wk7.nickel_and_dimed_1 - 18 Nickel and Dirned: On (Not)...

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Unformatted text preview: 18 Nickel and Dirned: On (Not) Getting By in America BARBARA EHRENREICH Major rhoiiges iri roelfiire legislation in 1996 eliminated cosh poymeri ts to mil— lions of America's poor and set a time limit for millions of others, requiring them to find employment in order to support themselves and their families. This Change in the low, though popular, raised questiorisfor many people, includng Barbara Ehrenreich, who had doubts about the “uplifting benefits” of working in the low-wage economy. One of Aiiierico’s most popular sociological writers, Ehrenreich traveled to the heart of the low-wage economy to see firsthand what it has to offer. At the beginning of june 1998 I leave behind everything that normally soothes the ego and sustains the body—home, career, companion, reputation, ATM card—for a plunge into the low-wage workforce. There, I become another, occupationally much diminished “Barbara Ehren- reich“—depieted on job—application forms as a divorced homemaker whose sole work experience consists of housekeeping in a few private homes. 1 am terrified, at the beginning, of being unmasked for what I am: a middle-class journalist setting out to explore the world that welfare mothers are entering, at the rate of approximately 50,000 a month, as welfare reform* kicks in. Happily, though, my fears turn out to be en- tirely unwarranted: during a month of poverty and toil, my name goes unnoticed and for the most part unuttered. in this parallel universe where my father never got out of the mines and I never got through college, I am “baby,” “honey,” “blondie,” and, most commonly, “girl.” My first task is to find a place to live. I figure that if 1 can earn $7 an hour-which, from the want ads, seems doablefil can afford to spend $500 on rent, or maybe, with severe economies, $600. In the Key West area, where I live, this pretty much confines me to flophouses and trailer homes—like the one, a pleasing fifteen-minute drive from town, that has no air-conditioning, no screens, no fans, no television, and, by way of diversion, only the challenge of evading the landlord’s Doberman pin- scher. The big problem with this place, though, is the rent, which at $675 *[On the basis of 1996 federal legislation, states were required to adopt new guidelines for providing social assistance. The most important program providing cash assistance, Aid to Families with Dependent Children (AFDC), was eliminated and replaced by requirements that poor adults work or participate in job training in order to qualify for cash assistance] 180 BARBARA EHRENREICH a month is well beyond my reach. All right, Key West is expensive. But so is New York City, or the Bay Area, or Jackson Hole, or Telluride, or Boston, or any other place where tourists and the wealthy compete for living space with the people who clean their toilets and fry their hash brOWns.j Still, it is a shock to realize that “trailer trash” has become, for me, a demographic category to aspire to. So I decide to make the common trade—off between affordability and convenience, and go for a $500-a—month efficiency thirty miles up a two- lane highway from the employment opportunities of Key West, meaning forty-five minutes if there’s no road construction and I don’t get caught behind some sun-dazed Canadian tourists. I hate the drive, along a road- side studded with white crosses commemorating the more effective head-on collisions, but it’s a sweet little place—a cabin, more or less, set in the swampy back yard of the converted mobile home where my land- lord, an affable TV repairman, lives with his bartender girlfriend. An- thropologically speaking, a bustling trailer park would be preferable, but here I have a gleaming white floor and a firm mattress, and the few resident bugs are easily vanquished. Besides, I am not doing this for the anthropology. My aim is nothing so mistily subjective as to “experience poverty” or find out how it “really feels” to be a long-term low-wage worker. I’ve had enough unchosen encounters with poverty and the world of low-wage work to know it’s not a place you want to visit for touristic purposes; it just smells too much like fear. And with all my real-life assets—bank account, IRA, health insurance, multiroom homeswaiting indulgently in the back- ground, I am, of course, thoroughly insulated from the terrors that afflict the genuinely poor. No, this is a purely objective, scientific sort of mission. The humani- tarian rationale for welfare reform—as opposed to the more punitive and stingy impulses that may actually have motivated it—is that work will lift poor women out of poverty while simultaneously inflating their self- esteem and hence their future value in the labor market. Thus, whatever the hassles involved in finding child care, transportation, etc., the tran- sition from welfare to work will end happily, in greater prosperity for all. Now there are many problems with this comforting prediction, such as the fact that the economy will inevitably undergo a downturn, elim— inating many jobs. Even without a downturn, the influx of a million former welfare recipients into the low-wage labor market could depress wages by as much as 11.9 percent, according to the Economic Policy Institute (EPI) in Washington, DC. 1. According to the Department of Housing and Urban Development, the “fair-market rent" for an efficiency is $551 here in Monroe County, Florida. A comparable rent in the five boroughs of New York City is $704; in San Francisco, $713,- and in the heart of Silicon Valley, $808. The fair-market rent for an area is defined as the amount that would be needed to pay rent plus utilities for “privately owned, decent, Safe, and sanitary rental housing of a modest (non-luxury) nature with suitable amenities." Nickel and Dimed 181 But is it really possible to make a living on the kinds of jobs currently available to unskilled people? Mathematically, the answer is no, als can be shown by taking $6 to $7 an hour, perhaps subtracting a dol ar or two an hour for child care, multiplying by 160 hours a month, and com; paring the result to the prevailing rents. According to the Nationa Coalition for the Homeless, for example, in 1998 it took, on average na- tionwide, an hourly wage of $8.89 to afford-a one-bedroom apartment, and the Preamble Center for Public Policy estimates that the odds against a typical welfare recipient’s landing a ]ob at such a living wagei‘ tar: about 97 to 1. If these numbers are right, lop-wage work is not a so u 10 r and ossibl not even to ome essness. - to £0512? seem lgxcessiife to put this proposition to an experimentalbtgst. As certain family members keep unhelpfully reminding me, the V118. 1'1ty of low-wage work could be tested, after a fashion, Without ever eagling my study. I could just pay myself $7 an hour for eight hours aft ay, charge myself for room and board, and total up the numbers a er a month. Why leave the people and work that I love? I am an excperl; imental scientist by training. In that business, you don t Just Sit at a es and theorize; you plunge into the everyday chaos of nature, where sur- prises lurk in the most mundane measurements. Maybe, when I got into it, I would discover some hidden economies in the world of the low- wage worker. After all, if 30 percent of the workforce tOils for less 1:han $8 an hour, according to the EPI, they may have found some tric s as yet unknown to me. Maybe—who knows?