The job at the Museum of Art came at the perfect time for Consuela. She had taken her finals, had her 21st birthday the day after graduation, and had been told by her parents that she needed to find a job and move out. It was a tradition, they told her, and they had given her the tools to forge her own way. She was the last child, they had made sure she had a degree as they had done for all five of her siblings. Now they were retiring and moving back to Puerto Rico.

Consuela understood. Her parents had built up a profitable business over the years by cleaning businesses and all of their children had, at one time or another, worked with them. They all had learned how to be meticulous about details and were consistently told that cleanliness was next to godliness. The reputation of Diaz Cleaning Service had remained impeccable but now her parents were ready to move on.

One of the jobs Consuela had done all through high school and college was maintenance and cleaning at the small art museum on the west side of the city. She had been so intrigued by the private collection she cleaned every night for 8 years, that she had majored in Art History. Most nights, after her work was done and the museum sparkled, Consuela would find a bench in front of one of the works of art and study it intimately for an hour or so before she left to go home to do her homework or college studies.

It had been on a Tuesday night, just a few weeks before her graduation, that she had plopped down in front of her favorite portrait of Matilda Hendley, an early ancestor of the present day Hendleys who owned the collection and had set up the museum. She was deeply engrossed in taking notes on the portrait and never heard the footsteps behind her.

“Ahem.”

Consuela jumped off the bench and whirled around, her heart pounding in her chest, scattering her notebook and pens all over the floor. When she saw who was in front of her, she giggled nervously.

“Mister Hendley! Oh my! You gave me such a start! I am leaving right now. I am so sorry if I disturbed you.”

“You didn’t disturb me, Consuela. I was in my office and saw the light and thought maybe you had forgotten to turn it off. May I see what you’re doing?”

Consuela plucked her notebook off the floor and reddened as she handed it to him. “I like to do some analyses of the artist’s methods and sketches of small areas of the paintings. I was intrigued by the way he executed the lace embellishments on the gown. It is so intricate.”

Morton Hendley read the notes and studied the sketch and then turned to several other pages, nodding his head once in a while. “These are really good. Excellent, in fact. What are your plans when you graduate?”

“I am putting out resumes hoping somebody wants to hire an Art History major.” She laughed. “I know all the dumb jokes about this major but I just am really, really passionate about all this.” She waved her hand around the gallery.

Hendley looked intently at her.”Are you crazy to move to New York like all the young folks seem to be?”

“ Not necessarily. I really just want to do what I love.”

He handed her notebook back to her and smiled. “Come see me tomorrow at 9:30. I’d like to talk with you. I’m impressed, Consuela. Turn out the lights when you leave.”

And that was how it all came about. One just never could predict that dumping trash cans in a museum after hours could turn into a dream job.