ehrenreich_nickel_dimed

ehrenreich_nickel_dimed - FOIL I O icke ~and—Dimed * ‘...

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Unformatted text preview: FOIL I O icke ~and—Dimed * ‘ On (not) getting by in America BY BARBARA EHRENREICH t the beginning ofJune 1998 I leave behind everything that nor« mally sOothes the ego and sustains the body—home, career, companion, reputa— tion, ATM card—for a plunge into the low«wage workforce. There, I become another, occupationally much diminished “Barbara ' Ehrenreich”——-—depicted on job«application forms as a divorced homemaker whose sole work experia ence consists of housekeeping in a few private homes. I am terrified, at the beginning, of being unmasked for what I am: a middlerclass journal— ist 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. Hap pily, though, my fears turn out to be entirely un« warranted: during a month of poverty and toil, my name goes unnoticed and for the most part un« uttered. In this parallel universe where my far ther never got out of the mines and I never got through college, I am “baby,” “honey,” “hlondie,” and, most commonly, “girl.” My first task is to find a place to live. I figure that if I can earn $7 an hour—«which, from the want ads, seems doable—I 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 fifteenaminute drive from town, that has no airrcondiv tioning, no screens, no fans, no television, and, by way of diversion, only the challenge of evading the landlord’s Doberman pinscher. The big problem with this place, though, is the rent, which at $675 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.1 Still, it is a shock to realize that “trailer trash” has become, for me, a demograph« ic category to aspire to. So I decide to make the common tradeaoff be tween affordability and convenience, and go for a $500—aamonth 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 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 fairrmarket rent for an area is defined as the amount that would be needed to pay rent plus utilities for “priv vater owned, decent, safe, and sanitary rental housing of a modest (nonduxury) nature with suitable amenities." ' Barbara Ehrenreich is a contributing editor of Harper’s Magazine and the author of twelve books, including Fear of Falling and Blood Rites. Her Iast article for the magazine, “Spinning the Poor into Goid,” appeared in the August 1997 issue. Photographs by Jason Fuiford FOLIO 37 TI: ikn‘ L. 5,". ‘51 38 some sun'dazed Canadian tourists. I hate the drive, along a roadside studded with white cross' es 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 landlord, an af~ fable TV repairman, lives with his bartender girl~ friend. Anthropologically 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 anthro~ pology. 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'work' er. 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 realalife assets—bank account, IRA, health insurance, multiroom home»—waiting,, indulgently in the background, 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 humanitarian rationale for welfare reform——as opposed to the more punitive and stingy impulses that may actually have motivat~ ed 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 undera go a downturn, eliminating many jobs. Even without a downturn, the influx of a million for’ mer welfare recipients into the low'wage labor market could depress wages by as much as 11.9 percent, according to the Economic Policy In' stitute (EPI) in Washington, DC. ' But is it really possible to make a living on the kinds of jobs currently available to unskilled peo« ple? Mathematically, the answer is no, as can be shoWn by taking $6 to $7 an hour, perhaps sub— tracting a dollar or two an hour for child care, multiplying by 160 hours a month, and compar~ ing the result to the prevailing rents. According to the National Coalition for the Homeless, for ' example, in 1998 it took, on average nationwide, an hourly wage of $8.89 to afford a one~bedroom HARPEIK'S MAGAZINE / JANUARY 1999 apartment, and the Preamble Center for Public Policy estimates that the odds against a typical welfare recipient’s landing a job at such a “living wage" are about 97 to 1. If these numbers are -right, low~wage work is not a Solution to pover’ ty and possibly not even to homelessness. It may seem excessive to put this proposition to an experimental test. As certain family members keep unhelpfully reminding me, the viability of lowéwage work could be tested, after a fashion, To stack Cheer’io boxes in'chemically fascist America, you have to be willing to pee in front of a‘health—care worker without ever leaving my study. I could just pay my' self $7 an hour for eight hours a day, charge my— self for room and board, and total up the numbers after a month. Why leave the people and work that I love? But I am an experimental scientist by , In that business, you don’t just sit at a desk and theorize; you plunge into the everyday chaos of namre, where surprises lurk in the most mun' dane 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 per- cent of the workforce toils for less than $8 an . hour, according to the EPI, they may have found some tricks as yet unknown to me. Maybe—who knows ?—-—I would even be able to detect in myself the bracing psychological effects of getting out of the house, as promised by the welfare wonks at places like the Heritage Foundation. Or, on the other hand, maybe there would be unexpected costs~—physical, mental, or financialm-ro throw off all my calculations: Ideally, I should do this with ' two small children in tow, that being the welfare average, but mine are grown and no one, is will' ing to lend me theirs for a month'long vacation in penury. So this is not the perfect experiment, just a test of the best possible case: an unencum’ bered woman, smart and even strong, attempting to live more or less off the land. I n the morning of my first full day of job searching, I take a red pen to the want ads, which are auspiciously numerous. Everyone in Key West’s booming “hospitality industry" seems to be looking for someone like me—étraina able, flexible, and with suitably humble expec' ' rations as to pay. I know I possess certain traits that might be advantageous-I’m 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 I are a lot of want ads for satirical essayists anyway. Two, I have to take the best'paid job that is of: fered me and of course do my best to hold it; no Marxist rants or sneaking off to read novels in the ladies’ room. In addition, I rule out various oc’ cupations for one reason or another: Hotel front; desk clerk, for example, which to my surprise is regarded as unskilled and pays around $7 an hour, gets eliminated because it involves standing in one spot for eight hours a day. Waitressing is similar, ly something I’d like to avoid, because I remema her it leaving me bone tired when l was eigha teen, 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. House; keeping 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 l 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 West/ ’ern, Econo Lodge, and Holo’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 supermarket, which turns out to have a particularly onerous application process, featuring a fifteen’minute “interview” by com’ ‘ puter since, apparently, 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 illusa trating 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? 