—I would even be abie Itlo detect in myself the bracing psychological effects of getting out o. t e house, as promised by the welfare wonks at places like the Heritage; Foundation. Or, on the other hand, maybe there would be unexpecte costs—physical, mental, or financial—to throw off all my calculatiorlils. Ideally, I should do this with two small children in tow, that being t e welfare average, but mine are grown and no one is willing to len me theirs for a month—long vacation in penury. So this is not the perfecfi experiment, just a test of the best possible case: an unencumbere woman, smart and even strong, attempting to live more or less off the land. On the morning of my first full day of job searching, I take a red pen to the want ads, which are suspiciously numerous. Everyone in Key West’s booming “hospitality industry" seems to be looking for'someone like me—trainable, flexible, and with suitably humble expectations aslto pay. I know I possess certain traits that might be advantageous—I In White and, I like to think, well-spoken and poised—but I decide on two rules: One, I cannot use any skills derived from my education or usual work— not that there are a lot of want ads for satirical essayists anyway. Two, I ha\ u to take the best—paid job that is offered me and of course do my best to hold it[.] * * ‘t In addition, I rule out various occupations for one reason or another: Hotel front-desk clerk, for example, which to my surprth is regarded as unskilled and pays around $7 an hour, gets 182 BARBARA EHRENREICH eliminated because it involves standing in one spot for eight hours a day. Waitressing is similarly something I’d like to avoid, because I re- member it leaving me bone tired when l was eighteen, and I’m decades of varicosities and back pain beyond that now. Telemarketing, one of the first refuges of the suddenly indigent, can be dismissed on grounds of personality. This leaves certain supermarket jobs, such as deli Clerk, or housekeeping in Key West’s thousands of hotel and guest rooms. Housekeeping is especially appealing, for reasons both atavistic and practical: it’s what my mother did before I came along, and it can’t be too different from what I’ve been doing part-time, in my own home, all my life. So I put on what I take to be a respectful-looking outfit of ironed Bermuda shorts and scooped-neck T-shirt and set out for a tour of the local hotels and supermarkets. Best Western, Econo Lodge, and Hojo’s all let me fill out application forms, and these are, to my relief, interested in little more than whether I am a legal resident of the United States and have committed any felonies. My next stop is Winn-Dixie, the su- permarket, which turns out to have a particularly onerous application process, featuring a fifteen-minute “interview” by computer since, ap- parently, no human on the premises is deemed capable of representing the corporate point of view. I am conducted to a large room decorated with posters illustrating how to look “professional” (it helps to be white and, if female, permed) and warning of the slick promises that union organizers might try to tempt me with. The interview is multiple choice: Do I have anything, such as child-care problems, that might make it hard for me to get to work on time? Do I think safety on the job is the re- sponsibility of management? Then, popping up cunningly out of the blue: How many dollars’ worth of stolen goods have I purchased in the last year? Would I turn in a fellow employee if I caught him stealing? Finally, “Are you an honest person?” Apparently, I ace the interview, because I am told that all I have to do is show up in some doctor’s office tomorrow for a urine test. This seems to be a fairly general rule: if you want to stack Cheerio boxes or vacuum hotel. rooms * * ’f you have to be willing to squat down and pee in front of some health worker (who has no doubt had to do the same thing herself). The wages Winn-Dixie is offeringi$6 and a couple of dimes to start withiare not enough, I decide, to compensate for this indignity.2 I lunch at Wendy’s, where $4.99 gets you unlimited refills at the Mex- 2. According to the Monthly Labor Review (November 1996), 28 percent of work sites sur- veyed in the service industry conduct drug tests (corporate workplaces have much higher rates), and the incidence of testing has risen markedly since the Eighties. The rate of testing is highest in the South (56 percent of work sites polled), with the Midwest in second place (50 percent). The drug most likely to be detectedumarijuana, which can be detected in urine for weeks—is also the most innocuous, while heroin and cocaine are generally un- detectable three days after use. Nickel and Dimed 183 ican part of the Superbar, a comforting surfeit of refried beans and "cheese sauce.” A teenage employee, seeing me studying the want ads, kindly offers me an application form, which I fill out, though here, too, the pay is just $6 and change an hour. Then it’s off for a round of the locally owned inns and guesthouses. At “The Palms,” let’s call it, a bouncy manager actually takes me around to see the rooms and meet the existing housekeepers, who, I note with satisfaction, look pretty much like meifaded ex-hippie types in shorts with long hair pulled back in braids. Mostly, though, no one speaks to me or even looks at me except to proffer an application form. At my last stop, a palatial B&B, I wait twenty minutes to meet “Max,” only to be told that there are no jobs now but there should be one soon, since “nobody lasts more than a couple weeks." (Because none of the people I talked to knew I was a reporter, I have changed their names to protect their privacy and, in some cases perhaps, their jobs.) Three days go by like this, and, to my chagrin, no one out of the approximately twenty places I’ve applied calls me for an interview. I had been vain enough to worry about coming across as too educated for the jobs I sought, but no one even seems interested in finding out how overqualified I am. Only later will I realize that the want ads are not a reliable measure of the actual jobs available at any particular time. They are, as I should have guessed from Max’s comment, the employers’ in- surance policy against the relentless turnover of the low-wage work force. Most of the big hotels run ads almost continually, just to build a supply of applicants to replace the current workers as they drift away or are fired, so finding a job is just a matter of being at the right place at the right time and flexible enough to take whatever is being offered that day. This finally happens to me at one of the big discount hotel chains, where I go, as usual, for housekeeping and am sent, instead, to try out as a waitress at the attached “family restaurant,” a dismal spot with a counter and about thirty tables that looks out on a parking garage and features such tempting fare as “Pollish [sic] sausage and BBQ sauce” on 95-degree days. Phillip, the dapper young West Indian who intro- duces himself as the manager, interviews me with about as much enthu- siasm as if he were a clerk processing me for Medicare, the principal questions being what shifts can I work and when can I start. I mutter something about being woefully out of practice as a waitress, but he’s already on to the uniform: I’m to show up tomorrow wearing black Slacks and black shoes; he’ll provide the rust-colored polo shirt with HEAR'I‘HSIDE embroidered on it, though I might want to wear my own shirt in get to work, ha ha. At the word “tomorrow,” something between fear dlwl milignation rises in my chest. I want to say, “Thank you for your tlnu‘ ~11", but this is just an experiment, you know, not my actual life.