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

by Emily Guendelsberger

Then I remember the painkiller vending machines. Supposedly they’re free with a swipe of your ID badge, which is good, because we’re not allowed to bring our wallets inside. I’ve seen other vending machines around the mod, but the only one I’m positive I can find is back by East Mod’s standup area, a five-minute walk from where I’m sitting. Get up get up get up, I yell at myself. You cannot lose this job! I drag myself to my feet, wincing, and limp toward where I hope there’s a staircase to the ground floor. But when I finally arrive at the vending machine, it doesn’t recognize my badge. I thunk my forehead against the glass in despair, staring in at the rows of little foil packets. So close. So far. A woman notices me being pathetic and comes over. “Let me guess—it’s your first week,” she says, pity in her Kentucky drawl. She’s white and middle-aged, with the blue badge of a full-time Amazonian and the air of lower management. I tell her it’s my third day out of training, and she grimaces. “Yeah, well, the second day’s worse than the first and the third’s worse than the second. But I promise this is as bad as it gets. If you can make it through the first two weeks, it gets easier. It really does.” She looks genuinely sympathetic. “Is the machine not working with your badge? It should…” She takes my ID and tries swiping it herself, with the same result. She frowns. As she tries a few more times at various speeds, I ask about the vending machines, which are apparently new. ...