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 fifteen-minute drive from town, that has no air-conditioning, 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.(n1) Still, it is a shock to
     realize that "trailer trash" has become, for me, a demographic category to aspire to.

     So I decide to make the common trade-off between affordability and convenience, and go for a $500-a-month 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 some sun-dazed Canadian tourists. I hate the drive, along a roadside studded with
     white crosses 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 affable TV repairman, lives with his bartender
     girlfriend. 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 anthropology. 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 worker. 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
     real-life 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 motivated 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 transition 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 undergo a downturn,
     eliminating many jobs. Even without a downturn, the influx of a million former welfare recipients into the low-wage labor market
     could depress wages by as much as 11.9 percent, according to the Economic Policy Institute (EPI) in Washington, D.C.

     But is it really possible to make a living on the kinds of jobs currently available to unskilled people? Mathematically, the answer
     is no, as can be shown by taking $6 to $7 an hour, perhaps subtracting a dollar or two an hour for child care, multiplying by 160
     hours a month, and comparing 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 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 poverty 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 low-wage work could be tested, after a fashion, without ever leaving my study. I could just pay myself $7 an
     hour for eight hours a clay, charge myself 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 training. In that business, you don't just sit at a desk and theorize;
     you plunge into the everyday chaos of nature, where surprises lurk in the most mundane 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 percent of the workforce
     toils for less than $8 an hour, according to the EH, 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 works at places like the Heritage Foundation. Or, on the other hand, maybe there would be unexpected
     costs--physical, mental, or financial -- to throw off all my calculations. Ideally, I should do this with two small children m tow, that
     being the welfare average, but mine are grown and no one is willing 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 unencumbered woman, smart and even strong,
     attempting to live more or less off the land.

     On 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 tike me--trainable, flexible, and with
     suitably humble expectations 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 roles: One, I cannot rise any skills derived from my education or usual work--not
     that there are a lot of want ads for satirical essayists anyway. Two, I have to take the best-paid job that is offered 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
     occupations 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 similarly
     something I'd like to avoid, because I remember It leaving me bone tired when I was eighteen, 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. Housekeeping 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 I 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 Western, Econo Lodge, and HoJo'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 computer 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 illustrating 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? Do I think safety on the job is the responsibility of management? Then, popping up cunningly out of the
     blue: How many dollars' worth of stolen goods have I purchased in tine last year? Would I turn in a fellow employee if I caught
     him stealing? Finally, "Are you an honest 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 willing 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, I decide, to
     compensate for this indignity.(n2)

     I lunch at Wendy's, where $4.99 gets you unlimited refills at the Mexican part of the Superbar, a comforting surfeit of refried
     beans and "cheese sauce." A teenage employee, seeing me studying the want ads, kindly offers me an application 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 anti
     guesthouses. 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 pretty much like me--faded ex-hippie types in shorts with long hair pulled back
     in braids. Mostly, though, no one speaks to one or even looks at me except to proffer an application firm. At my last stop, a
     palatial B&B, 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 actual
     jobs available at any particular time. They are, as I should have guessed from Max's comment, the employers' insurance policy
     against the relentless turnover of the low-wage workforce. Most of the big hotels run ads almost continually, just to build a
     supply of applicants to replace 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 discount 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 tables that looks out on a parking garage and
     features such tempting fare as "Pollish [sic] sausage and BBQ sauce" on 95-degree days. Phillip, the dapper young West
     Indian who introduces him self as the manager, interviews me with about as much enthusiasm as if he were a clerk
     processing me for Medicare, the principal questions being 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 HEARTHSIDE 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."