1301 think safety on the job is the responsibility of management? Then, pope ping up cunnineg 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 hone est 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 in chemically fascist America, you have to be will; ing 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 offering-«$6 and a couple of dimes to start with—are not enough, l decide, to compensate for this indignity.Z . l lunch at Wendy's, where $4.99 gets you un’ limited refills at the Mexican part of the Super; bar, a comforting surfeit of refried beans and “cheese sauce." A teenage employee, seeing me studying the want ads, kindly offers me an appli’ cation 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 guest; houses. 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 prettymuch like me—faded 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 prof; fer an application form. At my last stop, a pala’ 2 According to the Monthly'Labor Review (November 1996) , 28 ercent of work sites surveyed in the service in/ dustry c act clmg tests (corporate workplaces have much higher rates), and the incidence of testing has risen marked ly since the Eighties. The rate of testing is bi st in the South (56 Elegant of work sites polled), with Midwest in second [9 e (50 percent). The drug most likely to be de/ tected—‘marijnana, which can be detected in urine for weeksuis also the most innocuous, while heroin and cocaine are generally undetectable three days after use. Prospec’ rive employees sometimes try to cheat the tests by consume ing excessive amounts of liquids and taking diuretics and even masking substances available through the Internet. FOLIO 39 tial 8&3, 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 ac; ’ tual jobs available at any particular time; They are, as I should have guessed from Max’s come ment, the employers’ insurance policy against the relentless turnover of the low’wage work; force. Most of the big hotels run ads almost cone tinually, just to build a supply of applicants to re; place 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 a one of the big dis— count 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 ta— bles that looks out on a parking garage and fea tures such tempting fare as “Pollish [sic] sausage and BBQ sauce” on 95’degree days. Phillip, the dapper young West Indian who introduces him; 40 HARPER'S MAGAZINE/JANUARY 1999 self as the manager, interviews me with about as much enthusiasm as if he were a clerk process! ing me for Medicare, the principal questions be ing 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 HEARmSIDE embroidered on it, though I might want to wear my own shirt to get to work, ha ha. At the word “tomorrow,” something between fear and indignation rises in my chest. I want to say, .“Thank you for your time, sir, but this is just an experiment, you know, not my actual life.” ‘ o begins my career at the Hearthside, I shall call . it, one small profit center within a global dis; count hotel chain, where for two weeks I work from 2:00 till 10:00 PM. 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 redefaced man with shoulder’length blond hair is throwing frozen steaks against the wall and yelling, “Fuck this shit!” “That’s just Jack,” ex; , plains Gail, the wiry middleaaged 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 in; suruction 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 re; cently in an upstate prison. No refills on lemon; ade. 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 ap" pearing 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 com; 3 According to the Fair Labor Standards Act, employers are not required to ay "tipped employees,” such as‘restaurant servers, more t n-$2.13 an hour in direct wages. How; ever, if the sum of tips plus $2.13 an hour falls below the minimum wage, or $5.15 an hour, the employer is re; quired to make up the difference. This fact was not men— tioned by managers or otherwise publicized at either of the restaurants where I worked. , petence. Not that I have ever felt utterly compe— tent in the writing business, in which one day’s suc— cess augurs nothing at all for the next. But in my writing life, I at least have some notion of proce— dure: do the research, make the outline, rough out a draft, etc. As a server, though, I am beset by requests like bees: more iced tea here, ketchup over there, a tovgo box for table fourteen, and where are the high chairs, anyway? Of the twen— Want ads are not a reliable measure of available jobs but customers, or “patients,” as I can’t help thinking of them on account of the mysterious vulnerability that seems to have left them temporarily unable to feed themselves. After a few days at the Hearth side, I feel the service ethic kick in like a shot of oxytocin, the nurturance hormone. The pluraL ity of my customers are hard—working locals—— truck drivers, construction workers, even house— keepers from the attached hotel—and I want rather employers’ insurance policy against relentless turnover ty«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 con— stant verbal fine—tuning: “That’s gravy on the mashed, okay? None on the meatloaf,” and so forth———while the cook scowls as if I were invent— ing 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, refilling, and restocking. If it isn’t all done, every little bit of it, you’re going to face the , 6:00 PM. 