“ So begins 11H career at the Hearthside, I shall call it, one small profit center \Nlll‘lll‘l .a global discount hotel chain, where for two weeks I work 184 BARBARA EHRENREICH from 2:00 till 10:00 P.M. for $2.43 an hour plus tips.3 In some futile bid for gentility, the management has barred employees from using the front door, so my first day I enter through the kitchen, where a red-faced man with shoulder-length blond hair is throwing frozen steaks against the wall and yelling, “Fuck this shit!” “That’s just Jack,” explains Gail, the wiry middle-aged waitress who is assigned to train me. “He’s on the rag again”—a condition occasioned, in this instance, by the fact that the cook on the morning shift had forgotten to thaw out the steaks. For the next eight hours, I run. after the agile Gail, absorbing bits of instruction along with fragments of personal tragedy. All food must be trayed, and the reason she’s so tired today is that she woke up in a cold sweat thinking of her boyfriend, who killed himself recently in an upstate prison. No refills on lemonade. And the reason he was in prison is that a few DUIs caught up with him, that's all, could have happened to anyone. Carry the creamers to the table in a monkey bowl, never in your hand. And after he was gone she spent several months living in her truck, peeing in a plastic pee bottle and reading by candlelight at night, but you can’t live in a truck in the summer, since you need to have the windows down, which means anything can get in, from mosquitoes on up. At least Gail puts to rest any fears I had of appearing overqualified. From the first day on, I find that of all the things I have left behind, such as home and identity, what I miss the most is competence. Not that I have ever felt utterly competent in the writing business, in which one day’s success augurs nothing at all for the next. But in my writing life, I at least have some notion of procedure: do the research, make the out- line, rough out a draft, etc. As a server, though, I am beset by requests like bees: more iced tea here, ketchup over there, a to-go box for table fourteen, and where are the high chairs, anyway? Of the twenty-seven tables, up to six are usually mine at any time, though on slow afternoons or if Gail is off, I sometimes have the whole place to myself. There is the touch-screen computer-ordering system to master, which is, I suppose, meant to minimize server-cook contact, but in practice requires constant verbal finewtuning: “That’s gravy on the mashed, okay? None on the meatloaf,” and so forth—while the cook scowls as if I were inventing these refinements just to torment him. Plus, something I had forgotten in the years since I was eighteen: about a third of a server’s job is “side work” that’s invisible to customers—sweeping, scrubbing, slicing, refill— ing, and restocking. If it isn’t all done, every little bit of it, you’re going to face the 6:00 P.M. dinner rush defenseless and probably go down in flames. I screw up dozens of times at the beginning, sustained in my shame entirely by Gail’s support—“It’s okay, baby, everyone does that 3. According to the Fair Labor Standards Act, employers are not required to pay "tipped employees,” such as restaurant servers, more than $2.13 an hour in direct wages. However, if the sum of tips plus $2.13 an hour falls below the minimum wage, or $5.15 an hour, the employer is required to make up the difference. This fact was not mentioned by managers or otherwise publicized at either of the restaurants where I worked. Nickel and Dimed 185 sometime"#because, to my total surprise and despite the scientific de- tachlnent I am doing my best to maintain, I care. The whole thing would be a lot easier if I could just skate through it as Lily Tomlin in one of her waitress skits, but I was raised by the absurd Booker T. Washingtonian precept that says: If you’re going to do some— thing, do it well. In fact, “well” isn’t good enough by half. Do it better than anyone has ever done it before. Or so said my father, who must have known what he was talking about because he managed to pull himself, and us with him, up from the mile-deep copper mines of Butte to the leafy suburbs of the Northeast, ascending from boilerrnakers to martinis before booze beat out ambition. As in most endeavors I have encountered in my life, doing it “better than anyone” is not a reasonable goal. Still, when I wake up at 4:00 A.M. in my own cold sweat,.l am not thinking about the writing deadlines I’m neglecting; I’m thinking about the table whose order I screwed up so that one of the boys didn’t get his kiddie meal until the rest of the family had moved on to their Key Lime pies. That’s the other powerful motivation I hadn’t expected-the customers, or “patients,” as I can’t help thinking of them on account-0f the mysterious vulnerability that seems to have left them temporarily unable to feed themselves. After a few days at the Hearthside, I feel the service ethic kick in like a shot of oxytocin, the nurturance hormone. The plurality of my customers are hard-working locals—truck drivers, con- struction workers, even housekeepers from the attached hotel—and I want them to have the closest to a “fine dining” experience that the grubby circumstances will allow. No “you guys” for me; everyone over twelve is “sir” or “ma’am.” I ply them with iced tea and coffee refills; I return, mid—meal, to inquire how everything is; I doll up their salads with chopped raw mushrooms, summer squash slices, or whatever bits of produce 1 can find that have survived their sojourn in the cold-storage room mold-free. 5(- 5E- 36 Ten days into it, this is beginning to look like a livable lifestyle. I like Gail, who is “looking at fifty” but moves so fast she can alight in one place and then another without apparently being anywhere between them. I clown around with Lionel, the teenage Haitian busboy, and catch a few fragments of conversation with loan, the svelte fortyish hostess and militant feminist who is the only one of us who dares to tell Jack to shut the luck up. I even warm up to Jack when, on a slow night and to make up for a particularly unwarranted attack on my abilities, or so I imagine, he tells me about his glory days as a young man at “coronary school ' or do you say “culinary”?iin Brooklyn, where he dated a kIIDCan'lll l’uerto Rican chick and learned everything there is to know about 1th M I finish up at 10:00 or 10:30, depending on how much side work I’m been able. to get done during the shift, and cruise home“ * * * [0 bed by 1:30 or 2:00, up at 9:00 or 10:00, read for an hour Whllt' nu uniform whirls around in the landlord’s washing ma- 186 BARBARA EHRENREICH chine, and then it’s another eight hours spent following Mao’s central instruction, as laid out in the Little Red Book, which was: Serve the people. I could drift along like this, in some dreamy proletarian idyll, except for two things. One is management. If I have kept this subject on the margins thus far it is because I still flinch to think that I spent all those weeks under the surveillance of men (and later women) whose job it was to monitor my behavior for signs of sloth, theft, drug abuse, or worse. Not that managers and especially “assistant managers” in low-wage set- tings like this are exactly the class enemy. In the restaurant business, they are mostly former cooks or servers, still capable of pinch.