     So begins my career at the Hearthside, I shall call it, one small profit center within a global discount hotel chain, where for two
     weeks I work from 2:00 till 10:00 P.M. for $2.43 an hour plus tips.(n3) 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 red-faced man with
     shoulder-length blond hair is throwing frozen steaks against the wall and yelling, "Fuck this shit!" "That's just Jack," explains
     Gall, the wiry middle-aged 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 Gall, absorbing bits of instruction 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 recently in an upstate
     prison. No refills on lemonade. 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 appearing 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 competence. Not that I have ever felt utterly competent in the writing
     business, in which one day's success augurs nothing at all for the next. But in my writing life, I at least have some notion of
     procedure: 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 to-go box for table fourteen, and where are the high chairs, anyway? Of the twenty-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 constant 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 inventing 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 P.M. 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, everyone does that sometime"--because, to my total surprise and despite the scientific detachment I
     am doing my best to 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 Booker 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 anyone has ever done it before. Or so said my father, 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, ascending from boilermakers to martinis before booze beat out ambition. As in most endeavors I
     have encountered in my life, doing it "better than anyone" is not a reasonable goal. Still, when I wake up at 4:00 A.M. in my own
     cold sweat, I am not thinking about the writing deadlines I'm neglecting; I'm thinking about the table whose order 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 other
     powerful motivation I hadn't expected--the 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 Hearthside, I feel the
     service ethic kick in like a shot of oxytocin, the nurturance hormone. The plurality of my customers are hard-working locals-truck
     drivers, construction workers, even housekeepers from the attached hotel--and I want them to have the closest to a "fine dining"
     experience that the grubby circumstances will allow. No "you guys" for me; everyone over twelve is "sir" or "ma'am." I ply them
     with iced tea and coffee refills; I return, mid-meal, to inquire how everything 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 air-conditioning and ice water. We chat about hyperthermia 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 "Willkommen" and "1st 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 Hearthside 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 penalty 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 pina 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 transgression, has undertaken to feed
     each of her subjects 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," Gall
     whispers, "as long as Stu isn't looking." She dips into her own tip money to buy biscuits and gravy for 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 decorating 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 effect an odd sentiment, it seemed to me at the time, to find in the dank one-room basement apartment of
     a bellhop at the Best Western. At the Hearthside, we utilize whatever bits of autonomy we have to ply our customers with the
     illicit calories that signal our love. It is our job as servers to assemble the salads and desserts, pouring the dressings and
     squirting the whipped cream. We also control the number of butter patties our customers get and the amount of sour cream on
     their baked potatoes. So if you wonder why Americans are so obese, consider the fact that waitresses both express their
     humanity and earn their tips through the covert 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 anywhere between them. I clown around with Lionel, the teenage
     Haitian busboy, and catch a few fragments of conversation with Joan, 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 unwarranted 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 knock-out Puerto Rican chick and learned everything there is to
     know about food. I finish up at 10:00 or 10:30, depending 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 cranium resonating but hardly dead. Midnight
     snack is Wheat Thins and Monterey Jack, accompanied 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 Mao's central instruction, as laid out in the Little Red Book, which was: Serve the
     people.

     I could drift along like this, in some dreamy proletarian 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 surveillance of men (and
     later women) whose job it was to monitor my behavior for signs of sloth, theft, drug abuse, 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 only 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 on her career, Gall 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 want 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 nastier to do. So I wipe, I clean, I
     consolidate ketchup bottles and recheck the cheesecake supply, even tour the tables to make sure the customer evaluation
     forms are all standing perkily in their places--wondering all the time how many calories I bum in these strictly theatrical
     exercises. When, on a particularly dead afternoon, Still 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 handle 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 employees," 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 windowless 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; gossip (which seems to mean employees talking among themselves) must stop. Off-duty employees are
     henceforth barred from eating at the restaurant, because "other servers gather around them and gossip." When Phillip has
     exhausted his agenda of rebukes, Joan complains about the condition of the ladies' room and I throw in my two bits about the
     vacuum cleaner. But I don't see any backup coming from my fellow servers, each of whom has subsided into her own personal
     funk; Gall, 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 grimly that there has been a report of some "drug activity" on the
     night shift and that, as a result, we are now to be a "drug-free" 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, peppered with carelessly aimed accusations--since junior 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 inspire the crackdown,
     he just mutters about "management decisions" and takes the opportunity to upbraid Gall 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, prompting Andy to come out of the kitchen and observe--with the serenity of a man whose customary
     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 culprit, 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 deliriously on an
     imaginary joint.