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, every« one does that sometime”———because, to my total surprise and despite the scientific detachment I am doing my bestto 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 Book« er T. Washingtonian precept that says: If you’re going to do something, do it well. In fact, “well” isn’t good enough by half. Do it better than any— one has ever done it before. Or so said my fa— ther, 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, as« cending from boilermakers to martinis before booze beat out ambition. As in most endeavors l have encountered in my life, doing it “better than anyone” is not a reasonable goal. Still; when I wake up at 4:00 AM. in my own cold sweat, I am not thinking about the writing deadlines I’m ne— glecting; I’m thinking about the table whoSe or« (let 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 oth« er powerful motivation I hadn'tgexpected—the' them to have the closest to a “fine dining” expe— rience that the grubby circumstances will allow. No “you guys” for me; everyone over twelve is “sit” or “ma’am.” I ply them with iced tea and coffee refills; I return, mid—meal, to inQuire how every— thing is; I doll up their salads with chopped raw mushrooms, summer squash slices, or whatever , bits of produce I can find that have survived their sojourn in the cold—storage room mold—free. There is Benny, for example, a short, tight— muscled sewer repairman, who cannot even think of eating until he has absorbed a half hour of airvconditioning and ice water. We chat about hy— perthermia and electrolytes until he is ready to order some finicky combination like soup of the day, garden salad, and a side of grits. There are the German tourists who are so touched by my pidgin “yWillkommen” and “lst alles gut?” that they actually tip. (Europeans, spoiled by their trade—union—ridden, high«wage welfare states, generally do not know that they are supposed to tip. Some restaurants, the ‘l‘learthSide included, allow servers to “grat” their foreign customers, or add a tip to the bill. Since this amount is added before the customers have a chance to tip or not tip, the practice amounts to an automatic penal- ty for imperfect English.) There are the two dirt— smudged lesbians, just off their construction shift, who are impressed enough by my suave handling of the fly in the pifia colada that they take the time to praise me to Stu, the assistant manager. There’s Sam, the kindly retired cop, who has to plug up his tracheotomy hole with one finger in order to force the cigarette smoke into his lungs. Sometimes I play with the fantasy that I am a princess who, in penance for some tiny trans- gression, has undertaken to feed each of her sub— jects by hand. But the non—princesses working ‘ with me are just as indulgent, even when this means flouting management rules-concerning, for example, the number of croutons that can go on a salad (six). “Put on all you want,” Gail whis« pers, “as-long as Stu isn’t looking." She dips into her own tip money to buy biscuits and gravy for FOLIO 41 42 an out—of'work mechanic who’s used up all his money on dental surgery, inspiring me to pick up the tab for his milk and pie. Maybe the same high levels of agape can be found throughout the “hospitality industry." I remember the poster dec‘ orating one of the apartments I looked at, which said “If you seek happiness for yourself you will never find it. Only when you seek happiness for others will it come to you," or} words to that ef’ fectman odd sentiment, it seemed to me at the “ time, to find in the dank onetroom basement apartment of a bellhop at the Best Western. At the Hearthside, we utilize whatever bits of au/ tonomy we have to ply our customers with the il’ licit calories that signal our love. It is our job as servers to assemble the salads and desserts, pour’ ing the dressings and squirtng the Whipped cream. We also control the number of butter patties our customers get and the amount of sour cream on their baked potatoes. Soif you wonder why Amer‘ icans are so obese, consider the fact that waitresses both express their humanity and earn their tips through the c0vert distribution of fats. 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 any‘ where between them. I clown around with Li‘ onel, 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 fuck up. I even warm up to Jack when, on a slow night and to make up for a particularly un‘ ‘warranted 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"?~——in Brooklyn, where he dated a knockout Puerto Ri— can chick and learned everything there is to know ' about food. I finish up at 10:00 or 10:30, depend— ing on how much side work I’ve been able to get done during the shift, and cruise home to the tapes I snatched up at random when I left my real home~——Marianne Faithfull, Tracy Chapman, Enigma, King Sunny Ade, the Violent Femmes—» just drained enough for the music to set my crav nium resonating but hardly dead. Midnight snack is Wheat Thins and MOnterey Jack, accompa‘ nied by cheap white wine on ice and whatever AMC has to offer. To bed by 1:30 or 2:00,.up at 9:00 or 10:00, read for an hour while my uniform whirls around in the landlord’s washing machine, and then it's another eight hours spent following HARPER’S MAGAZINE / JANUARY 1999 x A Mao’s central instruction, as laid out in the Little Red Book, which was: Serve the people. could drift along like this, in some dreamy pro’ letarian 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 sur«_ veillance of men (and later women) whose job it was to monitor my behavior for signs of sloth, theft,.drugiabuse, or worse. Not that managers and especially “assistant managers” in low«wage settings 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'on‘ ly 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 ‘ I haven’t been lined up in a corridor, threatened with locker searches, and Peppered with accusations since junior high 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 wane—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 nas’ tier to do. So I wipe, I clean, I ennsolidate ketchup bottles and recheck the cheesecake supply, even tour the tables to make sure the customer evalu« ation forms are all Standing perkily in their places—«wondering all the time how many calo’ ries I burn in these strictly theatrical exercises. 7 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 hang ’ clle 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 em’ ployees,” 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 room—~it’s disgusting. Butts in the ashtrays, newspapers lying around, crumbs." This wina dowless 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 and whatever is in them can be searched at any time. Then comes gossip; there has been gossip; gosr sip (which seems to mean employees talking among themselves) must stop. Off’duty em; ployees are henCeforth barred from eating at the restaurant, because “other servers gather around them and gossip.” When Phillip has ex, hausted his agenda of rebukes, Joan complains about the condition of the ladies’ room and I throw in my two bits about the vacuum clean, er. 