~hitting in the kitchen or on the floor, just as in hotels they are likely to be former clerks, and paid a salary of only about $400 a week. But everyone knOWS they have crossed over to the other side, which is, crudely put, corporate as opposed to human. Cooks want to prepare tasty meals; servers want to serve them graciously; but managers are there for only one reason— to make sure that money is made for some theoretical entity that exists far away in Chicago or New York, if a corporation can be said to have a physical existence at all. Reflecting on her career, Gail tells me ruefully that she had sworn, years ago, never to work for a corporation again. “They don’t cut you no slack. You give and you give, and they take.” Managers can sit—for hours at a time if they want—but it’s their job to see that no one else ever does, even when there’s nothing to do, and this is why, for servers, slow times can be as exhausting as rushes. You start dragging out each little chore, because if the manager on duty catches you in an idle moment, he will give you something far nastier to do. So I wipe, I clean, I consolidate ketchup bottles and recheck the cheesecake supply, even tour the tables to make sure the customer eval- uation forms are all standing perkin in their placesiwondering all the time how many calories Iburn in these strictly theatrical exercises. When, on a particularly dead afternoon, Stu finds me glancing at a USA Today a customer has left behind, he assigns me to vacuum the entire floor with the broken vacuum cleaner that has a handle only two feet long, and the only way to do that without incurring orthopedic damage is to proceed from spot to spot on your knees. On my first Friday at the Hearthside there is a “mandatory meeting for all restaurant employees,” which I attend, eager for insight into our overall marketing strategy and the niche (your basic Ohio cuisine with a tropical twist?) we aim to inhabit. But there is no “we” at this meeting. Phillip, our top manager except for an occasional “consultant” sent out by corporate headquarters, Opens it with a sneer: “The break roomfit’s disgusting. Butts in the ashtrays, newspapers lying around, crumbs." This windowless little room, which also houses the time clock for the entire hotel, is where we stash our bags and civilian clothes and take our half—hour meal breaks. But a break room is not a right, he tells us. It can be taken away. We should also know that the lockers in the break room Nickel and Dimed 187 and whatever is in them can be searched at any time. Then comes gossip; there has been gossip; gossip (which seems to mean employees talk- ing among themselves) must stop. Off-duty employees are henceforth barred from eating at the restaurant, because “other servers gather around them and gossip.” When Phillip has exhausted his agenda of rebukes, Joan complains about the condition of the ladies’ room and I throw in my two bits about the vacuum cleaner. But I don’t see any backup coming from my fellow servers, each of whom has subsided into her own personal funk, Gail, my role model, stares sorrowfully at a point six inches from her nose. The meeting ends when Andy, one of the cooks, gets up, muttering about breaking up his day off for this almighty bullshit. Just four days later we are suddenly summoned into the kitchen at 3:30 I’.M., even though there are live tables on the floor. We all—about ten of us—stand around Phillip, who announces grimly that there has been a report of some “drug activity” on the night shift and that, as a result, we are now to be a “drug-free“ workplace, meaning that all new hires will be tested, as will possibly current employees on a random basis. I am glad that this part of the kitchen is so dark, because I find myself blushing as hard as if I had been caught toking up in the ladies’ room myself: I haven’t been treated this way—lined up in the corridor, threatened with locker searches, peppered with carelessly aimed accu- sations—since junior high school. 2(- X— 3(- The other problem, in addition to the less-than—nurturing management style, is that this job shows no sign of being financially viable. You might imagine, from a comfortable distance, that people who live, year in and year out, on $6 to $10 an hour have discovered some survival stratagems unknown to the middle class. But no. It’s not hard to get my co-workers to talk about their living situations, because housing, in almost every case, is the principal source of disruption in their lives, the first thing they fill you in on when they arrive for their shifts. After a week, I have compiled the following survey: ' Gail is sharing a room in a well-known downtown flophouse for which she and a roommate pay about $250 a week. Her roommate, a male friend, has begun hitting on her, driving her nuts, but the rent would be impossible lilone. ' Claude, the Haitian cook, is desperate to get out of the two-room apart- ment he shares with his girlfriend and two other, unrelated, people. As Ln .lH I can determine, the other Haitian men (most of whom only speak L n-ole) live in similarly crowded situations. ' Annette, .i twenty-year—old server who is six months pregnant and has been abandoned by her boyfriend, lives with her mother, a postal clerk. ° Marianne and her boyfriend are paying $170 a week for a one-person trailer. 188 BARBARA EHRENREICH - Jack, who is, at $10 an hour, the wealthiest of us, lives in the trailer he owns, paying only the $400~a-month lot fee. - The other white cook, Andy, lives on his dry-docked boat, which, as far as I can tell from his loving descriptions, can’t be more than twenty feet long. He offers to take me out on it, once it’s repaired, but the offer comes with inquiries as to my marital status, so I do not follow up on it. - Tina and her husband are paying $60 a night for a double room in 3 Days Inn. This is because they have no car and the Days Inn is within walking distance of the Heartside. When Marianne, one of the breakfast servers, is tossed out of her trailer for subletting (which is against the trailer-park rules), she leaves her boyfriend and moves in with Tina and her husband. - Joan, who had fooled me with her numerous and tasteful outfits (host- esses wear their own clothes), lives in a van she parks behind a shop— ping center at night and showers in Tina's motel room. The clothes are from thrift shops.4 It strikes me, in my middle-class solipsism, that there is gross im- providence in some of these arrangements. When Gail and I are wrap- ping silverware in napkins—the only task for which we are permitted to sitflshe tells me she is thinking of escaping from her roommate by moving into the Days Inn herself. I am astounded: How can she even think of paying between $40 and $60 a day? But if I was afraid of sound- ing like a social worker, I come out just sounding like a fool. She squints at me in disbelief, “And where am I supposed to get a month’s rent and a month's deposit for an apartment?" I’d been feeling pretty smug about my $500 efficiency, but of course it was made possible only by the $1,300 I had allotted myself for start-up costs when I began my low-wage life: $1,000 for the first month’s rent and deposit, $100 for initial groceries and cash in my pocket, $200 stuffed away for emergencies. In poverty, as in certain propositions in physics, starting conditions are everything. There are no secret economies that nourish the poor; on the contrary, there are a host of special costs. If you can’t put up the two months' rent you need to secure an apartment, you end up paying through the nose for a room by the week. If you have only a room, with a hot plate at best, you can’t save by cooking up huge lentil stews that can be frozen for the week ahead. You eat fast food, or the hot dogs and styrofoam cups of soup that can be microwaved in a convenience store. If you have no money for health insuranceeand the Hearthside’s niggardly plan kicks in only after three months—you go without routine care or pre- scription drugs and end up paying the price. 