by Studs Terkel
I have arthritis in the joints of some of my fingers. Your hands handling hot pieces perspire and you end up with rheumatism or arthritis in your fingers. Naturally in your shoulder, balancing that wet piece. You’ve got the heat, you’ve got the moisture because there’s steam coming out. You have the possibility of being burnt with steam when the hot die hits that wet felt. You’re just engulfed in a cloud of steam every forty seconds.
It’s very noisy. If the tool man comes to talk to you, the noise is great enough you have to almost shout to make yourself heard. There’s the hissing of the steam, there’s the compressed air, a lot of pressure—it’s gotta lift that fifteen pounds and break it loose from that copper screen. I’ve lost a certain percentage of my hearing already. I can’t hear the phone in the yard. The family can.
In the summertime, the temperature ranges anywhere from 100 to 150 degrees at our work station. I’ve taken thermometers and checked it out. You’ve got three open presses behind you. There’s nothing between you and that heat but an asbestos sheet. They’ve recently put in air conditioning in the recreation room. There’s been quite a little discussion between the union and the company on this. They carry the air conditioning too low for the people on the presses. Our temperature will be up to 140, and to go into an air-conditioned recreation room that might be set at 72—’cause the office force is happy and content with it—people on the presses almost faint when they go back. We really suffer.
I’m chairman of the grievance committee.45 We have quite a few grievances. Sometimes we don’t have the support we should have from our people. Sometimes the company is obstinate. For the most part, many of our grievances are won.
Where most people get off at three, I get off at two ’. I have an hour to investigate grievances, to work on them, to write them up, to just in general check working conditions. I’m also the editor of the union paper. I do all my own work. I cut stencils, I write the articles, copy the pictures. I’m not a very good freehand artist (laughs), so I copy them. I usually do that in the union office before I go home and make supper. It takes about five hours to do a paper. Two nights.
(Laughs.) I daydream while I’m working. Your mind gets so it automatically picks out the flaws. I plan my paper and what I’m going to have for supper and what we’re gonna do for the weekend. My husband and I have a sixteen-foot boat. We spend a lot of weekends and evenings on the river. And I try to figure out how I’m gonna feed twenty, twenty-five people for dinner on Saturday. And how to solve a grievance . . .
They can’t keep the men on the tanks. We’ve never been able to keep a man over a week. They say it’s too monotonous. I think women adjust to monotony better than men do. Because their minds are used to doing two things at once, where a man usually can do one thing at a time. A woman is used to listening to a child tell her something while she’s doing something else. She might be making a cake while the child is asking her a question. She can answer that child and continue to put that cake together. It’s the same way on the tanks. You get to be automatic in what you’re doing and your mind is doing something else.
I was one of the organizers here (laughs) when the union came in. I was as anti-union in the beginning as I am union now. Coming from a small farming community in Wisconsin, I didn’t know what a union was all about. I didn’t understand the labor movement at all. In school you’re shown the bad side of it.
Before the union came in, all I did was do my eight hours, collect my paycheck, and go home, did my housework, took care of my daughter, and went back to work. I had no outside interests. You just lived to live. Since I became active in the union, I’ve become active in politics, in the community, in legislative problems. I’ve been to Washington on one or two trips. I’ve been to Springfield. That has given me more of an incentive for life.
I see the others, I’m sad. They just come to work, do their work, go home, take care of their home, and come back to work. Their conversation is strictly about their family and meals. They live each day for itself and that’s about it.
“I tried to get my children to finish vocational school. One of the girls works for a vending machine company, serving hot lunches. She makes good. One of the daughters does waitress work. One of the girls has gone into factory work. One of the boys is in a factory. He would like to work up to maintenance. One girl married and doesn’t do any work at all. My husband is a custodian in a factory. He likes his work as a janitor. There’s no pushing him.