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 P.M., even though there are live tables on the floor. We all—about ten of us~—-stand around Phillip, who announces grime ly that there has been a report of some “drug ac, tivity” on the night shift and that, as a result, we are now to be a “drugrfree” 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, pepv pered with carelessly aimed accusations-Aime ju’ nior high school. Back on the floor, Joan cracks, “Next they’ll be telling us we can’t have sex on the job.” When I ask Stu‘what happened to in! spire the crackdown, he just mutters about “man; agement decisions” and takes the opportunity to upbraid Gail and me for being too generous with the rolls. From now on there’s to be only one per , customer, and it goes out with the dinner, not with the salad. He’s also been riding the cooks, prompt, ing Andy to come out of the kitchen and ob, serve-with the serenity of a man whose cus’ tomary implement is a butcher knife—that “Stu has a death wish today.” - ‘ Later in the evening, the gossip crystallizes around the theory that Stu is himself the drug culr prit, that he uses the restaurant phone to order up marijuana and sends one of the late servers out to fetch it for him. The server was caught, and she may have ratted Stu out or at least said enough to cast some suspicion on him, thus accounting for his pissy behavior. Who knows? Lionel, the busboy, entertains us for the rest of the shift by standing just behind Stu’s back and sucking deliri— ously on an imaginary joint. The other problem, in addition to the less, thananurturing 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 strata; gems unknown to the middle class. But no. It’s not hard to get my coworkers to talk about their liv’ ing 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 comr piled the following survey: - Gail is sharing a room in a wellrkno'wn down; town 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 alone. ‘ - Claude, the Haitian cook, is desperate to get out of the two’room apartment he shares with his , girlfriend and. two other, unrelated, people. As far as I can determine, the other Haitian men (most FOLIO 43 of whom only speak Creole) live in similarly crowded situations. 0 Annette, a twenty’yeabold 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. - Jack, who is, at $10 an hour, the Wealthiest of us, lives in the trailer he owns, paying only the $400aaamonth lot fee. ‘ I ~ 0 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 twena start’up costs when I began my lowvwage 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, asuin- certain propositions in physics, starting condiv tions are everything. _ . There are no secret economies that nourish the poOr; on the contrary, there are a host of spe- cial 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 The floor of the restaurant is slick with spills, forcing us to walk with tiny steps, like Susan McDou’gal in leg irons ty 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. 0 Tina and her husband are paying $60 a night for a double room in a Days Inn. This is because they have no car and the Days Inn is within Walka ing distance of the Hearthside. When Marianne, one of the breakfast servers, is tossed out of her trailer for subletting (which is against the trail; er’park rules), she leaves her boyfriend and moves in with Tina and her husband. 0 Joan, who had fooled me with her numerous and tasteful outfits (hostesses 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.‘l V t strikes me, in my middle’class solipsism, that there is gross improvidence in some of these arrangements. When Gail and I are wrapping silverware in napkins~—the only task for which we are permitted to sitm—she 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 sounding like a social work— er, 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 pos sible only by the $1,300 I had allotted myself for 4 I could find no statistics on the number'of employed peo’ ple Iiving in cars or vans, but according to the Nati Coalition for the Homeless's 1997 report “Myths and Facts About Homelessness," neariy one in five homeless people (in twentymine cities across the nation) is employed in a full' or part’dme job. 44 HARPER’S MAGAZINE/ JANUARY 1999 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 insurance—~and the Hearthside’s niggardly plan kicks in only af' ter three months—you go without routine care or prescription drugs and end up paying the price. Gail, for example, was fine until she ran out of money for. estrogen pills. She is supposed to be on the company plan by now, but they claim to have lost her application form and need to begin the pa- perwork all over again. So she spends $9per miv graine pill to control the headaches she wouIdn’t have, she insists, if her estrogen supplements were covered. Similarly, Marianne’s boyfriend lost his job as a roofer because he missed so much time after getting a cut on his foot for which he couldn’t afford the prescribed antibiotic. _ My own situation, when I sit down to assess it after two weeks of work, would not be much bet‘ ter 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 some‘ thing 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 one ly $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 lentilvstew 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. 1 do make my lunch almOst every dayw-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 on ly $2. The burger lasts longest, especially if it’s heaped with guppuckering jalapefios, but by mid night my stomach is growling again. So unless I want to start using my car as a res— idence, l have to find a second, or alternative, job. I call all the hotelswhere I filled out housekeep— ing applications weeks ago~the Hyatt, Holiday Inn, Econo Lodge, Holds, 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 manv ager 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 exv posed 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 job searches are African Americans, Span’ ishvspeaking, or immigrants from the Central Eu’ ropean post»Comrnunist world," whereas servers are almost invariably white and monolingually Englishvspeaking. When I finally get a positive re sponse, I have been identified once again as serv— er material. Jerry’s, which is part of a wellvknown national family restaurant chain and physically at! tached here to another budget hotel chain, is ready to use me at once. Theprospect is both exciting and terrifying, because, with about the same number of tables and counter seats, Jerry’s attracts three or four times the volume of cus« tomers as the gloomy old Hearthside. icture a fat person’s hell, and I don’t mean a place with no food. Instead there is every« thing you might eat if eating had no bodily consequences—cheese