Scratch Beginnings_ Me, $25, and the Search for the American Dream - Adam W. Shepard [25]
When Angela called out the names of those who would be going to each location (eighteen of us in all, most of whom were shelter residents themselves), I began to realize, to my surprise, that our jobs were never selected based on gender. Six people were going to Eddie Bauer, eight to Nike, and the remaining four of us—all males—were assigned to the infant clothing store.
We piled into cars and the EasyLabor van and traveled twenty minutes to the mall. We were all dropped off in the same location in the back, and we dispersed to our specified locations. None of us had been on that particular ticket before, but we found the store with no problem.
And, of course, nobody was there to meet us. The store was empty, and the lights were off. No worries, though. It was 8:30 and the ticket said for us to start at nine.
But once 9:00 rolled around, I was curious. At 9:30, I was anxious, and at 10, I was heated. The four of us had been sitting around on empty paint buckets or pacing back and forth for ninety minutes in front of the store, while the workers for Eddie Bauer and Nike had been slinging clothes and shoes for an hour.
Just after 10:00, and just before I was preparing to walk to the bus stop to head back downtown, the owner—an older lady drenched in makeup and noticeably overweight—opened the doors. She had her arsenal of full-time employees with her, and she apologized for being late. Traffic, she said.
Traffic? On a Saturday morning in North Charleston. All of you? At the same time? Yeah, OK.
We were upset, the temp crew and I, but we also knew that we were defenseless, forced to succumb to the owner’s beck and call. We were on her time. When she showed up, we did what she told us to do. When she was finished with us, she would discard us just as she would discard an empty canister of lipstick. It was a cruel system, and we felt victimized, but we accepted it. After all, our far less enchanting secondary option was to be without work for the day, and as I said, any work was better than no work.
Motivated by the understanding that I was working my way out of this destitute life, I remained back in the shadows and listened to orders. Our task, hanging the new baby clothes, was elementary and dull: cut the box open, remove a pile of clothes, place them on the correct rack according to size and color, remove the plastic wrapping, throw the plastic away, lather, rinse, repeat as directed. There was nothing exciting about our job that day. I just wanted to get through it.
On top of the monotony of hanging the clothes, we had to deal with the owner and her posse. While we were able to dodge the fussy ladies for parts of the day, it seemed that the owner had delegated power to her cohorts to pick on the day labor crew at their leisure. And they took full advantage of that power. “Would you mind?” was replaced by, “Hey, that doesn’t go there,” and bathroom breaks were awarded with the understanding that we would “Hurry on back now.” Occasionally they would even try to cheerily sneak in condescending orders with, “Hey, Anthony, how’s it going over there, hun? Great…Say, why don’t we converse a little less and work a little more? I believe that goes on that rack over there. All righty? Super.”
As the 1:00 hour approached, they started to rush us. “We have to have these boxes emptied by the time lunch gets here!” Boy, if that didn’t kick me into gear.
Shoot, lunch? Now you’re talking my language, babe. Hand me that box right there. Nope, that one. I’ll tell you what. Let’s get a little system going here. You open boxes and take out the clothes. I’ll remove the plastic.
Lunch? That’s all she needed to say from the beginning!
A half hour later, we had completed an hour’s worth of work. We emptied the last three boxes as the owner signed our ticket for four hours. It had taken some hard bargaining, but we managed to squeeze a little extra time out of her because she had arrived late.
“I’ve called