If there was one thing that I liked about working for the temp agency, it was the anticipation and excitement that came each day with each separate job

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If there was one thing that I liked about working for the temp agency, it was the anticipation and excitement that came each day with each separate job. Sure, the pay sucked, terribly, but every day was a different experience. One day I could be a construction worker, and the next I could be a landscaper or a baby-clothes hanger.

Yep. That’s right. A baby-clothes hanger.

A slew of department stores and retail shops at the newly constructed Regis Outlet Mall in North Charleston were putting the finishing touches on their floor layouts. My first weekend in Charleston happened to be the final weekend before the shopping center’s grand opening, and several stores had received late shipments of their clothing lines, which was great for EasyLabor, as it had scored several contracts with Eddie Bauer, Nike, and an infant clothing store. And it was great for me. I was looking forward to a change in pace from the rigorous outdoor chores I had been performing.

When Angela called out the names (eighteen of us in all, most of whom were shelter residents themselves) of who would be going

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SCRATCH BEGINNINGS

to each location, I began to realize, to my surprise, that our jobs were never selected based on gender. Six people were going to Eddie Bauer, eight to Nike, and the remaining four of us—all males—were assigned to the infant clothing store.

We piled into cars and the EasyLabor van and traveled twenty minutes to the mall. We were all dropped off in the same location in the back, and we dispersed to our specified locations. None of us had been on that particular ticket before, but we found the store with no problem.

And, of course, nobody was there to meet us. The store was empty, and the lights were off. No worries, though. It was 8:30 and the ticket said for us to start at nine.

But once nine o’clock rolled around, I was curious. At 9:30, I was anxious, and at ten, I was heated. The four of us had been sitting around on empty paint buckets or pacing back and forth for ninety minutes in front of the store while the workers for Eddie Bauer and Nike had been going at it for an hour.

Just after ten, and just before I was preparing to walk to the bus stop to head back downtown, the owner—an older lady drenched in makeup and perhaps 150 pounds overweight—came to open the doors. She had her arsenal of full-time employees with her, and she apologized for being late. Traffic, she said.

Traffic? On a Saturday morning in North Charleston. All of you? At the same time? Yeah, OK.

We were upset, the temp crew and I, but we also knew that we were defenseless, forced to succumb to the owner’s beck and call. We were on her time. When she showed up, we did what she told us to do. When she was finished with us, she would discard us just as she would discard an empty canister of lipstick. It was a cruel system, and we felt victimized, but we took it. After all, our far less enchanting secondary option was to be without work for the day, and as I said, any work was better than no work.

Motivated by the understanding that I was working my way out

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BIG BABIES

of this destitute life, I remained back in the shadows and listened to orders. Our task, hanging the new baby clothes, was elementary and dull: cut the box open, remove a pile of clothes, place them on the correct rack according to size and color, remove the plastic wrapping, throw the plastic away, lather, rinse, repeat as directed. There was nothing exciting about our job that day. I just wanted to get through it.

On top of the monotony of hanging the clothes, we had to deal with the owner and her posse. While we were able to dodge the fussy ladies for parts of the day, it seemed that the owner had delegated the power to her cohorts to pick on the day labor crew at their leisure. And they took full advantage of that power. “Would you mind?” was replaced by, “Hey, that doesn’t go there,” and bathroom breaks were awarded with the understanding that we would “Hurry on back now.” Occasionally they would even try to cheerily sneak in condescending orders with, “Hey, Anthony, how’s it going over there, hun? Great … Say, why don’t we converse a little less and work a little more? I believe that goes on that rack over there. All righty? Super. Thanks.”

As the one o’clock hour approached, they started to rush us. “We have to have these boxes emptied by the time lunch gets here!” Boy, if that didn’t kick me into fifth gear. Shoot, lunch? Now you’re talking my language, babe. Hand me that box right there. Nope, that one. I’ll tell you what. Let’s get a little system going here. You open boxes and take out the clothes. I’ll remove the plastic.

