Labor Pains
Jennifer Fox
Working from home
I guess my first job was vacuuming. I was 7 or 8 when I made the mistake of expressing interest in the task. Somehow watching my mother manipulate her blue and silver Electrolux up and down our split ranch seemed like a grown-up good time. Its body hung close to the floor like a mechanical dachshund on wheels. The long hose could be fit with different heads and serve as a kind of leash to drag the vacuum about. I got some satisfaction creating clean bands of vertical lines in the chocolate carpet that appeared more or less chocolate-y depending on whether I was pushing to or fro. To be clear, I got some satisfaction, exactly, once. The other approximately 520 times over the next 10 years? Not so much. Also, it was unpaid labor which I thought very unfair. Therefore it seemed totally appropriate at the time to pay myself out of my older brother’s paper delivery money which he carelessly left on his bureau. He was reaping the benefits of my drudgery after all.
There were additional chores. Dusting. Laundry folding. Salad making. Also, technically, unpaid but they were thrust on me. Like Cinderella. I had made the mistake of expressing interest in household doings only one more time. Being your family’s resident hamburger flipper is a lot less glamorous than it sounds.
There were attempts at employment where my salary was not unknowingly subsidized by my sibling. I signed up for my own delivery route for example. Actually, I was going to work in concert with my other brother. Rich. The oldest. We set out on foot after spending a Friday night rolling up newspapers with advertising inserts and jamming them into thin, narrow plastic bags. That first Saturday morning, as we made our way down a steep hill negotiating who would get the honor of sending the first paper airborne, 3 large dogs appeared. No masters in sight. Barking. Our parents were fake allergic so we had no pet experience to fall back on and took opposite approaches to the perceived threat. I went very still as they sniffed around me and lost interest. When I turned to check on Rich all that remained was his big, canvas bag filled with undelivered papers. He had quickly (and rightly, I think) determined its weight would impede his speedy getaway. That was my first and last day in the paper delivery business.
Working from other people’s homes
Babysitting, of course. What teen girl’s head doesn’t get filled with ideas about making easy money from some neighbor looking for a Saturday night respite from their own children? As the youngest I really had no experience with kids, but, I was assured by my friends that after maybe an hour of “playing” – what that entailed I was not sure - I’d get to sit on their couch, eat junk food and watch TV. Eating junk food without my mother mentally calculating the calories was almost as appealing as earning spending money to fund my 2 piece at a time gum chewing habit. Unfortunately, for society, I was partial to chunk gum like Hubba Bubba Pink Lemonade during this period.
It was a simple walk across the street. I was greeted by the friendly young mom at the door. She gave me a quick tour of the house. In the kitchen she opened the cabinet that housed both sweet and salty snacks. Mine for the taking. She even said, “Here is the remote.” It all seemed like it was going to live up to the promises made. Easy money. Out came her son. 6? We’d met briefly before on the street. His name escapes me – probably purposely - but for the sake of storytelling let’s call him Matt. Curly haired Matt. Angelic Matt. Already-in-the-fuzzy-onsie-he-was-to-be-put-to-bed-in Matt. Easy.
Young Mom
Matt, this is Jenn. Remember we met her last week? She is going to stay with you tonight while daddy and I go for dinner. She had crouched down to be on his level while communicating this and pointed up to me.
Me
Smiling, waving. Hi Matt. Then I crouched.
Matt
Shy. Hi.
Young Mom and I were still crouched as Young Dad appeared and crouched too. Talks began in earnest between 2 crouched adults, one crouched teen and an un-crouched 6 year old as to how the evening should go.
Young Dad
So, buddy, you can stay up and play with Jenn until 8:00pm and then it’s off to sleep. It was 6:30pm when I arrived so I quickly calculated that translated to 90 minutes of “play.” Mom and I will see you in the morning. OK? I want you to listen to Jenn. She’s in charge. OK buddy? OK? OK?
I remember thinking that was a lot of “Okays?” My only related experience was on the receiving end of parental directives. There were not a lot of “Okays?” I recall mostly an onslaught of “you betters!” Sort of threatening but not quite. This seemed like a healthier approach. Very reasonable.
Matt
Hanging on to his Young crouched Mom. He smiled. Shy smile. And said, of course.
OK
With that everyone who was crouched un-crouched. Young Mom and Young dad went for their coats. They each gave Matt a hug and Young Mom suggested he show me his car set.
