Free Hand to Mouth: Living in Bootstrap America by Linda Tirado Page A

but people rarely wanted me to tell them about anything more than the price.
    What’s guaranteed to be counterproductive for you is demanding better service with a superior attitude. We’ll perform better service. But we’ll be sure to hand you the shirt that we know is stained, or the meat that’s within the technical limit of servable but will probably taste less than optimal. And we’ll do it with a shit-eating grin on our face and well-wishes on our lips, just like you demand but refuse to pay a single extra penny for.
    If you want us to be happy to serve you, make it worth our while and be pleasant. Next time you’re in a low-wage place, try walking up to an employee and saying, “I’m sorry to disturb you, I know you have work, but could you tell me where this thing I need is?” I guarantee you,
that
is how you get service from a demoralized staff. Respect their workload. There is no low-wage employer in the world that doesn’t expect a ton ofchores finished in a shift besides customer service. Don’t just expect that millions of people are by nature pleased to grovel at the feet of your twenty dollars. Humans in general aren’t built that way, and Americans in particular. We’re supposed to have a stubborn streak of pride, remember?
    —
    In Cincinnati, I lived just under two miles from the closest grocery store that carried the sort of formula my daughter could tolerate. She was insanely colicky, so I used to spend my free time walking her around the city, letting the vibration of the stroller lull her into farting an incredible amount before she finally, blessedly, fell asleep. I went to the store most days, buying only what we absolutely needed, because I couldn’t fit much more in the stroller. I still love to wander, because if nobody knows where I am, then nobody can ask me for anything or call me about an unpaid bill. And I get angry out of all proportion when someone disturbs my peace, because it is so rare that I actually feel light and free.
    I don’t get much of my own time, and I am vicious about protecting it. For the most part, I am paid to pretend that I am inhuman, paid to cater to both the reasonable and unreasonable demands of the general public. So when I’m off work, please feel free to go fuck yourself. The times that I am off work, awake, and not taking care of life’s details are few and far between. It’s the only time I have any autonomy. I do not choose to waste that precious time worrying about how youfeel. Worrying about you is something they pay me for; I don’t work for free. You don’t get to demand this ten minutes from me too. This is mine, and my family’s.
    I actually don’t mind, on feminist grounds, when men tell me to smile. I can see why women would, but I’ve worked in bars and I’ve worked in strip clubs and I’ve learned that you can commodify anything, including sex and pretend love and faked respect and false empathy. “Smile,” coming from a man, is just the opening chatter to me at this point. It is a sign that this particular man has nothing original to say and is probably kind of a dick.
    I do mind the smile-on-command directive on class grounds. Listen here, buster. It’s not my fucking job to decorate your world, not unless you’re willing to make it so. Sure, I’ll smile. That’ll be five bucks.
    I feel bad about my reactions sometimes, because I can’t always stop them even when they’re directed at someone who’s having the same sort of day as I am. I was once at a store and could not for the life of me find the fucking diapers. I wandered the length and breadth of the place—nothing. I was exhausted, completely finished. Some poor woman who worked there stepped into my field of vision. I meant to ask where the diapers were stocked like a normal human being. What came out instead was “Why did you people hide the fucking diapers?” I couldn’t tell you how that made it from brain to mouth. It just happens sometimes. So when I am