fries, chicken’fried steaks, fudgevladen desserts—~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 intestine that is the garbage and dishwasha ing area, from which issue bizarre smells combine ing the edible and the offal: creamy carrion, pizv 2a barf, and that unique and enigmatic Jerry’s scene—citrus fart. The floor is slick with spills, forc’ ing us to walk through the kitchen with tiny steps, like Susan McDougal in leg irons. Sinks every! where are clogged with scraps of lettuce, decomv posing lemon wedges, waterlogged toast crusts. Put your hand down on any counter and you risk 2 being stuck to it by the film of ancient syrup spills, and this is unfortunate, because hands are utena sils here, used for scooping up lettuce onto salad plates, lifting out pie slices, and even moving hash browns from one plate to another. The regula tion poster in the single unisex restroom admon— ishes us to wash our hands thoroughly and even offers instructions for doing so, but there is al— ways some vital substance missing—soap, 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 cus tomers, who must eat, though they don’t realize this, almost literally out of our hands. V The break room typifies the whole situation: there is none, because there are no breaks at Jerv ry’s. For six to eight hours in a row, you never sit except to pee. Actually, there are three folding chairs at a table immediately adjacent to the bathroom, but hardly anyone ever sits here, in the very rectum of the gastrovarchitectural 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 wellvbeing depended on it~——the multinational mélange of cooks, the Czech dishwashers, the servers, who are all Amer" ican natives—creating an atmosphere 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 FOLIO 45 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 your— self. I don’t know why the antismoking crusaders have never grasped the element of defiant self; nurturance that makes the habit so endearing to its victims—was 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 devote 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 die rectly into the flames. Customers arrive in 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. Conversations, either with customers or fellow employees, seldom last more than twenty seconds at a time. On my first day, in fact, I am hurt by my sister servers’ cold‘ ness. My mentor for the day is an emotionally un‘ inflected twenty~threeayear~old, and the others, who gossip a little among themselves about the real reason someone is out sick today and the size of the bail bond someone else has had to pay, ignore me completely. On my second day, I find out why. “Well, it’s good to see you again,” one of them says in greeting. “Hardly anyone comes 46 HARPER’S MAGAZINE/ JANUARY 1999 back after the first day." I feel powerfully vindi‘ 'cated———a survivor-*but it would take along time, probably months, before I could hope to be ac cepted into this sorority. ’ 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 jobs, 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. Whenrduring the 3:00 to 4:00 PM. 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 Gail and Joan do dozens of times, but a manager catches me and hisses “No eating!" though. there’s not a customer around to be of— fended by the sight of food making contact with r a server’s lips. So I tell Gail I’m going to quit, and she hugs me and says she might just follow me to Jerry’s 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: Phillip has given her permission to park overnight in the hotel parking lot, as long as she keeps our of sight, and the parking lot should be totally safe, since it’s patrolled by a hotel securiv ty guard! With the Hearthside offering benefits like that,-how could anyone think of leaving? ‘ Gail would have triumphed at Jerry’s, I’m sure, but for me it’s a crash course in exhaustion man agement. 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 Jerry's the effort of distinguishing necessary from unneces‘ sary 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 onevtimevonly emer— gency: you’ve got fifty starving people out there, lying scattered on the battlefield, so get out there and feed them! Forget that you will have to do this again tomorrow, forget that you will have to be alert enough to dodge the drunks on the drive home tonight———just burn, burn, burn! Ide— ally, at some point you enter what servers call “a rhythm” and psychologists term a “flow state,” in which signals pass from the sense organs directv ly to the muscles, bypassing the cerebral cortex, and a Zenvlike emptiness sets in. A male server from the Hearthsidels morning shift tells me about the time he “pulled a triple”———three shifts in a row, all the way around the clock—~and then i got off and had a drink and met this girl, and ‘J maybe he shouldn’t tell me this, but they had sex right then and there, and it was like, beautiful. But there‘s another capacity of the neuromus— cular system, which is pain. I start tossing back drugstore—brand ibuprofen pills as if they were vitamin C, four before each shift, because an old mouse—related repetitive’stress injury in my up— per back has come back to full’spasm strength, thanks to the tray carrying. In my ordinary life, this level of disability might justify a day of ice packs and stretching. Here I comfort myself with the Aleve commercial in which the cute blue—cola lar guy asks: If you quit after working four hours, what would your boss say? And the not’so—cute blue~collar guy, who’s lugging a metal beam on his back, answers: He’d fire me, that’s what. But for— bara, didn’t you see you've got another table out there? Come on, girl!" Among other things, she is hated for having replaced the whipped’cream squirt cans with big plastic whipped’cream—filled baggies that have to be squeezed with both hands—~because, reportedly, she saw or thought she saw employees trying to inhale the propellant gas from the squirt cans, in the hope that it might be nitrous oxide. On my third night, she pulls me aside abruptly and brings her face so close that it looks as if she’s planning to butt me with her fore; head. But instead of saying, “You’re fired," she says, “You’re doing fine." The only trouble is I’m spending time chatting with customers: “That’s how they’re getting you." Furthermore I am letting them “run me," which means harassment by se— Customers prevent the smooth transformation of information into food and food into money. They are the enemy tunately, the commercial tells us, we workers can exert the same kind of authority over our painkillers that our bosses exert over us. If Tylenol doesn't want to work for more than four hours, you