4. I could find no statistics on the number of employed people living in cars or vans, but according to the National Coalition for the Homeless's 1997 report "Myths and Facts About Homelessness,” nearly one in five homeless people (in twenty—nine cities across the nation) is employed in a full- or part-time job. Nickel and Dimed 189 sex-ai- My own situation, when I sit down to assess it after two weeks of work, would not be much better if this were my actual life. The seductive thing about waitressing is that you don’t have to wait for payday to feel a few bills in your pocket, and my tips usually cover meals and gas, plus something left over to stuff into the kitchen drawer I use as a bank. But as the tourist business slows in the summer heat, I sometimes leave work with only $20 in tips (the gross is higher, but servers share about 15 percent of their tips with the bus-boys and bartenders). With wages included, this amounts to about the minimum wage of $5.15 an hour. Although the sum in the drawer is piling up, at the present rate of accumulation it will be more than a hundred dollars short of my rent when the end of the month comes around. Nor can I see any expenses to cut. True, I haven’t gone the lentil-stew route yet, but that’s because I don’t have a large cooking pot, pot holders, or a ladle to stir with (which cost about $30 at Kmart, less at thrift stores), not to mention onions, carrots, and the indispensable bay leaf. I do make my lunch almost every day—usually some slow-burning, high—protein combo like frozen chicken patties with melted cheese on top and canned pinto beans on the side. Dinner is at the Hearthside, which offers its employees a choice of BLT, fish sandwich, or hamburger for only $2. The burger lasts longest, especially if it’s heaped with gut-puckering jalapefios, but by midnight my stomach is growling again. . So unless I want to start using my car as a residence, I have to find a second, or alternative, job. I call all the hotels where I filled out house- keeping applications weeks agofithe Hyatt, Holiday Inn, Econo Lodge, HoIo’s, Best Western, plus a half dozen or so locally run guesthouses. Nothing. Then I start making the rounds again, wasting whole mornings waiting for some assistant manager to show up, even dipping into places so creepy that the front-desk clerk greets you from behind bulletproof glass and sells pints of liquor over the counter. But either someone has exposed my real-life housekeeping habits_which are, shall we say, mellow—or I am at the wrong end of some infallible ethnic equation: most, but by no means all, of the working housekeepers I see on my 10b searches are African Americans, Spanish-speaking, or immigrants from the Central European post—Communist world, whereas servers are al- most invariably white and monolingually English-speaking. When I fi- nally get a positive response, I have been identified once again as server material. Jerry’s, which is part of a well-known national family restaurant chain and physically attached here to another budget hotel chain, is ready to use me at once. The prospect is both exciting and terrifying, because \\ 1th about the same number of tables and counter seats, Jerry’s attracts three or four times the volume of customers as the gloomy old Hearthsidv ‘ Picture a tat person's hell, and I don’t mean a place With no food. Instead there is everything you might eat if eating had no bodily 190 BARBARA EHRENREICH consequences—cheese fries, chicken-fried steaks, fudge—laden desserts—1 only here every bite must be paid for, one way or another, in human discomfort. The kitchen is a cavern, a stomach leading to the lower in- testine that is the garbage and dishwashing area, from which issue bi~ zarre smells combining the edible and the offal: creamy carrion, pizza barf, and that unique and enigmatic Jerry’s scent—citrus fart. The floor is slick with spills, forcing us to walk through the kitchen with tiny steps[.] * * * Sinks everywhere are clogged with scraps of lettuce, de- composing lemon wedges, waterlogged toast crusts. Put your hand down on any counter and you risk being stuck to it by the film of ancient syrup spills, and this is unfortunate, because hands are utensils here, used for scooping up lettuce onto salad plates, lifting out pie slices, and even moving hash browns from one plate to another. The regulation poster in the single unisex restroom admonishes us to wash our hands thoroughly and even offers instructions for doing so, but there is always some vital substance missingesoap, paper towels, toilet paper—and I never find all three at once. You learn to stuff your pockets with napkins before going in there, and too bad about the customers, who must eat, though they don't realize this, almost literally out of our hands. The break room typifies the whole situation: there is none, because there are no breaks at Jerry's. For six to eight hours in a row, you never sit except to pee. Actually, there are three folding chairs at a table im- mediately adjacent to the bathroom, but hardly anyone ever sits here, in the very rectum of the gastro-architectural system. Rather, the function of the peritoilet area is to house the ashtrays in which servers and dish washers leave their cigarettes burning at all times, like votive candles, so that they don’t have to waste time lighting up again when they dash back for a puff. Almost everyone smokes as if his or her pulmonary well- being depended on it—the multinational mélange of cooks, the Czech dishwashers, the servers, who are all American natives—creating an at- mosphere in which oxygen is only an occasional pollutant. My first morning at Jerry's, when the hypoglycemic shakes set in, I complain to one of my fellow servers that I don’t understand. how she can go so long without food. “Well, I don’t understand how you can go so long without a cigarette,” she responds in a tone of reproach—because work is what you do for others; smoking is what you do for yourself. I don’t know why the antismoking crusaders have never grasped the element of de- fiant self-nurturance that makes the habit so endearing to its victims— as if, in the American workplace, the only thing people have to call their own is the tumors they are nourishing and the spare moments they de- vote to feeding them. Now, the Industrial Revolution is not an easy transition, especially when you have to zip through it in just a couple of days. I have gone from craft work straight into the factory, from the air-conditioned morgue of the Hearthside directly into the flames. Customers arrive in Nickel and Dimed 191 human waves, sometimes disgorged fifty at a time from their tour buses, peckish and whiny. Instead of two “girls” on the floor at once, there can be as many as six of us running around in our brilliant pink-and—orange Hawaiian shirts. 