The Home Finishers Files

Way back when we first moved to California I worked at this construction company. Well, they mostly provided labor to construction companies. Our employees would fill the gap on jobs like painting, dry wall, as well as some basic construction skills. We also offered the ever popular home warranties. Honestly if they had just done the home warranties this company would have lasted, but sadly they branched out too much. I worked in the payroll department and these are my stories.

Here, I was in Northern California trying to figure why everyone was complaining about the heat when I only felt like it was 85 to me. Because 85 in Atlanta felt like 102 out here, at least back then. Now, 102 out here feels pretty freaking hot and 85 in Atlanta feels like the inside of Satan's ass. But back then I was still figuring things out. One thing I had to learn about was Kimba.

Kimba worked for our collections department and she had the cubicle right next to mine. Kimba came from a large Mexican-American family, and I swear more than half of them worked in our office. Kimba was about my age (29 at that time), and she was a divorced mother of three teenage/pre-teen children. She had left her husband and children for another man with whom she had at best a stormy relationship. I tell you this not to pass judgement on Kimba, because I could care less the choices someone else makes in their life. That is their business and most assuredly not mine. I tell you info because it is background into this very interesting person with whom I once worked. Kimba was at time rough around the edges and she honestly did not like white people. But she was also a good person and she would give you the shirt off her back if you needed it.

Every morning Kimba would come in and drop her keys on my desk before proceeding to her own cubicle. The first week or so this happened I did not think much of it as I was busy learning the ropes of my new position. But finally with some work knowledge under my wing I just had to ask, what was up with the keys? Kimba was always on the phone yelling and one or two of our customers attempting to be paid. We had two or three builders who were always in arrears. I decided to ask my fellow payroll clerk, Cristina. Cristina explained that Kimba had used to leave her keys on Mindy's desk, but that she started leaving them on my desk when I started and she did not know why. Off to see Mindy I went only to learn that Mindy did not know either. Mindy was more than a little afriad of Kimba.

I go back to my desk only to hear Kimba calling out: 'Wendy?' over and over again. Thinking she was attempting to get Mindy's attention I did not answer. Then finally she says, 'Hey white girl in the next cubicle, do you hear me calling your name?'. Choking back laughter, I responded: 'Sorry, I did not know you were calling me. My name is Amy.' Kimba's reply is simple and to the point: 'It is going to be easier for me if you and other white girl have names that rhyme.' There was some discussion as to whether I should be Wendy to match Mindy or whether Mindy should be Jamie to match Amy. In the end I was forever and always called Wendy by Kimba. It did cause a bit of confusion in the office and to the credit of others they still called me Amy. Oh well. At least now I could ask her about the keys. Here was her response:

'I was arrested for stabbing my ex-husband's new girlfriend with my keys. But that really isn't stabbing. It is key poking, not stabbing: to stab you need a knife. Right? Wendy'. It takes me minute to figure out who Wendy is because I new to being Wendy, finally I get it and say, 'No, I think that is still stabbing. But why do you have to leave your keys on my desk?' With a sigh and an eye roll she continues (because this all should be obvious): ' I can only have my keys when I am driving. When I am not in the car I have to leave my keys with someone responsible and you seem responsible. Plus you are white so the judge will like that, too.' Aghast that I had for the first time in my life been racially profiled I began to stammer that I might not be responsible. I might in fact be a desperate criminal. To which Kimba replies, 'No. No, your not.'

I gave up. She was right. I was responsible person who was not at all a desperate criminal, and for the next year I was the keeper for Kimba's keys.