just fire its ass and switch to Aleve. True, I take occasional breaks from this life, go; ing home now and then to catch up on email and for conjugal visits (though I am careful to “pay” for anything I eat there), seeing The Truman Show with friends and letting them buy my ticket. And I. still have thOse what~am¢I—doing—here moments atwork, when I get so homesick for the printed word that I obsessively reread the sixepage menu. But as the days go by, my old life is beginning to- look exceedingly strange. The emails and 'phone messages addressed to my former self come from a distant race of people with exotic concerns and far too much time on their hands. The neighborly market I used to cruisefor produce now looks forbiddingly like a Manhattan yuppie empori’ um. And when I sit down one morning in my real home to pay bills from my past life, I am daze zled at the two; and three’figure sums owed to out; fits like Club BodyTech and Amazon.com. anagement at Jerry’s is generally calmer and more “professional” than at the Hearth; side, with tWo exceptions. One is Joy, a plump,-blowsy woman in her early thirties, who once kindly devoted several minutes to instruct; ' ing me in the correct one—handed method of car— tying trays but whose moods change disconcert’ ingly from shift to shift and even within one. Then there's 8.1., a.k.a. B.].—the’bitch, whose con, tribution is to stand by the kitchen counter and yell, “Nita, your orders up, move it!" or, “Bar' quential demands: you bring the ketchup and they decide they want extra Thousand Island; you bring that and they announce they now need a side of fries; and so on into distraction. Finally she tells me not to take her wrong. She tries to say things in a nice way, but you get into a mode, you know, because everything has to move so fast.5 I mumble thanks for the advice, feeling like I've just been stripped naked by the crazed enforcer of some ancient sumptuary law: No chatting for you, girl. No fancy service ethic allowed for the serfs. Chatting with customers is for the beautiful young college—educated servers in the downtown carpaccio joints, the kids who can make $70 to $100 a night. What had I been thinking? My job is to move orders from tables to kitchen and then trays‘ from kitchen to tables. Customers are, in fact, the major obstacle to the smooth transfor’ ’ mation of information into food and food into moneymthey are, in short, the enemy. And the painful thing is that I’m beginning to see it this way myself. There are the traditional asshole types—— frat boys who down multiple Buds and then make a fuss because the steaks are so emaciated and the fries so sparse—~33 well as the variously impaired—— due to age, diabetes, or literacy issues—~who require patient nutritional counseling. The worst, for some reason, are the Visible Christians-dike the ten’person table, all jolly and sanctified afterSun’ . 5 In Workers in a Lean World: Unions in the Inter; national Economy (Verso, 1997), Kim Moody cites stud« ies finding an increase in stress’related workplace injuries and illness between the mid’19805 and the eariy 19905. He argues diatrising stress levels reflect a new system of “man— agement by stress,” in which workers in a variety of ma dustries are being squeezed to extract nmximum productivity, to the detriment of their health. FOLIO 47 s 48 day’night service, who run me mercilessly and then leave me $1 on a $92 bill. Or the guy with ’I the crucifixion T—shirt (SOMEONE TO LOOK UP TO) who complains that his baked potato is too hard and his iced tea too icy (I cheerfully fix both) and leaves no tip. As a general rule, people wearing crosses or WWII)? (What Would Jesus Do?) buttons p look at us disapprovingly no matter what we do, as if they were Confusing waitressing with Mary Magdalene’s original profession. I make friends, over time, with the other “girls” who work my shift: Nita, the tattooed twenty; something who taunts 'us by going around saying brightly, “Have we started making money yet?” Ellen, whose teenage son cooks on the graveyard shift and who once managed a restaurant in Mass; achusetts 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'df ' which cannot be determined without health in; surance. We talk about the usual girl things” men, children. and the.sinister allure of Jerry’s chocolate peanut’butter cream pie-«though no one, I notice, ever brings up anything potential; ly expensive, like shopping or movies. As at the Heatthside, the only recreation ever referred to is partying, 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 usue ally to a working husband or boyfriend. All in 1 all, we form a reliable mutual’support group: If one of us is feeling sick or overwhelmed, another one will “bev” a table or even carry trays for her. If one of us is off sneaking a cigarette or a pee,6 the oth— 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 Urinate 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 support— ed by professional or executive employees, who enjoy per— sonal umlcplace liberties that millions of factory workers can only daydream about. . . . While we were dismayed to dis cover that workers lacked an acknowledged legal right to void at work, [the workers] were amazed by outsiders’ naive be— lief that their employers would permit them to perform this basic bodily function when necessary. . . .A factory worke er, 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 voide .” HARPER’S‘ wGAZINE / JANUARY 1999 ers will do their best to conceal her absence from the enforcers of corporate rationality. But my saving human connection—my oxye tocin 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 ex; There are not exactly people here in the trailer park, but canned labor, being Preserved from the heat between shifts plain 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 lye ing around on the break table. But that would be unthinkable. Except for the one tiny earring sigr naling his allegianCe to some vaguely alternative point of view, George is a perfect straight arrow-— crew—cut, hardworking, and hungry for eye con’ tact. “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. _ My project is to teach George English. “How are you today, George 2" I say at the start of each shift. “I am good, and how are you today, Bare bara?" I learn that he is not paid by Jerry’s but by the “agent” who shipped him over~$5 an hour, with the agent getting the dollar or so differ-_ ence between that and what Jerry’s pays dishv washers. I learn also that he shares an apartment ' with a crowd of other Czech “dishers,” as he calls them, and that he cannot sleep until dne of them goes off for his shift, leaving a vacant bed. We are having one of our ESL sessions late one afternoon when 13.]