9t- >i~ *- I start out with the beautiful, heroic idea of handling the two jobs at once, and for two days I almost do it: the breakfast/ lunch shift at Jerry’s, which goes till 2:00, arriving at the Hearthside at 2:10, and attempting to hold out until 10:00. In the ten minutes between ]obs, I pick up'a spicy chicken sandwich at the Wendy’s drive-through window, gobble it down in the car, and change from khaki slacks to black, from Hawaiian to rust polo. There is a problem, though. When during the 3:00 to 4:00 P.M. dead time I finally sit down to wrap silver, my flesh seems to bond to the seat. I try to refuel with a purloined cup of soup, as I ve seen gall and Joan do dozens of times, but a manager catches me and hisses No eat- ing!” though there’s not a customer around to be offended by the Sight of food making contact with a server’s lips. 80 I tell Gail Im gomg to quit, and she hugs me and says she might just follow me to Ierrys herself. But the chances of this are minuscule. She has left the flophouse and her annoying roommate and is back to living in her beat—up old truck. But guess what? she reports to me excitedly later that evening: Philhp has given her permission to park overnight in the hotel parking lot, as long as she keeps out of sight, and the parking lot should be totally safe, since it's patrolled by a hotel security guard! With the. I-IearthSIde offer- ing benefits like that, how could anyone think of leav1ng? - I Gail would have triumphed at Jerry’s, I’m sure, but for me it s a crash course in exhaustion management. Years ago, the kindly fry cook who trained me to waitress at a Los Angeles truck stop used to say: Never make an unnecessary trip; if you don't have to walk fast, walk slow; if you don’t have to walk, stand. But at Ierry’s the effort of distinguishing necessary from unnecessary and urgent from whenever would itself be too much of an energy drain. The only thing to do is to treat each shift as a one-time-only emergency: you’ve got fifty starving people out there, lying scattered on the battlefield, so get out there and feed theml Forget that you will have to do this again tomorrow, forget that youIWIll have to be alert enough to dodge the drunks on the drive home tonight—iust burn, burn, burn! Ideally, at some point you enter what servers call a rhythm” and psychologists term a “flow state,” in which Signals pass from the sense organs directly to the muscles, bypassmg the cerebral cortex and a Zen-like emptiness sets in. * * * I But tin-it"s another capacity of the neuromuscular system, .which is pain. 1 «tart tossing back drugstore-brand ibuprofen pills as if they Were vitmmn C, four before each shift, because an old mouse-related repetitive—stress minty in my upper back has come back to full-spasm 192 BARBARA EHRENREICH strength, thanks to the tray carrying. In my ordinary life, this level of disability might justify a day of ice packs and stretching. 3? >i- 5(- I make friends, over time, with the other “girls” who work my shift: Nita, the tattooed twenty-something who taunts us by going around say~ ing brightly, “Have we started making money yet?” Ellen, whose teen- age son cooks on the graveyard shift and who once managed a restaurant in Massachusetts but won’t try out for management here because she prefers being a “common worker” and not “ordering people around." Easy-going fiftyish Lucy, with the raucous laugh, who limps toward the end of the shift because of something that has gone wrong with her leg, the exact nature of which cannot be determined without health insur- ance. We talk about the usual girl thingsimen, children, and the sinister allure of Jerry’s chocolate peanut-butter cream pieithough no one, I notice, ever brings up anything potentially expensive, like shopping or movies. As at the Hearthside, the only recreation ever referred to is par- tying, which requires little more than some beer, a joint, and a few close friends. Still, no one here is homeless, or cops to it anyway, thanks usuu ally to a working husband or boyfriend. All in all, we form a reliable mutual-support group: If one of us is feeling sick or overwhelmed, an- other one will “bev” a table or even carry trays for her. If one of us is off sneaking a cigarette or a pee,5 the others will do their best to conceal her absence from the enforcers of corporate rationality. But my saving human connection—my oxytocin receptor, as it were —is George, the nineteen-year-old, fresh-off—the—boat Czech dishwasher. We get to talking when he asks me, tortuously, how much cigarettes cost at Jerry’s. I do my best to explain that they cost over a dollar more here than at a regular store and suggest that he just take one from the half- filled packs that are always lying around on the break table. But that would be unthinkable. Except for the one tiny earring signaling his al- legiance to some vaguely alternative point of view, George is a perfect straight arrow—crew~cut, hardworking, and hungry for eye contact. “Czech Republic,” I ask, “or Slovakia?” and he seems delighted that I know the difference. "Vaclav Havel," I try. “Velvet Revolution, Frank Zappa!” “Yes, yes, 1989," he says, and I realize we are talking about history. 5. Until April 1998, there was no federally mandated right to bathroom breaks. According to Marc Linder and Ingrid Nygaard, authors of Void Where Prohibited: Rest Breaks and the Right to Ltrinate on Company Time (Cornell University Press, 1997). “The right to rest and void at Work is not high on the list of social or political causes supported by professional or executive employees, who enjoy personal workplace liberties that millions of factory workers can only daydream about. . . . While we were dismayed to discover that workers tacked an acknowledged legal right to void at work, [the workers} were amazed by outs siders’ naive belief that their employers would permit them to perform this basic bodily function when necessary. . . . A factory worker, not allowed a break for six-hour stretches, voided into pads worn inside her uniform; and a kindergarten teacher in a school without aides had to take all twenty children with her to the bathroom and line them up outside the stall door when she voided." Nickel and Dimed 193 3P >1- >t- I make the decision to move closer to Key West. First, because of the drive. Second and third, also because of the drive: gas is eating up $4 to $5 a day, and although Jerry's is as high-volume as you can get, the tips average only 10 percent, and not just for a newbie like me. Between the base pay of $2.15 an hour and the obligation to share tips with the bus boys and dishwashers, we’re averaging only about $7.50 an hour. Then there is the $30 I had to spend on the regulation tan slacks worn by Jerry’s servers—a setback it could take weeks to absorb. (I had combed the town’s two downscale department stores hoping for something cheaper but decided in the end that these marked-down Dockers, orig- inally $49, were more likely to survive a daily washing.) Of my fellow servers, everyone who lacks a working husband or boyfriend seems to have a second job: Nita does something at a computer eight hours a day; another welds. Without the forty-five-minute commute, I can picture my— self working two jobs and having the time to shower between them. So I take the $500 deposit I have coming from my landlord, the $400 I have earned toward the next month’s rent, plus the $200 reserved for emergencies, and use the $1,100 to pay the rent and deposit on trailer number 46 in the Overseas Trailer Park, a mile from the cluster of budget hotels that constitute Key West’s version of an industrial park. Number 46 is about eight feet in width and shaped like a barbell inside, with a narrow regionebecause of the sink and the stove—separating the bedroom from What might optimistically be called the “living” area, with its two-person table and half-sized couch. The bathroom is so small my knees rub against the shower stall when I sit on the toilet, and you can’t just leap out of the bed, you have to climb down to the foot of it in order to find a patch of floor space to stand on. Outside, I am within a few yards of a liquor store, a bar that advertises “free beer tomorrow,” a convenience store, and a Burger Kingibut no supermarket or, alas, laundromat. By reputation, the Overseas park is a nest of crime and crack, and I am hoping at least for some vibrant, multicultural street life. But desolation rules night and day, except for a thin stream of pedestrian traffic heading for their jobs at the Sheraton or 7-Eleven. There are not exactly people here but what amounts to canned labor, being preserved from the heat between shifts. In line with my reduced living conditions, a new form of ugliness arises at Jerry’s. First we are confronted#via an announcement on the computers through which we input orders—with the new rule that the hotel bar is henceforth off-limits to restaurant employees. The culprit, I learn through the grapevine, is the ultra-efficient gal who trained me—w another trailer-home dweller and a mother of three. Something had set her ott one morning, so she slipped out for a nip and returned to the floor imparted. This mostly hurts Ellen, whose habit it is to free her hair from its rubber band and drop by the bar for a couple of Zins before heading home at the end of the shift, but all of us feel the chill. Then the next Ll.