Free Nickel and Dimed: Undercover in Low-Wage USA by Barbara Ehrenreich Page A

tackle the not-very-long division. “We don't calculate it that way.” I do, however, and $5 to $6 an hour for what this lady freely admits is heavy labor with a high risk of repetitive-stress injuries seems guaranteed to repel all mathematically able job seekers. But I am realizing that, just as in Key West, one job will never be enough. In the new version of the law of supply and demand, jobs are so cheap—as measured by the pay—that a worker is encouraged to take on as many of them as she possibly can.
    After two days of sprinkling job applications throughout the greater Portland
area, I force myself to sit in my room at the 6, where I am marooned until the
Blue Haven will let me in on Sunday, and wait for the phone to ring. This takes
more effort than you might think, because the room is too small for pacing and
too dingy for daydreaming, should I have been calm enough to give that a try.
Fortunately, the phone rings twice before noon, and more out of claustrophobia
than any serious economic calculation—I accept the first two jobs that are offered.
A nursing home wants me on weekends for $7 an hour, starting tomorrow; The Maids
is pleased to announce that I “passed” the Accutrac test and can start on Monday
at 7:30 A.M. This is the friendliest and best-paying maid service I have encountered—$6.65 an hour, though as a punishment this will drop to $6 for two weeks if
I fail to show up for a day. [10] I don't understand
exactly what maid services do and how they are different from agencies, but
Tammy, the office manager at The Maids, assures me that the work will be familiar
and easy, since “cleaning is in our blood.” I'm not so sure about the easy part
after the warnings I got at Merry Maids, but I figure my back should be able
to hold out for a week. We're supposed to be done at about 3:30 every day, which
will leave plenty of time for job hunting on weekday afternoons. I have my eye
on a potato chip factory a ten-minute drive from the Blue Haven, for example,
or I can always search out L.L. Bean and fill catalog orders from what I hope
will be an ergonomically congenial seat. This is beginning to look like a plan:
from maids' service to something better, with the nursing home tiding me over
during the transition. To celebrate, I eat dinner at Appleby's—a burger and
a glass of red wine for $11.95 plus tip, consumed at the bar while involuntarily
watching ESPN.
    On my fourth full day in Portland, I get up at 4:45 to be sure to get to the Woodcrest Residential Facility (not its real name) for the start of my shift at 7:00. I am a dietary aide, which sounds important and technical, and at first the work seems agreeable enough. I get to wear my own clothes, meaning T-shirt and khakis or jeans, augmented only by the mandatory hairnet and an apron at my own discretion. I don't even have to bring lunch, since we get to eat anything left over after the residents, as we respectfully call them, have eaten their share. Linda, my supervisor—a kindly-looking woman of about thirty-even takes time to brief me about my rights: I don't have to put up with any sexual harassment, particularly from Robert, even though he's the owner's son. Any problems and I'm to come straight to her, and I get the feeling she'd appreciate getting a Robert-related complaint now and then. On the other hand, there is severe discipline for screwups that could endanger lives, like when some of the teenage boys who work on weekends put butter pats in a light fixture and the melted butter leaked onto the floor, creating a hazardously slippery region—not that she expects that kind of thing from me. Today we will be working the locked Alzheimer's ward, bringing breakfast from the main kitchen downstairs to the smaller kitchen on the ward, serving the residents, cleaning up afterward, and then readying ourselves for their lunch.
    For a former waitress such as myself, this is pretty much a breeze. The residents start