. catches us at it and orders “Joseph” to take up the rubber mats on the floor near the dishwashing sinks and mop underneath. “I v thought your name was George,” I say loud enough for B.]. to hear as she strides off back to the counter. Is she embarrassed? Maybe a little, because she greets me back at the counter with “George, Joseph—there are so many ofthem!” I - say nothing, neither nodding nor smiling, and for this I am punished later when I think I am ready to go and she announces that I need to roll fifty more sets of silverware and isn’t it time I mixed up a fresh four’gallon batch of bluetcheese dress- 1 ing? May you grow old in this place,B.]., is the curse I beam out at. her when I am finally per mitted to leave. May the syrup spills glue your feet to the floor. , 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‘vol’ ume as you can get, the tips average only 10 per— cent, 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 busboys and dishwashers, we’re averaging only about $7.50 an hour. Then there is the $301 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, originally $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, 1 can picture myself working two jobs and having the time to shQWer between them. So I take the $500 deposit 1 have coming from my landlord, the $400 1 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 in— dustrial park. Number 46 is about eight feet in width and shaped like a barbell inside, with a narrow regionw—because of the sink and the stovew—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 L yards of a liquor store, a bar that advertises “free beer tomorrow," a convenience store, and a Burg— er King~but no supermarket or, alas, laundromat. By reputation, the Overseas park is a nest of crime and crack, and 1 am hoping at least for some via brant, 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 7aEleven. There are not exactly peo’ ple here but what amounts to canned labor, be- ing preserved from the heat between shifts. . n line with my reduced living conditions, a new form of ugliness arises at Jerry’s. First we are confrontedmvia 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—another trailer»home dweller and a mother of three. Something had set her off one morning, so she slipped out for a nip and re’ turned to the floor impaired. 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 I Zins before heading home at the end of the shift, but all of us feel the chill. Then the next day, when I go for straws, for the first time 1 find the dry’storage room locked. Ted, the portly assisa tant manager who opens it for me, explains that he caught one of the dishwashers attempting to steal something, and, unfortunately, the miscre— ant will be with us until a replacement can be found-hence the locked door. I neglect to ask what he had been trying to steal, but Ted tells me who he is—-—the kid with the buzz cut and the earring. You know, he’s back there right now. I wish I could say ‘1 rushed back and con’ fronted George to get his side of the story. 1 wish I could say I stood up to Ted and insisted that George be given a translator and allowed to defend himself, or announced that I’d find a lawyer who’d handle the case pro bono. The mystery to me is that there’s not much worth stealing in the dry-storage room, at least not in any fenceable quantity: “ls Gyorgi here, and am having ZOO—maybe 250~ketchup packets. What do you say?” My guess is that he had tak’ en—if he had taken anything at all~some Saltines or a can of cherry»pie mix, and that the motive for taking it was hunger. ' So why didn’t I intervene? Certainly not be’ _ cause I was held back by the kind of moral paral’ ysis that can pass as journalistic objectivity. On the contrary, something new~something loath» some and servilef—had infected me, along with FOLIO 49 .d the kitchen odors that I could still sniff on my bra when I finally undressed at night. In real life I am moderately brave, but plenty of brave people shed their courage in concentration camps, and ‘ maybe something similar goes on in the infinite» ly more congenial milieu of the lowewage Amer; ican workplace. Maybe, in a month or two more at Jerry’s, l’might have regained my crusading spirit. Then again, in a month or two I might have turned into a different person altogetherr— _ say, the kind of person who would have turned George in. ‘ out. When my month’long plunge into pover‘ ty is almost over, I finally land my dream job” housekeeping I do this by walking into the personnel office of the only place I figure I might have some credibility, the hotel attached to n Jerry’s, and confiding urgently that I have to ' w , 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 house» ‘ keeping,” and she marches me back to meet Maria, the housekeeping manager, a tiny, free netic Hispanic woman who greets me as “babe” 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 middleeaged AfricanaAmerican woman who will be training me. Carla, as she tells me to call her, is missing all of her top front teeth. It ' 50 HARPER’S MAGAZINE / JANUARY I999 , But this is not something I am slated to find- and hands me a pamphlet emphasizing the need ' n that first day of housekeeping and last day of my entire projectwalthough I don’t yet , know it’s the last—~Carla‘ is in a foul mood. We have been given nineteen rooms to clean, most of them “checkouts,” as opposed to “stay; overs,” that require the whole enchilada of bed; stripping, 'vacuuming, and bathroom’scrubbing. When one of the rooms that had been listed'as a stayaover 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 cleaner—-it weighs about thirv ty pounds—off our cart and try to wrestle it , around the floor. Sometimes Carla hands me the squirt bottle of “BAM” (an acronym for some; thing 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 con— centrate on removing the pubic hairs from the bathtubs, or at least the dark ones that I can see. I had looked forward to thebreakingeandven’ tering aspect of cleaning the stay’overs, the chance to examine the secret, physical existence of strangers. But the contents of the rooms are al» ways banal and surprisingly neat—zipped up shave ing 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 Jerry to Sally to Hawaii Five’O and then on to the soaps. If there’s something espe— cially arresting, like “Won’t Take No for an Ana swer” on jerry, we sit down on theedge of a bed and giggle for a moment as if this were a pajama party instead of a terminally deadvend 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, Lauv ren 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 expensively appointed interiv 7 ors in the soa'ps, begin