I was eleven.
I lied to the local cafeteria and told them I was twelve.
That was the minimum working age.
I was tall for my age, and somehow always seemed a little older than the others.
They hired me.
I was incredibly proud.
I had a real job.
I was independent.
I started as a dishwasher's assistant.
The dishes came through a hatch.
They were washed in enormous sinks,
so large I couldn't reach the bottom.
The room was small, dirty, and greasy.
I hated it.
Later I was moved into the dining hall.
I cleared tables and wiped them with a smelly, greasy rag.
It was a better job.
I could move around.
The cafeteria was bright.
I worked eight hours a day.
Six days a week.
Just like everyone else.
Summer was there, outside the window.
It kept calling to me.
I dreamed of a bicycle.
A particular model.
Light blue.
Shiny.
I could already see myself riding it.
I could see people looking.
The best part was
that I would buy it with my own money.
Money I had earned myself.
On my last day of work, I collected my pay.
A bundle of banknotes.
It wasn't enough.
I had calculated wrong.
I went home and told my mother I only needed a little more to buy the bicycle.
That's when I heard they had already decided that my brother, five years older than me, would get a motorcycle.
My mother said, "Give me your wages, and we'll buy your brother a motorcycle.
You'll get your bicycle later." The motorcycle was enormous.
Red.
Shiny.
I got to ride on the back a few times.
I felt important.
For a moment, I was part of it too.
A few months later, I got my bicycle.
Summer had already turned into autumn.
I remember the last sunny day.
I rode my new bicycle.
The sun shimmered softly on its frame.
I rode carefully.
I wasn't used to cycling.
I was afraid of falling the whole time.
I had already planned how I would take the impact with my knee and my hand, so the bicycle wouldn't hit the ground or get scratched.
I had it.
My sky-blue ride.
My greatest treasure.
And everything was exactly as I had imagined it back in that hot, sweaty dishwashing room.