“Can I take Saturday off, Mr. Lefkowitz? I’ll work on Sunday if you want, or extra hours on Monday”

August/September 1964

It’s kind’ve unexpected to discover something really weird about yourself while you’re stacking cans of Bumblebee Tuna and Heinz Baked Beans. But then again, nothing in these past two weeks had been what Marjorie expected.

Who woulda thunk? That after traveling thousands of miles in her search for freedom, Marjorie Burton would wind up opening boxes, stacking shelves, slicing cheese, and sweeping up the detritus of grocery shoppers who came in barefoot and tracked what seemed all of San Francisco’s dust onto the floor?

And even crazier — that she would like it?

But now, most shocking of all... where had those words come from, the words she’d just said to Mr. Samuel “Sammy” Lefkowitz, proprietor of the tiny corner grocery that had become a kind of haven for her?

Mr. Lefkowitz had been going over the schedule for the next few days. “Fridays are busy, Margie, everyone’s getting ready to party. Let’s open at nine. Saturday, all those hippies and dippies and nut jobs are sleeping it off, so you can come late. Be here at noon, should be in plenty of time for the long-haired crowd.”

Thoughts raced through her mind, as swiftly as the grocery’s flashing neon sign, blinking on, off, on, off.

Saturday. Shabbos.

Work. Rest.

The Haight.

The Hotel.

She hardly knew what she was going to say, and yet she said it. “Can I take Saturday off, Mr. Lefkowitz? I’ll work on Sunday if you want, or extra hours on Monday.”