Chapulín Isn't Coming

___

Five jobs that didn't make my resume. No. 4

___

My boss hung up the phone, forehead creased.

"Chapulín isn't coming. Victor, you're up."

Just like that, one week before college, I was at the top of the heap.

I never knew his real name. We all called him Chapulín—named for the TV superhero in the red suit and toy hammer, the one who showed up when things went sideways. At the factory, he was the master pattern-maker and cutter. The night before, he'd taken his Honda P50 into an idling truck with a single headlight. His ego was bruised, his right hand shattered. He would never cut leather again.

That week, the cutting table was mine. Using the patterns he'd crafted, I had to choose where to place each curve on the hide—dodging scars, thin spots, and patches that had aged before their time. One bad cut and the shoe would pucker forever. Two, and you'd waste a whole hide.

Before Chapulín went missing, my work was invisible: prep the hides before cutting, then after the shoes were built, clean, shine, label, and pack every pair into boxes. Labels straight, tissue folded, lids down smooth.

Work no one saw. Work no one praised.

Later that week, I told my boss I was off to design school. His forehead no longer creased. He cracked a wide smile.

"I knew you were not cut out for this."

That Saturday, after pay, my co-workers lined up and applauded me goodbye. One of us is leaving, and he's not coming back!

But every time I open a new box of shoes, I see the decisions hidden inside: the quiet cuts that keep things from buckling, the small alignments that make the finished pair look inevitable. And I am right there.

My next job had no furnace, no smell, no labels. Just questions.