(Continued from: getting paid was a bonus.) As I recall, I worked six days, maybe 10 hours a day, before there was any talk of compensation. All this occurred long ago and memory can play tricks, but whatever the details, I’m sure that my circumstances broke every labor law then on the books.
What I do recall vividly despite the passage of time was my first payday. Shimmy, the senior of the partners though not the most sober nor sensible, took me into the alcove behind the stand, pulled out a wad of bills fatter than his fist, big bill inside. Slowly, he counted out singles into my open hand, my eyes getting wider and wider as the currency piled up in my palm. At 30, he stopped. Why I never asked nor knew. Perhaps he was afraid he would be held liable if my eyes bugged out of my head.
I still remember holding more money than my young mind had previously imagined. I can’t recall what I did with the money, how much I saved or spent or gave mom to help with the bills. Spending was not then important to me. My satisfaction derived from the fact that I had earned my pay by working alongside men. From then on, whatever the faults or foolishness of my youth, and trust me they were many, I was always certain that I could earn a buck and thus take care of myself.
I’m not sure how long I worked for that substandard wage and when I got or demanded something closer to the hourly rate of the men who worked the stand. I do know that I got raises, and worked there for several summers and on some weekends during the school year. But I always earned less than the men. I was told they needed more to make the job worth their while.
At some point, I figured out that I could make more working restaurants, which had the added benefit of night shifts that allowed me to work after school as I neared graduation and started spending more.
(Next: the theology of minimum wages )