Young Mom
As they walked out the door. Directed to Matt. Have fun honey. We’ll see you in the morning. Be good. Directed to me. Thanks so much. We’ll be home by 10pm.
And they were gone. Matt did in fact show me his cars. Their introductions / departure took about 10 minutes and Matt’s car showing 3. That meant 77 minutes of play ahead. I intended to follow Matt’s lead on what that meant in practice. His lead suggested we were going to alternate telling each other spontaneously made up tales. Not my strong suite. My parents were exhausted by the time I appeared on the scene. My role in the family was more passive watcher then engaged, active imaginative. It was going to be looooong 77 minutes.
I’m not going to pretend I remember Matt’s stories. I do remember they were reliably less than 10 words and it was always my turn again until. 8pm. Hallelujah!
Me
Matt, it’s bedtime. Let’s get ready. Brush your teeth….
Matt
I don’t want to go to bed. Tell me another story.
Me
I know. It’s been fun but your parents said you should go to bed at 8pm. And it’s 8pm. I tapped my wrist where a watch should be (but wasn’t) for emphasis. My parents always did that.
Matt
I don’t want to. He then leaned in, smiled sweetly and added, just in case I didn’t understand who was in charge, here. If you make me go to bed, I’m going to tell my mommy that you touched me in my private place.
It probably goes without saying, but, that was the first and last time I babysat for Matt. My choice. I did make a few more attempts at babysitting after that but kids really don’t want to go to bed when their parents are away (I recognize this is not a news flash). And while I was never again threatened with a charge of molestation, I was soon after warned by an 8 year old “If you make me go to bed, I will put doodie in your hair.” This was not an idle threat. He came down 30 minutes after I made him, with sullied toilet paper from the visit he just made to the bathroom.
I suppose I have to touch upon my parent’s at some point. At least their influence in terms of my relationship to / with work because you can’t ever escape them. Parents or their influence. Here seems as good a place as any.
Let’s start with Dad. Child of the depression. I first remember him expressing concern about me having a pension when I was about 8. This was before I understood what a pension was for sure. Soon no one will know what a pension is come to think of it. He was a High School Social Studies teacher but he had a dream job. He wanted to be a reporter. The lessons I took from him were: be practical, keep your expectations low, don’t stick your head out and show up. They were mostly implied except when union related. “Unions are the only friend of the working man,” was a familiar phrase.
OK, Mom. You’re up. Post-depression childhood but shared my dad’s practicality, pension passion and support of unions. Once we kids were in school full-time, Mom got a job working for the county. Two union members and two pensions in one household? Nirvana! It was a mystery what she did. Something with fuel / heating. It wasn’t her dream job. She didn’t have a dream job and seemed happier for it. At the time I found that puzzling. I don’t anymore.
Working in stores that involved excessive standing
I was 16 and I could actually apply for a “real” job. On the books. A paycheck! I was gonna make $3.71/hr at Mid-Island Department store in the children’s section. The department was downstairs and mostly ignored except by shoplifters.
Everyone wanted to work the register. A bad day was getting assigned to do markdowns. You were supplied with a red pen that had a stamp function on top. Red slash out the price, handwrite in the new one and stamp it to prove it was official. Then, you had to locate the sewn in shirt tag and re-write the new price there. If you were lucky, you found it in the neck of the shirt collar, and if you were unlucky, tucked in a faraway, inconvenient hem that had to be hunted for. There were lots of different methods as to how to manipulate the tag and clothing and your body to efficiently and legibly do this. All of them annoying. Some of them potentially injury causing. I defected to Genovese Drug Store 2 years later when they started bringing in new recruits at 29 cents an hour more than me. $4.00/hr! I went to management and asked for a raise to match the people I was now training. No could do. Come to think of I could have used a union!
Genovese was a pretty good gig. They were opening a new store. My since-we-were-practically-zygotes friend Marla also got a job there which was a major bonus. One day we were sitting on the floor. Product before us. Price guns in hand. Chatting. And her dad walked in. Horrified at the sight. He whisked her away and found her a job at a dentist’s office. She’s a dentist now.
To tell the truth I kind of liked stacking the shelves, facing the shampoo bottles front and pulling them forward. Nice, orderly rows can be comforting. Kind of like the clean lines of vacuuming. My time there was generally uneventful so I was majorly bummed to be off the one eventful day. Sting operation day. I worked the register a lot. I was people pleasing, anxious and quick which are fine traits for dealing with impatient people waiting on line to buy cigarettes, condoms and lady products. I remember noticing several newly created holes in the ceiling. We were newly being watched. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out why. The employees stole a lot and often.