Lunch? That’s all she needed to say from the beginning!

A half hour later, we had completed an hour’s worth of work. We emptied the last three boxes as the owner signed our ticket for four hours. It had taken some hard bargaining, but we managed to squeeze a little extra time out of her because she had arrived late.

“I’ve called the labor agency, and they’re sending someone to pick you up,” she told us. “You fellas can just wait outside.”

I was pissed. I hated to work hard for that lady in the first place, but I had done it with the idea that we would be munching on pizza

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SCRATCH BEGINNINGS

or sandwiches by 1:30 instead of the crackers and potted meat that I had packed in my bag. Nope. No lunch. Just a kick out the door.

Adding a little drama to the afternoon, the owner (Planet Plump, the guys had started calling her behind her back, in reference to her having her own gravitational pull) insisted on searching all four of our bags as we exited the store. To me, it wasn’t a fair gesture since all of our bags had been stowed away in a corner while we worked. I saw it as one more opportunity for her to represent her control over us.

I didn’t have a problem with her checking my bag. But Mario did. As we would later find out, he hadn’t stolen anything, but he had had just about enough of the owner’s absolute rule.

“Naw, forget that. You can go ahead and forget about checkin’ my bag. You know good and well I ain’t steal nuthin’ from your stupid store. Ain’t none of your clothes gonna fit me, anyway.”

“April, call security. Tell them we have a shoplifter.”

“Security? Are you serious? Yeah, a’ight. Hey, April, call security. And tell ’em to stop by the Nike store to pick up some running sneakers on their way over here, cuz I’m a fast mother.”

With that he marched out the door—with us in tow. I had just met these guys, but I was learning that if there was one thing you couldn’t touch, it was the chemistry of four poverty-stricken workers standing up against abusive higher power. We never confronted security, but even before he opened his bag later to show us, I knew that Mario hadn’t stolen anything. He couldn’t have. He had been working with me on the other side of the store all day.

Our concern for confronting security waned as we sat around back waiting for the van to come pick us up. And waiting. And waiting. Among many other lessons, I was discovering that few people in my current surroundings had any concern for time. Ann did when it came time to wake us up in the morning, and Harold did when it came time to check us in at night, but the bottom line was that my clock was set on the convenience of everybody else.

After we had waited for an hour, I garnered the nerve to go back in

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BIG BABIES

the baby clothing store to ask the owner what the situation was with our ride and if I could perhaps use the phone to call them again.

I couldn’t tell if I was more upset by the fact that she said, “No, they should be on their way,” or if it was the beautiful spread of meats, cheeses, and other sandwich toppings of which there was undoubtedly a surplus. Whatever it was, I lost it. It went a little something like this:

“Y’know what, lady? I’m sorry if this offends you at all, but you suck. And I mean that in the most mature way possible. I mean, here we are, four hardworking men at your service today, and you and the rest of these ladies do nothing but abuse us. You boss us around like we’re just your little servants, here to do whatever you want. Sure, maybe that’s what we are, but that doesn’t give you the right to treat us the way you do. I don’t know what it is with people like you—maybe you think you’re better than the rest of us; maybe you’re trying to vent your own insecurities. Who knows? That’s none of my business. But what is my business is that we came and worked hard for you today and you treated us like shit. And that’s just not right.”

Even though I clearly did not pose a threat to anyone, I was surprised she even let me finish. By the end of my discourse, my tone had cooled from disrespectful to reasoning as in, Don’t you understand how you’re acting? But her state of mind did not fancy reasoning. She wanted me out.

“April, call security.”

“April, there’s no need. My point’s been made. I’m leaving. But I’m taking some turkey with me. And this roll. And is that honey dijon must—”

“Out!” She was not amused.

In hindsight, I should have grabbed the whole platter and taken it outside to my new friends. I would have been a hero. They would have thrown me on their shoulders and paraded me around like Notre Dame did for Rudy.