“This summer I’ve been quite ill and they’ve been fussin’ about me. (Laughs.) Monday and Tuesday my two daughters and I made over sixty quarts of peaches, made six batches of jam. On Wednesday we made five batches of wild grape jelly. We like to try new recipes. I like to see something different on the table every night. I enjoy baking my own bread and coffee cake. I bake everything I carry in our lunch.”
My whole attitude on the job has changed since the union came in. Now I would like to be a union counselor or work for the OEO. I work with humans as grievance committee chairman. They come to you angry, they come to you hurt, they come to you puzzled. You have to make life easier for them.
I attended a conference of the Governor’s Commission on the Status of Women. Another lady went with me. We were both union officers. Most of the women there were either teachers or nurses or in a professional field. When they found out we were from labor, their attitude was cold. You felt like a little piece of scum. They acted like they were very much better than we were, just because we worked in a factory. I felt that, without us, they’d be in a heck of a shape. (Laughs.) They wouldn’t have anything without us. How could we employ teachers if it wasn’t for the factory workers to manufacture the books? And briefcases, that’s luggage. (Laughs.)
I can understand how the black and the Spanish-speaking people feel. Even as a farmer’s daughter, because we were just hard-working poor farmers, you were looked down upon by many people. Then to go into factory work, it’s the same thing. You’re looked down upon. You can even feel it in a store, if you’re in work clothes. The difference between being in work clothes going into a nice department store and going in your dress clothes. It is two entirely different feelings. People won’t treat you the same at all.
I hope I don’t work many more years. I’m tired. I’d like to stay home and keep house. We’re in hopes my husband would get himself a small hamburger place and a place near the lake where I can have a little garden and raise my flowers that I love to raise . . .
DOLORES DANTE
She has been a waitress in the same restaurant for twenty-three years. Many of its patrons are credit card carriers on an expense account—conventioneers, politicians, labor leaders, agency people. Her hours are from 5:00 P.M. to 2:00 A.M. six days a week. She arrives earlier “to get things ready, the silverware, the butter. When people come in and ask for you, you would like to be in a position to handle them all, because that means more money for you.
“I became a waitress because I needed money fast and you don’t get it in an office. My husband and I broke up and he left me with debts and three children. My baby was six months. The fast buck, your tips. The first ten-dollar bill that I got as a tip, a Viking guy gave to me. He was a very robust, terrific atheist. Made very good conversation for us, ’cause I am too.
“Everyone says all waitresses have broken homes. What they don’t realize is when people have broken homes they need to make money fast, and do this work. They don’t have broken homes because they’re waitresses.”
I have to be a waitress. How else can I learn about people? How else does the world come to me? I can’t go to everyone. So they have to come to me. Everyone wants to eat, everyone has hunger. And I serve them. If they’ve had a bad day, I nurse them, cajole them. Maybe with coffee I give them a little philosophy. They have cocktails, I give them political science.
I’ll say things that bug me. If they manufacture soap, I say what I think about pollution. If it’s automobiles, I say what I think about them. If I pour
water I’ll say, “Would you like your quota of mercury today?” If I serve cream, I say, “Here is your susbtitute. I think you’re drinking plastic.” I just can’t keep quiet. I have an opinion on every single subject there is. In the beginning it was theology, and my bosses didn’t like it. Now I am a political and my bosses don’t like it. I speak sotto voce. But if I get heated, then I don’t give a damn. I speak like an Italian speaks. I can’t be servile. I give service. There is a difference.
I’m called by my first name. I like my name. I hate to be called Miss. Even when I serve a lady, a strange woman, I will not say madam. I hate ma’am. I always say milady. In the American language there is no word to address a woman, to indicate whether she’s married or unmarried. So I say milady. And sometimes I playfully say to the man milord.
It would be very tiring if I had to say, “Would you like a cocktail?” and say that over and over. So I come out different for my own enjoyment. I would say, “What’s exciting at the bar that I can offer?” I can’t say, “Do you want coffee?” Maybe I’ll say, “Are you in the mood for coffee?” Or, “The coffee sounds exciting.” Just rephrase it enough to make it interesting for me. That would make them take an interest. It becomes theatrical and I feel like Mata Hari and it intoxicates me.
