Story by Tavis Dodds
Photos by MoDot
Author’s Note: A short essay like this one. writing like this one about a week’s work at a day labouring agency is long overdue. Unlike similar investigations by George Orwell or Barbara Ehrenreich, there will be no long-winded explanations or apologies for dressing down or impersonating poverty to document it. I was broke, and like the thousands of others that line up for work at these agencies across the continent, I was drawn by the company logo: ‘Work Today, Paid Today’.
In the first day workers are, in fact, not paid. Two pieces of identification are required and a long application process must first be completed. The many pages of legal contract include much on injury at the work site, but other agreements are also signed off on, including the promise not to share information, such as in an
The contracts are followed by multiple choice tests on hazardous materials and more general tests with questions like, “Who is responsible for your safety on the job?” One of the possible answers being “Your mother.”
The tests are boring and chuckles can be heard from the other workers as they read through the questions. I might have been bored if I hadn’t been sitting beside a man that couldn’t read English. Talking him through the booklet of paperwork in my very limited Spanish was, at least, a challenge.
After the tests are completed the lady that marks them simply changes any wrong answers and we move on to an instructional video starring a “typical” labourer named Bob. An accident-prone slacker whose chief concern is with lunch, Bob wanders around the worksite demonstrating the “wrong” behaviour.
The next morning I arrive at the office before six a.m. and there is already a line up of four other workers. When the agency opens there are more than a dozen hopefuls and by seven a.m. the chairs in the waiting room are all taken. People begin to sit on the floor. Just two of the waiting hopefuls are women. A man in the corner snores. Coffee is free: weak, rusty looking water in little Styrofoam cups with powdered whitener. The hours drag by, and every time the phone rings people perk up, in the hopes of being chosen.
Workers are called up to the front with no apparent correlation with their place on the list. Some of the men that arrived before me are still waiting, but others that came in later go out almost immediately. In the washroom is a mirror with the sign “Would you hire this person?” Next to the toilet someone has written, “Do your job and get me a job.”
Shortly after nine a.m. I’m called up to the front counter and issued a job moving scaffolding for a house off Jericho Beach. My partner is a young man from Liberia, who is working to pay Canada for his plane ticket and to get a phone so he can give his number to girls. We’re issued hard hats and reflective vests and told we’re responsible for returning them in good condition or their value will be docked from our pay. Gloves are provided for a $3 deduction and two bus tickets at retail prices go to each of us. We are on the job just after 10 a.m.
The house is huge and belongs to a Chinese developer. “Worth $30 million,” the contractor tells us. Tennis court, underground parking, indoor swimming pool. The view from the scaffolding is stunning, but the agency forbids us from going over six feet in the air, so we spend our shift on the ground, lifting and carrying. The bosses are friendly and buy us each a Gatorade for the unpaid lunch. He tells us that although we see $10 an hour, his company pays the labour agency nearly twice that. We’re off at half past four and back to the office just after five, clutching our little white papers declaring six hours of work completed. Fiftyfour dollars gross, but after taxes and deductions it’s just over $40. Workers get their cheques and line up at a nearby corner store that cashes them for a small fee.
The next day, Wednesday, I’m lucky enough to get a full eight hours carrying buckets of stucco, two at a time, up a stairwell all day. Sent to a Jim Pattison development at the University of British Columbia campus with three other workers, my $5 transportation deduction goes to the worker with the car that drives us. Many of the guys have been going to this site through the agency for months. At the end of the eight-hour day we get about $72, but nearly $15 is taken off in taxes and deductions. The men grumble about paying Employment Insurance they could never collect themselves.
Thursday there seems a slightly shorter wait for work since the monthly welfare cheque came out the day before. The staff behind the counter recognize me as one of the few sober workers in the room—the others are still reeking of booze from the night before.
Some of the party animals get sent out too, and at one point I’m charged with hammering apart metal warehouse shelving, passing down the metal beams with one side in my hand and the other in someone else’s. My partner’s good, but our man on the floor is hungover and in a foul mood. Every time we pass off one of the beams, we are reminded that we are placing our lives in his hands.
At the end of a long week, my grand total is $220 net. The absolute maximum a person can make is about $300 per week. I am exhausted and a pile of dirty laundry is waiting for me when I get home. I’m still expelling dust when I blow my nose. The weekend is spent letting my aching muscles heal and mentally preparing myself to do it all over again.
