object essay

For Good Luck, Rub My Belly
To look at this little gold figurine, paint chipped off the nose and hands from time, most people wouldn’t think it much more than a novelty; something you could by at a gift shop for less than two dollars. Short and stout with a sack over his shoulder, water jug in hand, my little Buddha means so much more to me than a petty knickknack.
The Buddha was given to me by my mother when she wanted me to get a job. She told me he was the “Prosperity Rupa” and that I should rub his belly so I would find a way to make some money. I looked at the fat little man and laughed. Was she serious? Did she honestly believe that rubbing a stupid plastic idol would bring luck my way? So I rubbed the stupid belly then put the Buddha on my desk and went about my life. Within a week I was employed. It was an awful job, but a job none the less.
I was working at a chain restaurant called Noodles. It was one of those jobs that required you to wear a baseball cap with your hair tied up and your shirt tucked in to a pair of dark jeans; I felt like a tool. I must have looked the part because I was treated as such. Suburban mothers with their armies of brats would come into the store and dictate to me about their child’s well balanced, gluten free diets, then expect me to tell them what would be the best choice of food. When I said something that was not to their liking, which was most of the time, they would turn up their noses and ask to speak to someone who “knew what they were talking about.” I gladly went to the back room to find someone else who would deal with the costumer, and usually ended up wrapping silverware for the remainder of my shift.
To understand those aforementioned “Soccer Moms”, one must first understand where I grew up. Naperville is an ever-expanding suburb located 45 minutes south of Chicago. It’s a wealthy place where you’ll see a new house being built on almost every street, each one seemingly larger than the next, and definitely more expensive. Money Magazine comes out with this list every year titled “The 100 Best Places to Live”, and from 2003 to 2006 Naperville held the silver medal; we citizens of Naperville are a proud people. So proud, in fact, that the government officials and public service officers want to make sure that us young kids don’t screw everything up. A teenager in this splendid suburb is treated like someone who is about to set fire to the next house they see. Mothers hold their children close as a young boy with a backwards hat approaches, thinking he just might be the hooligan who broke their mailbox with a bat just three nights ago. In all reality, that backwards cap was probably purchased by another mother, like herself, for $75.00 at some boutique on Jefferson Street.
This double standard between affluent adults and equally wealthy teenagers makes it hard for a middle-class girl to find work. To most people living in Naperville means one thing; you’re loaded with cash. This was not the case for my family. Sure, we used to be members of the smug and bitter crowd, until we were seemingly outcast. My dad worked for United Airlines during the time of the September 11th attacks, so like many others from the same company, he was fired within a week of the tragedy. With the job market so poor, it was difficult for him to find a job with a salary anything close to what we were used to. So after almost a year and a half of unemployment, which was a year and a half of dirty looks from neighbors and ex-coworkers, he eventually settled for less. This humbling experience put us in a smaller house, suited each member of my family with a smaller ego to go with it, and we kept moving forward with our lives.
When I turned sixteen, a time where most of the kids from my high school receive their first BMW or Mercedes, I received a stack of job applications and that stupid gold Buddha from my mother. He sat on my desk with that toothless grin, laughing at me every night when I got home from work wearing that stupid black hat, smelling of dish soap and parmesan cheese. I hated him. Big fat Buddha with his belly full of food and his bag full of money; I envied him. Alas, I was still making money, enough to finally put a down-payment on a 96’ Ford Contour Sport. I was proud of that car, proud of all the high strung mothers I had to deal with to finally receive it, and proud of myself for sticking it out.
While doing homework one night, I glanced over at the Buddha and felt a twinge of guilt in my heart, I had been so mean to him. For all I know he could have very well been the reason the Cosmos blessed me with a job. The job that made my parents proud of me. The job that gave me the faded black hat, that still reeks of pasta sauce and sweat, hanging on my closet door handle at home. The job that paid for my beat up car that I loved so much. I decided I should show the little fat man some respect. With a square pad of double-sided adhesive, I stuck him to the dashboard of my car, and rubbed his belly every time I got in it. This gratuitous act of affection to my Buddha has, I believe, given me the opportunity to come to a wonderful school on several grants and scholarships. I brought him to school with me and he sits on my desk, looking at me as I write this, and I give him a belly rub most every day.