People imagine a waitress couldn’t possibly think or have any kind of aspiration other than to serve food. When somebody says to me, “You’re great, how come you’re just a waitress?” Just a waitress. I’d say, “Why, don’t you think you deserve to be served by me?” It’s implying that he’s not worthy, not that I’m not worthy. It makes me irate. I don’t feel lowly at all. I myself feel sure. I don’t want to change the job. I love it.
Tips? I feel like Carmen. It’s like a gypsy holding out a tambourine and they throw the coin. (Laughs.) If you like people, you’re not thinking of the tips. I never count my money at night. I always wait till morning. If I thought about my tips I’d be uptight. I never look at a tip. You pick it up fast. I would do my bookkeeping in the morning. It would be very dull for me to know I was making so much and no more. I do like challenge. And it isn’t demeaning, not for me.
There might be occasions when the customers might intend to make it demeaning—the man about town, the conventioneer. When the time comes to pay the check, he would do little things, “How much should I give you?” He might make an issue about it. I did say to one, “Don’t play God with me. Do what you want.” Then it really didn’t matter whether I got a tip or not. I would spit it out, my resentment—that he dares make me feel I’m operating only for a tip.
He’d ask for his check. Maybe he’s going to sign it. He’d take a very long time and he’d make me stand there, “Let’s see now, what do you think I ought to give you?” He would not let go of that moment. And you knew it. You know he meant to demean you. He’s holding the change in his hand, or if he’d sign, he’d flourish the pen and wait. These are the times I really get angry. I’m not reticent. Something would come out. Then I really didn’t care. “Goddamn, keep your money!”
There are conventioneers, who leave their lovely wives or their bad wives. They approach you and say, “Are there any hot spots?” “Where can I find girls?” It is, of course, first directed at you. I don’t mean that as a compliment, ’cause all they’re looking for is females. They’re not looking for companionship or conversation. I am quite adept at understanding this. I think I’m interesting enough that someone may just want to talk to me. But I would philosophize that way. After all, what is left after you talk? The hours have gone by and I could be home resting or reading or studying guitar, which I do on occasion. I would say, “What are you going to offer me? Drinks?” And I’d point to the bar, “I have it all here.” He’d look blank and then I’d say, “A man? If I need a man, wouldn’t you think I’d have one of my own? Must I wait for you?”
Life doesn’t frighten me any more. There are only two things that relegate us—the bathroom and the grave. Either I’m gonna have to go to the bathroom now or I’m gonna die now. I go to the bathroom.
And I don’t have a high opinion of bosses. The more popular you are, the more the boss holds it over your head. You’re bringing them business, but he knows you’re getting good tips and you won’t leave. You have to worry not to overplay it, because the boss becomes resentful and he uses this as a club over your head.
If you become too good a waitress, there’s jealousy. They don’t come in and say, “Where’s the boss?” They’ll ask for Dolores. It doesn’t make a hit. That makes it rough. Sometimes you say, Aw hell, why am I trying so hard? I did get an ulcer. Maybe the things I kept to myself were twisting me.
It’s not the customers, never the customers. It’s injustice. My dad came from Italy and I think of his broken English—injoost. He hated injustice. If you hate injustice for the world, you hate more than anything injustice toward you. Loyalty is never appreciated, particularly if you’re the type who doesn’t like small talk and are not the type who makes reports on your fellow worker. The boss wants to find out what is going on surreptitiously. In our society today you have informers everywhere. They’ve informed on cooks, on coworkers. “Oh, someone wasted this.” They would say I’m talking to all the customers. “I saw her carry such-and-such out. See if she wrote that on her check.” “The salad looked like it was a double salad.” I don’t give anything away. I just give myself. Informers will manufacture things in order to make their job worthwhile. They’re not sure of themselves as workers. There’s always someone who wants your station, who would be pretender to the crown. In life there is always someone who wants somebody’s job.
