by Lauren Salem
Ever since I was a little girl living on Hillsdale Court, my father always told me that nothing in life was free. His favorite example was the story of my grandparents, his mother and father, who immigrated to America from Norway with only twenty dollars in their pockets. They both worked in the restaurant industry for years, starting as dishwashers and eventually becoming chefs at a New York City Italian restaurant. Neither of them ever went to college, and they learned all the tricks of the trade by working at that restaurant. After years and years of hard work, they earned enough money to move out west and open up their own restaurant, called Little Italy. Little Italy, now owned by my father, was the most popular Italian restaurant in Phoenix.
My grandparents started a tradition of strong work ethics that pulsed through my family. Being a Hansen meant that we never accepted any handouts and that we had always worked for what we had. When my father was twelve years old, his parents put him to work as a dishwasher at Little Italy and paid him a dollar an hour. To follow the tradition, my parents put me to work when I was twelve years old, washing dishes for three dollars an hour. Once I became a working girl, my parents paid only for the food I ate and the roof over my head. They expected that I’d pay for everything else I wanted or needed with my three-dollar-an-hour salary. They must have forgotten about inflation.
Since I was so busy with school and activities, I didn’t have much time to work during the week, so I mostly worked on the weekends. I never understood why I needed to work at such a young age when my family made tons of money off the restaurant. Dad was always extremely cheap when it came to buying things the family needed, such as appliances that functioned properly.
One time he bought a used washer from a garage sale that ripped up my new Jorie tank from Abercrombie & Fitch. I had just bought that tank with my own money and I only got to wear it once. There was fifty dollars of my weekly salary torn to shreds by a secondhand washer. When I told Dad about what his washer did to my tank top, he said, “Shit happens,” and “Go get yourself a new one.” Disappointed by his lack of compassion, I complained to Mom. If there was anyone who understood how annoying Dad’s cheapness was better than me, it was Mom. Mom was a high-maintenance woman, a master of seduction and persuasion and a woman who knew how to get what she wanted. She was so good, she somehow persuaded Dad to buy a $500,000 house on Hillsdale Court. Once I complained to Mom, the secondhand washer was replaced with a brand-spanking-new one the next day.
I always knew Mom married Dad for his money, so who knows if they actually loved each other. Mom never worked a day in her life, and I didn’t know how that was possible until she gave me “the talk.” Usually teenagers dread the talk, but the talk I got had very little to do with my period. Instead, she taught me how to be a woman that gets what she wants. She showed me how to dress in a tempting way without being too revealing. She taught me how to play hard-to-get and when to walk away from useless relationships. She gave me lessons on how to keep all my potential suitors interested until I found one worth marrying. She explained that a man worth marrying is one who keeps in shape, has a high-paying job, and is willing to do anything for me.
By the time I was fourteen, I was sick of being the only person in school who didn’t have a cell phone, an iPod, or even a computer. I had to find some way to make more money but still have enough time to wash dishes at the restaurant. That was when I decided to test Mom’s theories on the boys at school, and, surprisingly, everything she said worked. Boys would buy me a computer or iPod just for making out with them, flashing them my breasts, and giving them some dirty pictures.
The cell phone, on the other hand, was a little more of a challenge. I actually had to get into a real relationship for that one, which felt really awkward. His name was Randy, he was sixteen, and he wanted to talk all the time, which was why he bought me a cell phone. While I was technically Randy’s girl, I continued to see other people because I knew I could do better. Eventually, when I was fifteen, I did find something better in Ron, the freshman college student I lost my virginity to for a credit card in his name.