     The other problem, in addition to the less-than-nurturing 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 stratagems unknown to the middle class. But no. It's not hard to get my co-workers to talk about their
     living situations, because housing, in almost every case, is the principal source of disruption m their lives, the first thing they fill
     you m on when they arrive for their shifts. After a week, I have compiled the following survey:

          Gail is sharing a room in a well-known downtown 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 of whom only speak Creole) live in similarly
          crowded situations.
          Annette, a twenty-year-old 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 $400-a-month lot fee.
          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 twenty 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.
          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 walking distance of the Hearthside. When Marianne, one of the breakfast servers, is tossed out of her
          trailer for subletting (which is against the trailer-park rules), she leaves her boyfriend and moves in with Tina and her
          husband.
          Joan, who had fooled me with her numerous and tasteful outfits (hostesses wear their own clothes), lives in a van she
          parks behind a shopping center at night and showers in Tina's motel room. The clothes are from thrift shops.(n4)

     It strikes me, in my middle-class solipsism, that there is gross improvidence in some of these arrangements. When Gall and I
     are wrapping silverware in napkins--the only task for which we are permitted to sit--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 worker, 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 possible only by the $1,300 1 had allotted myself for start-up costs
     when I began my low-wage 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, as in certain propositions in physics, starting conditions are everything.

     There are no secret economies that nourish the poor; on the contrary, there are a host of special 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 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 after three months--you go without routine care or
     prescription drugs and end up paying the price. Gall, 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 paperwork
     all over again. So she spends $9 per migraine pill to control the headaches she wouldn'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 better 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
     cower meals and gas, plus something 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 only $20 in tips (the gross is higher, but servers share about 15
     percent of their tips with the busboys 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
     lentil-stew 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. I do make my lunch almost every
     day--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
     only $2. The burger lasts longest, especially if it's heaped with gut-puckering jalapenos, but by midnight my stomach is
     growling again.

     So unless I want to start using my car as a residence, I have to find a second, or alternative, job. I call all the hotels where I filled
     out housekeeping applications weeks ago--the Hyatt, Holiday Inn, Econo Lodge, HoJo's, 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
     manager 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 exposed, 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, Spanish-speaking, or immigrants from the Central European
     post-Communist world, whereas servers are almost invariably white and monolingually English-speaking. When I finally get a
     positive response, I have been identified once again as server material. Jerry's, which is part of a well-known national family
     restaurant chain and physically attached here to another budget hotel chain, is ready to use me at once. The prospect 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 customers as the gloomy old Hearthside.

     Picture a fat person's hell, and I don't mean a place with no food. Instead there is everything you might eat if eating had no
     bodily consequences--cheese fries, chicken-fried steaks, fudge-laden 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
     dishwashing area, from which issue bizarre smells combining the edible and the offal: creamy carrion, pizza barf, and that
     unique and enigmatic Jerry's scent--citrus fart. The floor is slick with spills, forcing us to walk through the kitchen with tiny steps,
     like Susan McDougal in leg irons. Sinks everywhere are clogged with scraps of lettuce, decomposing lemon wedges,
     waterlogged toast crusts. Put your hand down on any counter and you risk being stuck to it by the film of ancient syrup spills,
     and this is unfortunate, because hands are utensils here, used for scooping up lettuce onto salad plates, lifting out pie slices,
     and even moving hash browns from one plate to another. The regulation poster in the single unisex restroom admonishes us
     to wash our hands thoroughly and even offers instructions for doing so, but there is always 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 customers, who must eat, though they don't realize this, almost literally out of our hands.

                          Picture a fat person's hell, and I don't mean a place with no food.

     The break room typifies the whole situation: there is none, because there are no breaks at Jerry's. For six to eight
     hours m 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 gastro-architectural system. Rather, the
     function of the peritoilet area is to house the ashtrays in which servers and dishwashers 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 well-being depended on it--the multinational melange of
     cooks, the Czech dishwashers, the servers, who are all American 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 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 yourself. 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--as 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
     directly 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' coldness. My
     mentor for the day is an emotionally uninflected twenty-three-year-old, arid the others, who gossip a little among
     themselves about the real reason someone is or, 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 back after the first day." I feel powerfully vindicated--a survivor--but it would
     take a long time, probably months, before I could hope to be accepted into this sorority.
 
 

     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.

