to do laundry there with my mother when I was little. Every weekend,” I mused, shaking my head. “I haven’t thought about that place in forever.”
“Coincidence! That’s funny,” Gabby agreed. “Well, okay. So, you’re a local! Noted.” She wrote something down on the corner of the resume. “And you run the camp?” Gabby asked, switching back to interview-mode.
“Not exactly. Pat’s the director. He’s been there since I was a kid. He’s retiring this year, though. I was hired to help him out. He’s older and slowing down considerably. So, this past summer I ran the plays, but he managed the playbook, if that makes sense.”
Gabby nodded. “And I see from your resumé that you interned at the Boys & Girls Club of Hartford?”
“I did. I loved it. That was a big part of why I decided I wanted to work with kids.”
“How come?”
“Well, a lot of those kids came from a lower socio-economic demographic, and they really needed positive role models and options, you know? Things to do to keep them off the streets and out of trouble.”
“I totally understand. We have a lot of that here, too.”
“It’s not easy being a kid when both parents work,” I explained. “Or when you’re being raised by a single parent.”