Past experience, more than personal ethics, prevented me from pilfering personally. At Mid-Island I had allowed myself to be peer pressured by a co-worker / classmate to under-ring her mother. She came to my register with a mountain of clothes for purchase and I rung up just one. Bagged everything. Stapled the way too small receipt to the outside of the bag and prayed no one would stop her as she walked up the stairs to the main floor and out the door. I did this twice and sweated and came to the conclusion this girl sucked, her mother was beyond a bad role model and I didn’t have the constitution for a life of crime. I cut them off and resolved to live the rest of my life as an honest citizen. It was better for my nerves.
While I blind eye-d rampant employee and customer theft, I understood the stores themselves didn’t quite have that luxury. I had no hard feelings about the camera newly pointing down on me. Sometimes I danced and sung to it in my royal blue, stiff-as-a-board, polyester, Genovese logo emblazoned lab coat. I also pointed it out to every co-worker who crossed my path. I was scheduled to come in the day after the staff massacre. 9 employees gone. Mostly young, part-time staff but one Assistant Manager was given the axe because they had video of him taking a 1 cent butterscotch hard candy from the Pick-a-Mix station without paying for it. And what of Dave, the 19 year old kid who I last saw sneaking one of the TV’s Genovese had no business selling into his trunk? He was relaying all of this all to me. Still gainfully employed.
Working while away at college
I didn’t work while away at college. They didn’t hire me at the only job I deemed acceptable - the college bookstore. Plus, I had just discovered Days of our Lives!
Working while home during the summers
There was no getting out of it. I had to work when I came home from college. Parents! So in no particular order, my summer gigs:
Welcome to Taco Bell.
Assistant Manager
Did you mop the floor?
Me
Yes
Assistant Manager
Did you fill the napkin dispensers?
Me
Yes
Assistant Manager turns, leaves and returns within seconds with a spray cleaner and squirts the wall beside me.
Assistant Manager
Clean the wall then.
***
Me
Would you like hot or mild sauce with that?
That was my constant refrain. Often intoned with my head out the window servicing drive thru customers who occasionally turned out to be former High School classmates. I tried to forget I was wearing a maroon visor with the pink and yellow “Taco Bell” logo and polyester pants as I conveyed their options. Still it was better than pulling Nachos BellGrande wrappers out of the bushes that lined the parking lot.
Newsday
Sales. You only got paid the first week. After that, commission. I was doomed from the get go but the economic times called for more begging then choosing. The goal was selling subscriptions. The intended selling setting? A supermarket. Duh! There was a one day training where you practiced by approaching other unfortunate job beggars trying to convince them to sign up for Newsday delivery while they walked by you fake shopping. This was to replicate the experience of real people, really walking by, really shopping who wanted nothing to do with you. The carrot to get customers to slow down and listen to your spiel? The chance to enter a sweepstakes to win a free day of shopping.
Marla actually signed on for this with her boyfriend at the time and she was genius at it. They double-teamed shoppers conspiratorially tipping them off that they could become eligible for the prize by signing up for Newsday today and canceling Newsday tomorrow.
My line was not nearly as smooth. As I stood before the 3 paneled science fair project-like marketing materials that sat atop a metal folding table in the produce section, I watched people walk by. And I watched people walked by. Every now and again I took a bold step forward and said “um, excuse me” to the backs of people who walked by. Sometimes I gathered up the nerve to ask someone to fill out a sweepstakes entry. This went on for a week. My paid week. On the last day of my paid week, as I watched people walk by, I caught sight of a familiar face hiding behind the cantaloupes.
Boss
I don’t understand. I saw crowds of shoppers walk by and you didn’t approach anyone today. He was truly perplexed.
Me
How long have you been here? I have 3 sweepstakes entries filled out. I pointed to the mostly empty glass bowl. It was a losing battle being halfheartedly fought.
Boss
I have never had someone fail to get a commitment for even ONE subscription over a week. Usually 3 over that time period indicates a low performer. That’s why I wanted to see for myself. It’s not a mystery. You are just watching people walk by.
Me
I don’t think this is the right position for me.
Boss
You think?
I looked at the clock on the far wall and saw there were 2 hrs left on my shift. The prospect felt like death. He saw me looking.
Don’t bother. We’ll pay you for the full week.
Me
Thanks. Sorry. It’s just not the right position for me. I had been practicing that line for the last 4 days. It felt good to hear it outside of my brain finally. So good I said it twice. It’s just not the right position for me.