     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. When during the 3:00 to 4:00 P.M. 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 Gait and Joan do dozens of times, but a
     manager catches me and hisses "No eating!" though there's not a customer around to be offended by the sight of
     food making contact with a server's lips. So I tell Gall 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 out of sight, and the parking lot should be
     totally safe, since it's patrolled by a hotel security 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 management. 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 unnecessary 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 one-time-only emergency: 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,
     bum, burn! Ideally, at some point you enter what servers call "a rhythm" and psychologists term a "flow state," in
     which signals pass from the sense organs directly to the muscles, bypassing the cerebral cortex, and a Zen-like
     emptiness sets in. A male server from the Hearthside's morning shift tells me about the time he "pulled a
     triple"--three shifts in a row, all the way around the clock--and then got off and had a drink and met this girl, and
     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 neuromuscular 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 upper 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-collar 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
     fortunately, 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, going home now and then to catch up on e-mail 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 at work, when I get so homesick for the printed
     word that I obsessively reread the six-page menu. But as the days go by, my old life is beginning to look
     exceedingly strange. The e-mails 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 cruise for
     produce now looks forbiddingly like a Manhattan yuppie emporium. And when I sit down one morning in my real
     home to pay bills from my past life, I am dazzled at the two- and three-figure sums owed to outfits like Club
     BodyTech and Amazon.com.

     Management at Jerry's is generally calmer and more "professional" than at the Hearthside, with two exceptions.
     One is Joy, a plump, blowsy woman in her early thirties, who once kindly devoted several minutes to instructing me
     in the correct one-handed method of carrying trays but whose moods change disconcertingly from shift to shift and
     even within one. Then there's B.J., a.k.a.B.J.-the-bitch, whose contribution is to stand by the kitchen counter and
     yell, "Nita, your order's up, move it!" or, "Barbara, 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 forehead. 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 sequential 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.(n5)

     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 transformation of reformation into food
     and food into money -- they 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--as 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--like the
     ten-person table, all jolly and sanctified after Sunday-night service, who run me mercilessly and then leave me $1
     on a $92 bill. Or the guy with 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 WWJD? (What Would Jesus Do?) buttons 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 sort cooks on the
     graveyard shift and who once managed a restaurant in Massachusetts 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 of which cannot be determined without health insurance. 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 potentially expensive, like shopping or movies. As at the Hearthside, 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 usually to a working husband or boyfriend. All in 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,(n6) the others will do their best to conceal her
     absence from the enforcers of corporate rationality.

     But my saving human connection--my oxytocin 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 plain that they cost over a dollar more here than at a regular store avid suggest that he
     just take one from the half-filled packs that are always lying around on the break table. But that would be
     unthinkable. Except for the one tiny earring signaling his allegiance to some vaguely alternative point of view;
     George is a perfect straight arrow-crew-cut, hardworking, and hungry for eye contact. "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 ?" I say at the start of each shift. "I am good,
     and how are you today, Barbara?" 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 difference between, that and what Lerry's pays
     dishwashers. I learn also that he shares an apartment with a crowd of other Czech "dishers," as he calls them, and
     that tie cannot sleep until one of them goes off for his shift, leaving a vacant bed. We are having one of our ESL
     sessions late one afternoon when B.J. catches us at it and orders "Joseph" to take up the rubber mats on the floor
     near the dishwashing sinks and mop underneath. "I thought your name was George," I say loud enough for B.J. 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 of them!" 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 blue-cheese dressing? May you grow old in this place, B.J.,
     is the curse I beam out at her when I am finally permitted 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-volume as you can get, the tips average only
     10 percent, 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, I can picture myself working
     two jobs and having the time to shower between them.

     So I take the $500 deposit I have coming from my landlord, the $400 I 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 industrial
     park. Number 46 is about eight feet in width and shaped like a barbell inside, with a narrow region--because of the
     sink and the stove--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 yards of a liquor store, a bar that advertises "free beer
     tomorrow," a convenience store, and a Burger King--but no supermarket or, alas, laundromat. By reputation, the
     Overseas park is a nest of crime and crack, and I am hoping at least for some vibrant, 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
     7-Eleven. There are not exactly people here but what amounts to canned labor, being preserved from the heat
     between shifts.

