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

by Emily Guendelsberger

I’m barely even grumpy to be assigned to the fourth floor, where I spend most of the morning singing Christmas carols to myself. When I catch a flash of red and white out of the corner of my eye, I wonder if SDF8 has finally driven me mad. But when I backtrack a few feet—yes. Bent over, rummaging in a drawer, is Santa Claus. Perfect natural beard, glasses, hat, red suit—though as a concession to the physicality of picking, the sleeves have been cut off. My scanner nags at me to move along, but it has no power over me anymore. I drop it into my tote and go talk to Santa. He says he does this every year to lighten the mood. He’s actually a professional Santa when he’s not at SDF8. “In fact, I’ve got an appearance tomorrow—the Haven House Christmas party for the homeless. I’ve been their Santa for about three years,” he says. It’s a volunteer gig, he tells me. “But you know what? That’s what it’s all about. All this stuff”—he waves a hand at the shelves—“when there’s so many people in this country that have nothing.” “I get that feeling in here a lot,” I say, smiling at him. “Stuff! That’s all it is. It’s stuff. And if we don’t have people like you with a smile on your face, who know that they’re blessed to be healthy enough to work here, even though it’s hard work… why get upset?” He gestures at the cardboard labyrinth around us. “Some people get so angry with this, the bad things that happen here, and—it is what it is.” Before I can ask what that means, Santa notices his sc...