after a while to merge. We have entered a better worldwa world of comfort where every day is a day off, waiting to be filled up with sexual intrigue. We, however, are only gatev crashers in this fantasy, forced to pay for our pres ence with backaches and perpetual thirst. The mirrors, and there are‘far too many of them in hoe tel rooms, contain the kind of person you would normally find pushing a shopping cart down a city streetabedraggled, dressed in a damp hotel polo shirt two sizes too large, and with sweat dribr bling down her chin like drool. l 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 I couldn’t hold on to two jobs even with advantages unthinkable to many of the working poor, and I couldn’t get by on one 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 at, tempt to compose myself for the oncoming 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 onv ly unforeseen obstacle to the smooth transition from job to job is that my tan Jerry’s slacks, which had looked reasonably clean by 40’watt bulb last night when I handwashed my Hawaiian shirt, 'prove by daylight to be mottled with ketchup and ranchdressing stains. I spend most of my hourvlong break between jobs attempting to remove the ed; ible portions with a sponge and then drying the slacks over the hood of my car in the sun. I can do this twovjob thing, is my theory, if I can I drink enough caffeine and avoid getting distract; ed by George’s ever more obvious suffering.7 The first few days after being caught he seemed not to understand the trouble he was in, and our chitpy little conversations had continued. Butthe last couple of shifts he’s been listless and unshaven, and tonight he looks like the ghost we all know him to be, with dark halfvmoons hanging from his , eyes. At one point, when I am briefly immobilized by the task of filling little paper cups with sour cream for baked potatoes, he comes over and looks as if he’d like to explore the limits of our - 7 In 1996, the number of persons holding two or more jobs averaged 7.8 nullion, or 6.2 percent of the workforce. ltwasabomrhesamemteformenandforworrwn (6.1 ver’ sus 6.2) , though the kinds ofjobs differ by gender. About two thirds of multiple jobholders work one job fullvtime and the other partvtinw. Only a heroic minority—4 percent of men and 2 percent of women—work two full/time jabs simultaneously. (From John F. Stimson It, “New Data on Multiple Jobliolding Available from the CPS,” in the Monthly Labor Review, March 1997.) ' shared vocabulary, but I am called to the floor for a table. I resolve to give him all my tips that night and to hell with the experiment in low«wage mona ey 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 as sure myself, though it may be that there is simply no more “I” left to do the tiredness monitoring. What I would see, if I were more alert to the sit, uation, is that the forces of destruction are al~ ready massing against me. There is only one cook on duty, a young man named Jesus (“I-slavaue,” 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 fuming 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 stag, gered. As I bev table 27, tables 25, 28, and 24 are watching enviously. As I bev 25, 24 glowers be cause their bevs haven’t even been ordered. Twenv tyveight is four yuppyish types, meaning every thing on the side and agonizing instructions as to the chicken Caesars. Twentyvfive is a middle» aged black couple, who complain, with some jusr tice, 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 everyone has at least two drinks—«iced tea and milk shake, Michelob and water (with lemon slice, please}— and a huge promiscuous orgy of breakfast spe~ cials, mozz sticks, chicken strips, quesadillas, burg; ers 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 breve—— 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 ap petizer. Maybe the others would have accepted their meals, but Di, who is deep into her third Michelob, insists that everything 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, FOLIO '51 din-rs, .. 1 r. I; Much of what happened next is lost in the fog of war. jesus starts going under. The little printr er 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 reheated 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 pancakes,.hash browns in assorted flavors, toasts, burgers, sausages, eggs. “Uh, scrambled with cheddar,” I try, “and that’s. . . ” “NO,” she screams in my face. “Is it a traditional, a 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 traditional?” she demands in outrage. All I know, in fact, is that my legs have lost interest in the current venture ‘andhave announced their intention 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 Je’ ‘ sus 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 fine ish 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 surgevof relief, just an overwhelming, 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 propo’ sition, but’somewhere along the line, in the tune nel vision imposed by long shifts and relentless concentration, it became a test of myself, and clearly I have failed. Notvonly 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 y ' 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. hen 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 52 HARPER's MAGAZINE / JANUARY 1999 that Stu had been fired from the Hearthside. I never found out what happened to George. In'one month, I had earned approximately $1,040 and spent $517 on food, gas, toiletries, laundry, phone, and utilities. Ifl 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 required 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 r pounds in four weeks, on a diet weighted heavi’ ly toward burgers and fries. How former welfare recipients and single mothers will (and do) survive in the low’wage workforce, I cannot imagine. Maybe they will figure Out how to condense their lives—in; cluding child’raising, laundry, romance, and meals-into the couple of hours between full’ time jobs. 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 contra; dicts 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 effecth both wages and the number of jobs available. A general economic downturn will only enhance, these effects, and the working poor will of course befacing it» 'without the slight, but nonetheless 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 like’ ly to be fraught with insult and stressButI did discover one redeeming feature of the most abject lowawage work—the 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 some! day these people will come to know what they’re worth, and take appropriate action. ‘ I ...
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