     In line with my reduced living conditions, a new form of ugliness arises at Jerry's. First we are confronted--via an
     announcement on the computers through which we input orders--with the new rule that the hotel bar is henceforth
     offlimits 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 returned 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 Zins before heading home at the end of the shift, but alt of us feel the chill.
     Then the next day, when I go for straws, for the first time I find the dry-storage room locked. Ted, the portly
     assistant manager who opens it for me, explains that he caught one of the dishwashers attempting to steal
     something, and, unfortunately, the miscreant 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 I rushed back and confronted George to get his side of the story. I 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: "Is Gyorgi here, and am having 200--maybe 250--ketchup
     packets. What do you say?" My guess is that he had taken--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 because I was held back by the kind of moral paralysis that can pass as
     journalistic objectivity. On the contrary, something new--something loathsome and servile--had infected me, along
     with 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 infinitely more congenial milieu of the low-wage American workplace. Maybe, in a month or two more at
     Jerry's, 1 might have regained my crusading spirit. Then again, in a month or two I might have turned into a different
     person altogether--say, the kind of person who would have turned George in.

     But this is not something i am slated to find out. When my month-long plunge into poverty 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 Jerry's, and confiding urgently that 1 have to 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
     housekeeping," and she marches me back to meet Maria, the housekeeping manager, a tiny, frenetic Hispanic
     woman who greets me as "babe" and hands me a pamphlet emphasizing the need for a positive attitude. The hours
     are Kine 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 middle-aged African-American woman who will be
     training me. Carla, as she tells me to call her, is missing all of her top front teeth.

     On that first day of housekeeping and last day of my entire project--although 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 "stayovers,"
     that require the whole enchilada of bedstripping, vacuuming, and bathroom-scrubbing. When one of the rooms that
     had been listed as a stay-over 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 bathroom. 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 thirty
     pounds--off our cart and try to wrestle it around the floor. Sometimes Carla hands me the squirt bottle of "BAM"
     (an acronym for something that begins, ominously, with "butyric"; the rest has been worn off the label) and lets me
     dc) the bathrooms. No service ethic challenges me here to new heights of performance. I just concentrate on
     removing the pubic hairs from the bathtubs, or at least the dark ones that I can see.

     I had hooked forward to the breaking-and-entering aspect of cleaning the stay-overs, the chance to examine the
     secret, physical existence of strangers. But the contents of the rooms are always banal and suprisingly neat--zipped
     up shaving 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 especially arresting, like "Won't Take No for an Answer" on jerry, we sit down on the edge of
     a bed and giggle for a moment as if this were a pajama party instead of a terminally dead-end 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, Lauren 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 interiors in the soaps,
     begin after a while to merge. We have entered a better world--a world of comfort where every day is a day off,
     waiting to be filled up with sexual intrigue. We, however, are only gatecrashers in this fantasy, forced to pay for our
     presence with backaches and perpetual thirst. The mirrors, and there are far too many of them in hotel rooms,
     contain the kind of person you would normally find pushing a shopping cart down a city street--bedraggled,
     dressed in a damp hotel polo shirt two sizes too large, and with sweat dribbling down her chin like drool. I 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 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 attempt 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 only 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 ranch-dressing stains. I spend most of my hour-long break between jobs
     attempting to remove the edible portions with a sponge and then drying the slacks over the hood of my car in the
     sun.

     I can do this two-job thing, is my theory, if I can drink enough caffeine and avoid getting distracted by George's
     ever more obvious suffering.(n7) The first few days after being caught he seemed not to understand the trouble he
     was in, and our chirpy little conversations had continued. But the 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 half-moons 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 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 money
     management. At eight, Ellen anal 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 assure 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 situation, is that the forces of destruction are already massing against me.
     There is only one cook on duty, a young man named Jesus ("Hay-Sue," 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 staggered. As I bev table 27, tables 25, 28, and 24 are watching enviously. As I bev 25,
     24 glowers because their bevs haven't even been ordered. Twenty-eight is four yuppyish types, meaning everything
     on the side and agonizing instructions as to the chicken Caesars. Twenty-five is a middle-aged black couple, who
     complain, with some justice, 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 specials, mozz sticks, chicken strips, quesadillas,
     burgers 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 bevs--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 appetizer. 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.

     Much of what happened next is lost in the fog of war. Jesus starts going under. The little printer 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 and have 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 Jesus 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 finish 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 surge of 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 proposition, but somewhere along the line, in the tunnel vision imposed by long shifts and relentless
     concentration, it became a test of myself, and clearly I have failed. Not only had 1 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 Gall and Ellen, this hurts. I don't cry, but I am in 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.

