On the Clock: What Low-Wage Work Did to Me and How It Drives America Insane

by Emily Guendelsberger

Dad sighed, and gave me some fatherly advice that stuck with me for a long time. “Well, life isn’t always fair, for one. But there’s dignity in working hard and doing your job well,” he said. Yes, even if that job was scooping ice cream. If you can take pride in doing your work well, that’s the key to a happy life, no matter what your job is. Be the best at whatever you do, try harder than everyone else, make yourself indispensable, and you’ll succeed. It’s the American Dream. Chastened, I resolved to be the best ice cream scooper I could possibly be. For the rest of the summer, I tried to be that overeager, kiss-ass robot. I tried to make my cones beautiful. I made myself smile and be extra friendly when I was exhausted. I cleaned equipment before being asked to. I even asked if there was anything I could mop. I kept hoping that if I worked hard enough, the dignity my dad talked about would just materialize, like a runner’s high. But it’s hard to feel dignified when your right arm is never not sticky or when a jackass crew of boys runs you ragged while pretending not to recognize you from history class. Anyway, my manager didn’t seem to notice my attempts to be the best damn ice cream scooper in the land. All us counter kids were summarily fired at the end of the season, and I moved on to a string of service jobs that took me through high school into college and my early twenties—dishwasher, cashier, receptionist, mall photographer, church pianist, grocery stocker, projec...