She returned to her paperwork.
“I handle the books, the phones, and nearly everything your uncle forgets.”
I smiled.
Then she added.
“I don’t make breakfast. There’s cereal upstairs.”
That was my introduction to the woman who would eventually become the most dependable person in our company.
By noon, I discovered Dad had removed me from the family phone plan.
My telephone stopped working.
Hoy looked at the screen.
Then picked up his truck keys.
“Come on.”
He drove me to a store in Clinton and helped me arrange a prepaid phone.
When I tried to repay him, he shook his head.
“Take it out of your first paycheck.”
I stared.
“What paycheck?”
He smiled.
“The one you’re earning starting Monday.”
For a moment, I didn’t understand.
Then he added.
“There’s work here if you want it.”
I looked toward him.
And nodded.
“I do.”
My first week taught me how much I’d misunderstood Hoy’s business.
People hear the words pumping and portable restrooms and imagine unpleasant work.
There are certainly difficult parts.
But the real challenge is planning.
A construction company needs forty units delivered before its crews arrive.
A county fair needs hundreds serviced on a reliable schedule.
An outdoor wedding requires equipment positioned carefully without damaging lawns or blocking access.
A large event can fail if the restroom facilities aren’t ready.
Hoy understood all of that.
He kept a small note attached to the dashboard.
“Be there before they need you.”
That was his entire business philosophy.
He told me something else during my first route.
“Nobody notices us when we do everything right.”
I nodded.
He continued.
“They notice when we don’t show up.”
Then he smiled.
“So we show up.”
I began working early mornings and weekends.
I learned to deliver units, service equipment, manage supplies, and plan routes.
Sometimes the work was uncomfortable.
Sometimes the weather was miserable.
But I liked being useful.
I liked knowing that when I completed a job properly, people could depend on it.
And for the first time in my life, nobody told me I wasn’t smart enough to learn.
When August arrived, I started college.
The financial aid situation was complicated because my parents wouldn’t cooperate.
I met with an adviser named Mrs. Albright.
She explained what options might be available and what documentation would be required.
There were no simple guarantees.
But we worked through the circumstances carefully.
Hoy provided a written statement explaining that I’d left my parents’ home and was supporting myself through employment.
Marva helped gather payroll records.
I applied for scholarships and the assistance for which I qualified.
The remaining expenses came from my savings, wages, and limited borrowing.
Then Hoy announced that the company would help with part of my tuition.
Marva looked up from her desk.
“Since when do we have an education program?”
Hoy shrugged.
“Since Reed started college.”
I stared.
“Uncle Hoy, you don’t have to do that.”
He looked toward me.
“You’re working here. You’re doing well. If you want to learn, I want to help.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Then Marva looked at him.
“Fine. But we’ll do the paperwork properly.”
Hoy smiled.
“That’s why I keep you around.”
What I didn’t learn until later was that Hoy postponed replacing equipment he needed so the company could afford my tuition contribution.
He never mentioned the sacrifice.
He didn’t ask for gratitude.
He simply made sure I could keep going.
My days developed a rhythm.
Work.
Classes.
Homework.
Sleep.
Then more work.
I drove to Warrensburg for some classes and completed others online.
I learned business accounting, finance, operations, and management.
Then I’d return to the shop and watch those ideas become practical problems.
How much did a route actually cost?
How should we price equipment rentals?
Which customers paid late?
When was it smarter to repair an older truck rather than replace it?
For the first time, school didn’t feel separate from my life.
Every class taught me something I could use.
And every day at the shop gave me questions to take back to class.
At the end of my first year, something happened that changed the direction of the business.
We were setting up portable restrooms at a barn wedding outside Lincoln.
The bride’s mother came outside to inspect the arrangements.
She looked at the blue units.
Then sighed.
“Oh. I was hoping for the nicer kind.”
I asked what she meant.
She described a restroom trailer.
A small, attractive trailer with flushing toilets, running water, mirrors, lighting, and air-conditioning.
The sort of facility guests might find at an upscale event.
She told me she’d tried renting one.
But the nearest available company was hours away and booked months in advance.
That evening, I went home and began researching.
I found only a few companies offering the service in our region.
Their calendars were full.
Their prices were substantial.
And nobody in our immediate area was serving the demand consistently.
I filled two pages of a notebook.
Then another.