The Scam.

My name is Brett Myers. I work at Freschetta Pizza. And yesterday I was scammed.

Dearest Scammer Person,

Yesterday, you saw me behind the counter. The pizza counter.

I don't know what your thoughts were. I am no mind reader.

Perhaps you were planning how you would scam your next dollar; perhaps you just wanted some pizza. It doesn't matter anyway. What does matter is that when the moment came, you decided that your integrity was worth a dollar.

You found my weakness.

Each and every time upon giving a customer their change, I worry that they will look at the change and see that I have accidentally shorted them. It isn't an overwhelming worry. Just one that lingers on the edge of my mind. You already know this.

So when I handed you your change, you did it. "Oh, you only gave me three dollars... Shouldn't it be four?" you said so innocently as you held three dollars up to my view. Looking down at the register, it read $4.00. And so I hurriedly handed you another dollar.

Four hours later, when the money room was counting the money in my box, they discovered that I was a dollar short.

Well I have news for you. I'm on to you.

Never Say Never.

As I strolled through my journal, I came across this entry.

Today began early with ice on my windshield. Fifteen hours and nine hundred miles later, we arrived at West Jordan, Utah.

Now my parents were both afraid to let me drive my truck to Utah by myself and so despite my constant assurances that I was a fully capable adult, I followed Jenny and her family. And we traveled the speed limit almost the entire trip. Hence, the fifteen hours. Surprisingly, the drive was practically painless. As long as I had my music blaring, I was good to go.

But while I'm writing this, I want to take a moment to make a point. About a half hour out of Reno, exhaustion began to set in. Whether it was the pancakes I had eaten for breakfast or the sheer lack of good scenery I cannot say. But I do know one thing for sure: nothing would shake the drooping eyelids. And John Mayor certainly wasn't helping. In those desperate moments when it seemed like there wasn't anything to awaken me, a thought occurred to me. Put in rock! And so I did. And it worked. Three Doors Down came to my rescue. No matter what anyone says, rock music has its place and its purpose; if only to keep awake drivers with heavy eyelids.

And another thing. Never again will I pay $3.56 per gallon for gasoline. Dumb Elko.

Never again will I pay $3.56 per gallon? For some reason, I don't think I'm going to be able to keep that promise.

Growing Up.

Growing up. I remember those days.

Free room and board. Free clothes. Free food. Presents all year round. Dates funded by parents.

My concept of working for what I had included doing my homework and getting good grades in school. After all, good grades pay the rent right? Wrong. But you see, that is something I didn't fully understand. Over and over in school I heard, "Get a job and save money for college." In church I heard, "Save money for your mission." But somehow, all of that was abstract to me. My parents had given me everything I had and they would continue to do so as long as I kept up an over-average GPA…

The summer after graduating high school I signed up for my first job; if you can even call it that. My former junior high teacher was building a house and she needed someone to paint her greenhouse. Not even the house! I didn't even paint the house! I painted the greenhouse! And boy did I think that job was hard! Standing on the ladder all day. Getting paint all over myself under the heat of the summer sun. Listening to country radio for hours on end. Occasionally whipping out the weed eater to thwart off the encroaching weeds. Now this was a hard job. Or so it seemed to be at the time.

After a few weeks of that, it came time to enter the ranks of the students at Brigham Young University. I thought painting all day in the sun was hard? Hah! Now I was taking a whopping fourteen credit hours! Not only that, but I started my job at the on-campus food court at six hours a week to support my weekend activities while Mom and Dad funded everything else. Now I was in the ranks of the big boys! Right?

Well, then came my mission. "Now Brett, how will you be funding your mission?," my Bishop asked me in my interview. Um… I did well at BYU and good grades pay the bills! Wait… That doesn't work. Oh, I worked six hours a week out at BYU. I had to have plenty in savings! Wrong. How would I pay for my mission? Suddenly the assumption that Mom and Dad will pay didn't come so easily. I mean, sure they would do it. But this is big money we're talking about! Could I really just expect them to pay for it? And then out of the blue came blessings from Heaven. Someone offered to pay for my mission in its entirety. Phew, that was a close one...

Now my way of thinking has changed a little since then. In fact, I don't know if I can say I did much thinking back then. Everyone has their own expenses to pay. Especially my parents. Now they have continued offering an incredibly large financial aide when ever needed, but I cannot simply just expect them to pay for everything for me anymore. Soon I'll have my own family to support. How soon I don't know, but that's not the point. The point is, I still have some growing up to do!