     When 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 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. If I 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
     supermarket more often, instead of convenience stores, but it should be noted that I lost almost four pounds in four
     weeks, on a diet weighted heavily 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--including child-raising, laundry, romance, and
     meals--into the couple of hours between fulltime 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 contradicts 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 effect on both wages and the number of jobs available. A general economic downturn will only
     enhance these effects, and the working poor will of course be facing 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 likely to be fraught with insult and stress. But I did discover one redeeming feature of the
     most abject low-wage 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 someday these people will
     come to know what they're worth, and take appropriate action.

     (n1) 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 fair-market rent for an area is defined as the amount
     that would be needed to pay rent plus utilities for "privately owned, decent, safe, and sanitary rental housing of a
     modest (non-luxury) nature with suitable amenities."

     (n2) According to the Monthly Labor Review (November 1996), 28 percent of work sites surveyed in the service
     industry conduct drug tests (corporate workplaces have much higher rates), and the incidence of testing has risen
     markedly since the Eighties. The rate of testing is highest in the South (56 percent of work sites polled), with the
     Midwest. in second place (50 percent). The drug most likely to be detected --marijuana, which can be detected in
     urine for weeks--is also the most innocuous, while heroin and cocaine are generally undetectable three days after
     use. Prospective employees sometimes try to cheat the tests by consuming excessive amounts of liquids and taking
     diuretics and even masking substances available through the Internet.

     (n3) According to the Fair Labor Standards Act, employers are not required to pay "tipped employees," such as
     restaurant servers, more than $2.13 an hour in direct wages. However, if the sum of tips plus $2.13 an hour falls
     below the minimum wage, or $5.15 an hour, the employer is required to make up the difference. This fact was not
     mentioned by managers or otherwise publicized at either of the restaurants where I worked.

     (n4) I could find no statistics on the number of employed people living in cars or vans, but according to the National
     Coalition for the Homeless's 1997 report "Myths and Facts About Homelessness," nearly one in five homeless
     people (in twenty-nine cities across the nation) is employed in a full- or part-time job.

     (n5) In Workers in a Lean World Unions in the International Economy (Verso, 1997), Kim Moody cites studies
     finding an increase in stress-related workplace injuries and illness between the mid-1980s and the early 1990s. He
     argues that rising stress levels reflect a new system of "management by stress," in which workers in a variety of
     industries are being squeezed to extract ,maximum productivity, to the detriment of their health.

     (n6) 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 Supported by professional or executive employees, who enjoy personal workplace liberties that millions of
     factory workers can only daydream about .... While we were dismayed to discover that workers lacked an
     acknowledged legal right to void at work, [the workers] were amazed by outsiders' naive belief that their
     employers would permit them to perform this basic bodily function when necessary.... A factory worker, 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 voided."

     (n7) In 1996, the number of persons holding two or more jobs averaged 7.8 million, or 6.2 percent of the
     workforce. It was about the same rate for men and for women (6.1 versus 6.2), though the kinds of jobs differ by
     gender. About two thirds of multiple jobholders work one job full-time and the, other part-time. Only a heroic
     minority--4 percent of men and 2 percent of women--work two full-time jobs simultaneously. (From John F.
     Stinson Jr., "New Data on Multiple Jobholding Available from the CPS," in the Monthly Labor Review, March
     1997.)

     PHOTO (BLACK & WHITE): Nickel-and-Dimed
 
 

      To stack Cheerio boxes in chemically fascist America, you have to willing to pee in front, of a health-care
                                             worker.

     PHOTO (BLACK & WHITE): Wants ads are not a reliable measure of available jobs but rather employers'
     insurance policy against relentless turnover.

     PHOTO (BLACK & WHITE): The gossip crystallizes around the theory that Stu is himself the drug culprit, that he
     uses the restaurant phone to order up marijuana and sends one of the late servers out to fetch it for him.

     PHOTO (BLACK & WHITE): I couldn't hold on to jobs even with advantages unthinkable to many of the
     working poor, and I couldn't get by on one.

     PHOTO (BLACK & WHITE): There are not exactly people here in the trailer park, but canned labor, being
     preserved from the heat between shifts.

     ~~~~~~~~

     By BARBARA EHRENREICH

     Barbara Ehrenreich is a contributing editor of Harper's Magazine and the author of twelve books, including Fear
     of Falling and Blood Rites. Her last article for the magazine, "Spinning the Poor into Gold," appeared in the August
     t997 issue.