“ H hen I go for straws, for the first time I find the dry-storage 194 BARBARA EHRENREICH room locked. Ted, the portly assistant manager who opens it for me, explains that he caught one of the dishwashers attempting to steal some thing, and, unfortunately, the miscreant will be with us until a replace— ment can be foundihence the locked door. I neglect to ask what he had been trying to steal, but Ted tells me who he isithe kid with the buzz cut and the earring [: George]. >t- 5f- 5(- When my month-long plunge into poverty is almost over, I finally land my dream jobihousekeeping. I do this by walking into the personnel of- fice of the only place I figure I might have some credibility, the hotel at- tached to Jerry’s, and confiding urgently that I have to have a second job if I am to pay my rent and, no, it couldn’t be front-desk clerk. “All right,” the personnel lady fairly spits, “So it’s housekeeping,“ and she marches me back to meet Maria, the housekeeping manager, a tiny, frenetic Hispanic woman who greets me as “babe” and hands me a pamphlet emphasizing the need for a positive attitude. The hours are nine in the morning till whenever, the pay is $6.10 an hour, and there's one week of vacation a year. I don’t have to ask about health insurance once I meet Carlotta, the middle-aged African-American woman who will be training me. Carla, as she tells me to call her, is missing all of her top front teeth. On that first day of housekeeping and last day of my entire projecti although I don’t yet know it’s the lastiCarla is in a foul mood. We have been given nineteen rooms to clean, most of them “checkouts,” as op- posed to "stayovers,” that require the whole enchilada of bed-stripping, vacuuming, and bathroom-scrubbing. When one of the rooms that had been listed as a stay-over turns out to be a checkout, Carla calls Maria to complain, but of course to no avail. “So make up the motherfucker,“ Carla Orders me, and I do the beds while she sloshes around the bath“ room. For four hours without a break I strip and remake beds, taking about four and a half minutes per queen-sized bed, which I could get down to three if there were any reason to. We try to avoid vacuuming by picking up the larger specks by hand, but often there is nothing to do but drag the monstrous vacuum cleaneriit weighs about thirty pounds—off our cart and try to wrestle it around the floor. Sometimes Carla hands me the squirt bottle of “BAM” (an acronym for something that begins, ominously, with “butyric”; the rest has been worn off the label) and lets me do the bathrooms. No service ethic challenges me here to new heights of performance. I just concentrate on removing the pubic hairs from the bathtubs, or at least the dark ones that I can see. I had looked forward to the breaking-and-entering aspect of cleaning the stay—overs, the chance to examine the secret, physical existence of strangers. But the contents of the rooms are always banal and surpris- ingly neat—zipped up shaving kits, shoes lined up against the wall (there are no closets), flyers for snorkeling trips, maybe an empty wine bottle or two. It is the TV that keeps us going, from ferry to Sally to Hawaii Five-O and then on to the soaps. If there’s something especially Nickel and Dimed 195 arresting, like “Won’t Take No for an Answer” on ferry, we sit down on the edge of a bed and giggle for a moment as if this were a pajama party instead of a terminally dead-end job. The soaps are the best, and Carla turns the volume up full blast so that she won’t miss anything from the bathroom or while the vacuum is on. In room 503, Marcia confronts Jeff about Lauren. In 505, Lauren taunts poor cuckolded Marcia. In 511, Helen offers Amanda $10,000 to stop seeing Eric, prompting Carla to emerge from the bathroom to study Amanda's troubled face. “You take it, girl,“ she advises. “I would for sure.” The tourists’ rooms that we clean and, beyond them, the far more ex- pensively appointed interiors in the soaps, begin after a while to merge. We have entered a better world—ha world of comfort where every day is a day off, waiting to be filled up with sexual intrigue. We, however, are only gate-crashers in this fantasy, forced to pay for our presence with back— aches and perpetual thirst. The mirrors, and there are far too many of them in hotel rooms, contain the kind of person you would normally find push- ing a shopping cart down a city streetibedraggled, dressed in a damp hotel polo shirt two sizes too large, and with sweat dribbling down her chin like drool. I am enormously relieved when Carla announces a half- hour meal break, but my appetite fades when I see that the bag of hot-dog rolls she has been carrying around on our cart is not trash salvaged from a checkout but what she has brought for her lunch. When I request permission to leave at about 3:30, another housekeeper warns me that no one has so far succeeded in combining housekeeping at the hotel with serving at Jerry's: “Some kid did it once for five days, and you’re no kid.” With that helpful information in mind, i rush back to number 46, down four Advils (the name brand this time), shower, stooping to fit into the stall, and attempt to compose myself for the on- coming shift. So much for what Marx termed the “reproduction of labor power,” meaning the things a worker has to do just so she'll be ready to work again. The only unforeseen obstacle to the smooth transrtion from job to job is that my tan Jerry’s slacks, which had looked reasonably clean by viii—watt bulb last night when I handwashed my Hawaiian shirt, prove by daylight to be mottled with ketchup and ranch-dressing stains. I spend most of my hour~long break between jobs attempting to remove the edible portions with a sponge and then drying the slacks over the hood of my car in the sun. I can do this two-job thing, is my theory, if I can drink enough caffeine and avoid getting distracted by George’s ever more obvious suffering.6 6. In I“ -' number of persons holding two or more jobs averaged 7.8 million, or 6.2 percent w " - workforce. It was about the same rate for men and for women (6.1 versus 6.2), though 'rw hints of jobs differ by gender. About two thirds of multiple jobholders Work one jiil- m1 llll'H‘ and the other part—time. Only a heroic minority—4 percent of men and 2 perm-m ' ‘ omen work two full—time jobs simultaneously. (From John t. Stinson Ir, "New ||.il.: m! Multiple lobholding Available from the CPS,” in the Monthly Labor Review, Mar. ll i "* i 196 BARBARA EHRENREICH 3(- Si- >I- I resolve to give him all my tips that night and to hell with the experi- ment in low-wage money management. At eight, Ellen and I grab a snack together standing at the mephitic end of the kitchen counter, but I can only manage two or three mozzarella sticks and lunch had been a mere handful of McNuggets. I am not tired at all, I assure myself, though it may be that there is simply no more “I” left to do the tiredness moni— toring. What I would see, if I were more alert to the situation, is that the forces of destruction are already massing against