I’d get intoxicated with giving service. People would ask for me and I didn’t have enough tables. Some of the girls are standing and don’t have customers. There is resentment. I feel self-conscious. I feel a sense of guilt. It cramps my style. I would like to say to the customer, “Go to so-and-so.” But you can’t do that, because you feel a sense of loyalty. So you would rush, get to your customers quickly. Some don’t care to drink and still they wait for you. That’s a compliment.
There is plenty of tension. If the cook isn’t good, you fight to see that the customers get what you know they like. You have to use diplomacy with cooks, who are always dangerous. (Laughs.) They’re madmen. (Laughs.) You have to be their friend. They better like you. And your bartender better like you too, because he may do something to the drink. If your bartender doesn’t like you, your cook doesn’t like you, your boss doesn’t like you, the other girls don’t like you, you’re in trouble.
And there will be customers who are hypochondriacs, who feel they can’t eat, and I coax them. Then I hope I can get it just the right way from the cook. I may mix the salad myself, just the way they want it.
Maybe there’s a party of ten. Big shots, and they’d say, “Dolores, I have special clients, do your best tonight.” You just hope you have the right cook behind the broiler. You really want to pleasure your guests. He’s selling something, he wants things right, too. You’re giving your all. How does the steak look? If you cut his steak, you look at it surreptitiously. How’s it going?
Carrying dishes is a problem. We do have accidents. I spilled a tray once with steaks for seven on it. It was a big, gigantic T-bone, all sliced. But when that tray fell, I went with it, and never made a sound, dish and all (softly) never made a sound. It took about an hour and a half to cook that steak. How would I explain this thing? That steak was salvaged. (Laughs.)
Some don’t care. When the plate is down you can hear the sound. I try not to have that sound. I want my hands to be right when I serve. I pick up a glass, I want it to be just right. I get to be almost Oriental in the serving. I like it to look nice all the way. To be a waitress, it’s an art. I feel like a ballerina, too. I have to go between those tables, between those chairs . . . Maybe that’s the reason I always stayed slim. It is a certain way I can go through a chair no one else can do. I do it with an air. If I drop a fork, there is a certain way I pick
it up. I know they can see how delicately I do it. I’m on stage.
I tell everyone I’m a waitress and I’m proud. If a nurse gives service, I say, “You’re a professional.” Whatever you do, be professional. I always compliment people.
I like to have my station looking nice. I like to see there’s enough ash trays when they’re having their coffee and cigarettes. I don’t like ash trays so loaded that people are not enjoying the moment. It offends me. I don’t do it because I think that’s gonna make a better tip. It offends me as a person.
People say, “No one does good work any more.” I don’t believe it. You know who’s saying that? The man at the top, who says the people beneath him are not doing a good job. He’s the one who always said, “You’re nothing.” The housewife who has all the money, she believed housework was demeaning, ’cause she hired someone else to do it. If it weren’t so demeaning, why didn’t she do it? So anyone who did her housework was a person to be demeaned. The maid who did all the housework said, “Well hell, if this is the way you feel about it, I won’t do your housework. You tell me I’m no good, I’m nobody. Well, maybe I’ll go out and be somebody.” They’re only mad because they can’t find someone to do it now. The fault is not in the people who did the—quote —lowly work.
Just a waitress. At the end of the night I feel drained. I think a lot of waitresses become alcoholics because of that. In most cases, a waiter or a waitress doesn’t eat. They handle food, they don’t have time. You’ll pick at something in the kitchen, maybe a piece of bread. You’ll have a cracker, a little bit of soup. You go back and take a teaspoonful of something. Then maybe sit down afterwards and have a drink, maybe three, four, five. And bartenders, too, most of them are alcoholics. They’d go out in a group. There are after-hour places. You’ve got to go release your tension. So they go out before they go to bed. Some of them stay out all night.
