THE NEXT DAY, I return to Doc's shop dressed for work. Old T-shirt. Stained jeans. A whole new attitude.
He takes one look at me. Just one look. And then points to the broom.
This time, when I start sweeping, I badmouth him under my breath rather than to his face.
Progress.
The next few days are all the same.
Doc doesn't offer any counseling, any observations, any advice.
I walk into the shop. He points to the broom like I'm his maid. And I get to work while my heart smolders with resentment.
I'm not sure what I hate more about this entire process—manual labor or paying Doc's secretary after I'm done. This guy is running a racket. After this is all over, I'm going to sue him for everything he's worth.
Days bleed into one another.
A week later, I enter Doc's shop and fall into the routine. A curt greeting. A sharp nod from Doc and then I head for the broom.
Except today, Doc stops me.