The Factory
As usual, I entered with dread, mounted an uncomfortable metal stool and was issued an industrial tweezer to begin work making relays. Relays are electrically operated switches. Full disclosure, it was only 2 minutes before typing that sentence that I looked that up. The only thing I knew at the time was we were making a part for airplanes. What I recall now is lot of metal “pins.” That’s what they were called but they weren’t really pins, they were 2 inch thin metal rods about the width of the lead you load into a mechanical pencil. These pins had to be threaded with your tweezer through a steel coin-like object with 8 tiny holes. Every morning you’d hope to be gifted with a freshly sharpened tweezer. It was an assembly line situation. My task, which I did over and over and over, was the first step. By the end of the process, the relay looked like a miniature squid with rigor mortis. Marla did a tour of duty at the factory too but we didn’t overlap.
One day, something unusual, out came the manager who had rarely been seen up to this point. He was there to announce mandatory overtime would begin starting tomorrow. We would be adding 2 hours on the both the front end and back-end of the working day. M-F. 6am – 6pm. I went from disbelief, to panic to righteous indignation.
12 hrs! And a 5 hr Saturday morning shift! WHAT? I thought this an injustice. We workers must rise up. Demand fair treatment. Organize! I cast myself as Norma Rae and was ready to scale the folding table that served as our work station and chant “Union, Union” with my fellow outraged cogs. But I looked to the cogs on my left, I looked to the cogs on my right and saw no outrage. My fellow cogs wanted the overtime. Overtime meant more money to send to their families who lived outside the US. More money to me just meant less money my parents would contribute to my college beer fund. I didn’t scale that table. I did privately negotiate a 4 pm exit. When I left early I was slightly ashamed. I knew most of the other workers would be heading to a second evening job. I got through the tedium by daydreaming. Andre Agassi had won Wimbledon that year and I replayed his victory over and over in my head. That and Days of Our Lives. My dad would tape it for me. Set the VCR. Old school. God bless him. It was the one thing I looked forward to. I did make a lot of money making relays, plus, I learned how curse in Spanish. I left for college that fall knowing how lucky I was. I was leaving the hardest, most grateful workers I’d ever met behind.
Surveying
I worked for a phone survey company. Their major account? Harlequin. Each day I arrived they handed me a list of monthly romance novel subscribers. The first task was to convince them not to hang up on me. The second task was get them to agree to participate in a 20 minute survey. We never told them it was 20 minutes up front.
Harlequin Reader / Reluctant Survey Participant but too nice to hang up
How long will it take?
Me / A liar
Just a few minutes.
Harlequin Reader
Uh, um, okay. If it’s just a few minutes.
Me
Great.
10 minutes later
Me
I like heroines with raven hair. Do you Strongly Agree, Agree, Neither Agree nor Disagree, Disagree or Strongly Disagree?
Harlequin Reader
Agree.
Me
I like heroines with flaxen hair. Do you…
Harlequin Reader
This is taking very long. This reply was usually accompanied by heavy, purposeful sighing. I was losing her.
Me
I know. I’m so sorry. I recognize this is taking up a lot of time.
I had been here with others before – on the precipice - and had tried many different tactics. Speed up. Make a joke. Attempt small talk. Reiterate the valuable service they were doing Harlequin and their readers. But, unquestionably, the most effective method? Guilt. Thanks mom!
I have to complete a certain number of surveys or I don’t get paid. Making sure to sound young and vulnerable. If you could just hang in for a few more minutes I would really, really appreciate it. I will go as fast as I can. OK? OK?
Harlequin Reader
OK.
I was so good on the Harlequin job they switched me to the day shift and gave me a new assignment. Sales. I was to call small business owners and convince them to allow a computer consulting company to come in and pitch them. This went about as well as selling Newsday subscriptions.
That pretty much covers what I’ve always considered my not important pre-adult work life. After that, I went back for one more year of college, graduated and thought now my real work life can begin. But as I look back, this before and after is more seemingly separate. I’m still doing a version of all of these jobs and using the “skills” I picked up along the way to deal with today’s tedium and frustrations. Apparently there is no way around it. Work is work.
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Jennifer Fox has been a facilities analyst at an insurance company since 2013. She doesn’t know what that is either. After doing 5 minutes of online research to understand what goes into a bio, Jenn realized she didn’t have anything relevant to impart and procrastinated until the very last minute to put this together. Jenn has never been published and lives in Long Island City.