me. There is only one cook on duty, a young man named Jesus (“Hay-Sue,” that is) and he is new to the job. And there is Joy, who shows up to take over in the middle of the shift, wearing high heels and a long, clingy white dress and fum- ing as if she’d just been stood up in some cocktail bar. Then it comes, the perfect storm. Four of my tables fill up at once. Four tables is nothing for me now, but only so long as they are obligingly staggered. As I bev table 27, tables 25, 28, and 24 are watching enviously. As I bev 25, 24 glowers because their bevs haven’t even been ordered. Twenty-eight is four yuppyish types, meaning everything on the side and agonizing instructions as to the chicken Caesars. Twenty-five is a middle-aged black couple, who complain, with some justice, that the iced tea isn’t fresh and the tabletop is sticky. But table 24 is the meteorological event of the century: ten British tourists who seem to have made the decision to absorb the American experience entirely by mouth. Here ev~ eryone has at least two drinks—iced tea and milk shake, Michelob and water (with lemon slice, please)—and a huge promiscuous orgy of break- fast specials, mozz sticks, chicken strips, quesadillas, burgers with cheese and without, sides of hash browns with cheddar, with onions, with gravy, seasoned fries, plain fries, banana splits. Poor Jesus! Poor me! Because when I arrive with their first tray of food—after three prior trips just to refill bevs—Princess Di refuses to eat her chicken strips with her pancake-and-sausage special, since, as she now reveals, the strips were meant to be an appetizer. Maybe the others would have accepted their meals, but Di, who is deep into her third Michelob, insists that every thing else go back while they work on their “starters.” Meanwhile, the yuppies are waving me down for more decaf and the black couple looks ready to summon the NAACP. Much of what happened next is lost in the fog of war. Jesus starts going under. The little printer on the counter in front of him is spewing out orders faster than he can rip them off, much less produce the meals. Even the invincible Ellen is ashen from stress. I bring table 24 their re- heated main courses, which they immediately reject as either too cold or fossilized by the microwave. When I return to the kitchen with their trays (three trays in three trips), Joy confronts me with arms akimbo: “What is this?” She means the food—the plates of rejected pancakesI hash brewns in assorted flavors, toasts, burgers, sausages, eggs- "Uh. scram- bled with cheddar,” I try, “and that’s . . ,” “NO,” she screams in my Nickel and Dimed 197 face. “Is it a traditional, .3 super-scramble, an eye-opener?” I pretend to study my check for a clue, but entropy has been up to its tricks, not only on the plates but in my head, and I have to admit that the original order is beyond reconstruction. “You don’t know an eye-opener from a tra- ditional?” she demands in outrage. All I know, in fact, is that my legs have lost interest in the current venture and have announced their in- tention to fold. I am saved by a yuppie (mercifully not one of mine) who chooses this moment to charge into the kitchen to bellow that his food is twenty-five minutes late. Joy screams at him to get the hell out of her kitchen, please, and then turns on Jesus in a fury, hurling an empty tray across the room for emphasis. I leave. I don’t walk out, I just leave. I don’t finish my side work or pick up my credit-card tips, if any, at the cash register or, of course, ask Joy's permission to go. And the surprising thing is that you can walk out without permission, that the door opens, that the thick tropical night air parts to let me pass, that my car is still parked where I left it. There is no vindication in this exit, no fuck-you surge of relief, just an over- whelming, dank sense of failure pressing down on me and the entire parking lot. I had gone into this venture in the spirit of science, to test a mathematical proposition, but somewhere along the line, in the tunnel vision imposed by long shifts and relentless concentration, it became a test of myself, and clearly I have failed. Not only had I flamed out as a housekeeper/ server, I had even forgotten to give George my tips, and, for reasons perhaps best known to hardworking, generous people like Gail and Ellen, this hurts. I don’t cry, but I am in a position to realize, for the first time in many years, that the tear ducts are still there, and still capable of doing their job. When I moved out of the trailer park, I gave the key to number 46 to Gail and arranged for my deposit to be transferred to her. She told me that Joan is still living in her van and that Stu had been fired from the Hearthside. I never found out what happened to George. In one month, l had earned approximately $1,040 and spent $517 on food, gas, toiletries, laundry, phone, and utilities. If I had remained in my $500 efficiency, I would have been able to pay the rent and have $22 left over (which is $78 less than the cash I had in my pocket at the start of the month). During this time I bought no clothing except for the re- quired slacks and no prescription drugs or medical care (I did finally buy some vitamin B to compensate for the lack of vegetables in my diet). Perhaps I could have saved a little on food if I had gotten to a super- market more often, instead of convenience stores, but it should be noted that i lost almost four pounds in four weeks, on a diet weighted heavily towti: i burgers and fries. Htm rm mt-r welfare recipients and single mothers will. (and do) sur- vive in tlu- liixx'wx'age workforce, I cannot imagine. Maybe they will figv urc out how tn condense their livesmincluding child~raising, laundry, romance .uui meals—into the couple of hours between full-time jobs. 198 BARBARA EHRENREICH Maybe they will take up residence in their vehicles, if they have one. All I know is that I couldn’t hold two jobs and I couldn’t make enough money to live on with one. And I had advantages unthinkable to many of the long-term poor—health, stamina, a working car, and no children to care for and support. Certainly nothing in my experience contradicts the conclusion of Kathryn Edin and Laura Lein, in their recent book Making Ends Meet: How Single Mothers Survive Welfare and Low-Wage Work, that low-wage work actually involves more hardship and deprivation than life at the mercy of the welfare state. In the coming months and years, economic conditions for the working poor are bound to worsen, even Without the almost inevitable recession. As mentioned earlier, the influx of former welfare recipients into the low-skilled workforce will have a depressing effect on both wages and the number of jobs available. A general economic downturn will only enhance these effects, and the working poor will of course be facing it without the slight, but nonethe- less often saving, protection of welfare as a backup. The thinking behind welfare reform was that even the humblest jobs are morally uplifting and psychologically buoying. In reality they are likely to be fraught with insult and stress. But I did discover one re- deeming feature of the most abject low-wage workfithe camaraderie of people who are, in almost all cases, far too smart and funny and caring for the work they do and the wages they're paid. The hope, of course, is that someday these people will come to know what they’re worth, and take appropriate action. ...
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This note was uploaded on 04/13/2008 for the course SOC 302 taught by Professor Langenkamp during the Spring '08 term at University of Texas at Austin.

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