The Master

I learned this early.

At 16, I got my first job at a convenience food store owned by a man named Robert Lee. At first, it felt promising. The pay was decent for the work we did. But when Robert’s wife stepped in, everything changed. Our wages dropped to just $13 a week.

We weren’t even guaranteed food. Instead, we had a tab. If I took $10 worth of snacks or meals, my take-home pay on Friday was $3. That was the system.

The store itself was small, tucked into a corner of our neighborhood, and always buzzing with customers. I stocked shelves, swept floors, and manned the register. The work was constant, and the expectations were high. Robert was stern but fair—until his wife got involved. She scrutinized every move, cut costs wherever she could, and made sure we felt the pressure.

Despite the harsh conditions, I stayed. Not for the money, but for a girl named Tarry. She worked at the store, and I’d see her every day. Her smile made the long hours bearable. I had fallen in love with her, and the thought of leaving her was unbearable.

Looking back, I realize I was living out a scripture I hadn’t yet read: Ephesians 5:33“Each one of you also must love his wife as he loves himself, and the wife must respect her husband.” I was wired to love, even without knowing the spiritual blueprint.

But she wasn’t wired to love me back. Her role was to honor and respect, not reciprocate affection.

There were days I’d go home with just a few dollars in my pocket, exhausted and hungry. I’d lie awake wondering if this was all life had to offer. I began to understand that being employed didn’t mean being valued. I was a body filling a role, not a person with dreams.

So what does this have to do with employment?

Everything.

That job marked the beginning of a pattern—where love, labor, and loss collided. Where being seen as a worker meant being unseen as a person. Where the system taught me my worth in dollars, not dignity.

It was the first lesson in a long journey of understanding identity—not just as an employee, but as a man navigating love, faith, and survival.

Robert had two habits—drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. Whenever he needed a fix, he’d send either me or Chico, another guy who worked with us, to the bootlegger. In case you’re wondering, a bootlegger is someone who sells liquor, beer, and wine in a dry community. That meant there were no stores in our part of town that legally sold those commodities. It was all considered contraband, and buying from a bootlegger was the only way to get alcohol.

When Robert couldn’t get his usual fix, he turned to a strange substitute: a can of Coca-Cola mixed with Dr. Tichenor’s mouthwash. He’d pour out a bit of the Coke to make room for the mouthwash, then drink the concoction like it was a cocktail. It was a desperate workaround, but it gave him the buzz he craved.

Both Robert and his wife had children from previous marriages. His wife had a son named Jim, who was about sixteen. Robert had a daughter named Lisa and a son named Teil, both in their mid-twenties. The household was a blend of personalities and histories, and the tension was often palpable.

Alcohol has a way of stirring conflict, especially in relationships. In my own family, my father was an alcoholic. He didn’t hit my mother, but the verbal abuse was constant—cutting words, angry outbursts, and emotional manipulation. I saw how it wore her down over time.

With Robert, the dynamic was different but still toxic. Sometimes, when he wanted his wife to leave the store so he could do as he pleased, he’d start an argument with her. It was a calculated move—he knew she’d storm off, and that would give him the freedom to drink or act without interference. It was manipulation masked as conflict.

Working in that environment taught me a lot about human behavior. I saw how addiction could twist a person’s priorities, how it could turn love into control and companionship into conflict. I saw how people used others to get what they wanted, and how easy it was to lose sight of dignity when survival was the goal.

These experiences didn’t just shape my view of Robert—they shaped my understanding of relationships, addiction, and the quiet battles people fight every day. They taught me that behind every habit is a story, and behind every argument is a need that’s not being met.