“No—no I haven't got the details yet”—she clasped her chin with her hand—“but 'fast' was the word I heard used.”
Irene is a large, florid, bleached blonde. She worked at the table behind me about four days. “Y'know”—Irene has a salon air—“y'know, I jus' can't stand steppen on these soft chocolates. Nobody knows how I suffer. It just goes through me like a knife.” She spent a good part of each day scraping off the bottoms of her French-heeled shoes with a piece of cardboard. It evidently was too much for her nerves. She is no more.
The sign reads, “Saturdays 8-12.” When Saturday came around Ida hollered down the room, “Everybody's gotta work to-day till five.” The howl that went up! I supposed “gotta” meant “gotta.” But Lena came up to me.
“You gonna work till five? Don't you do it. We had to strike to get a Saturday half holiday. Now they're tellin' us we gotta work till five—pay us for it, o' course. If enough girls'll stay, pretty soon they'll be sayin: 'See? What ud we tell ya? The girls want to work Saturday afternoons'; and they'll have us back regular again.” In the end not a girl in our room stayed, and Ida wrung her hands.
Monday next, though, Ida announced, “Everybody's gotta work till seven to-night 'cause ya all went home Saturday afternoon. Three nights a week now you gotta work till seven.” To stand from 1 to 7! One girl in the room belonged to some union or other. She called out, “Will they pay time and a half for overtime?” At which everyone broke into laughter. “Gee! Ida, here's a girl wants time and a half!” Tessie, Mrs. Lewis, Sadie, and I refused to work till 7. Ida used threats and argument. “I gotta put down your numbers!” We stood firm—6 o'clock was long enough. “Gee! You don't notice that last hour—goes like a second,” argued Ida. We filed out when the 6-o'clock bell rang.
The girls all fuss over the hour off at noon. It takes at best twenty minutes to eat lunch. For the rest of the hour there is no place to go, nothing to do, but sit in the hard chairs at the marble-topped tables in the whitewashed room for half an hour till the bell rings at 12.50, and you can sit on the edge of a truck upstairs for ten minutes longer. They all say they wish to goodness we could have half an hour at noon and get off half an hour earlier at night.
A tragedy the first pay day. I was so excited when that Saturday came round, to see what it would all be like—to get my first pay envelope. About 11.30 two men came in, one carrying a wooden box filled with little envelopes. Girls appear suddenly from every place and crowd around the two men. One calls out a number, the girl takes her envelope and goes off. I keep working away, thinking you are not supposed to step up till your number is called. But, lo! everyone seems paid off and the men departing, whereat I leave my work with beating heart and announce: “You didn't call 1075.” But it seems I was supposed to step up and give 1075. I get handed my little envelope. Connie Parker in one corner, 1075 in the other, the date, and $6.81. Six dollars and eighty-one cents, and I had expected fourteen dollars. (I had told Ida at last that I thought I ought to get fourteen dollars, and she thought so, too, and said she'd “speak to the man” about it.) I clutched Ida—“only six dollars and eighty one cents!” “Well, what more do ya want.”
“But you said fourteen dollars.”
It seems the week goes Thursday to Thursday, instead of Monday to Saturday, so my first pay covered only three days and a deduction for my locker key.
At that moment a little cry just behind me from Louisa. Louisa had been packing with Irene—dark little, frail little Yiddish Louisa; big brawny bleached-blond Irene.