大象传媒

鈥淐yborg jobs鈥� is the term Emily Guendelsberger uses in her new book, On the Clock: What Low-Wage Work Did to Me and How It Drives America Insane to describe the low-wage, high-stress jobs that make up a large portion鈥攕omething like 47%鈥攐f employment in the United States. You could say they鈥檙e jobs determined by algorithms. Cyborg jobs are designed through data analysis to boost profits by getting the maximum out of workers. Staff scheduling is tight to avoid slow periods, so workers spend much of the day rushing to where they鈥檙e needed. Bathroom breaks are limited and timed. Workers鈥� movements and performance are monitored throughout the day. If they call in sick, they lose pay and maybe even their jobs. But human beings are not robots. Being treated like expendable parts in a gigantic corporate machine makes people stressed, ill, and unhappy. Guendelsberger should know. She took on low-wage cyborg jobs for two years. Then, she took on the big companies that profit from them, like the other writers of fiction and nonfiction here鈥擱ob Hart, Heike Geissler, and Alex Gallo-Brown.

The Warehouse

The screen flashed and a new question appeared. 

Do you believe it鈥檚 morally acceptable to steal in some circumstances? Green Yes, red No. That was easy. No. If your family were starving, would you steal a loaf of bread to feed them? Real answer: probably. No. Would you steal from your job? No. What if you knew you wouldn鈥檛 be caught? Paxton wished there was an I鈥檓-not-going-to-steal-anything-please-let鈥檚-move-on button. No. If you knew someone stole something, would you report him or her? He almost pressed No, having gotten used to the repetitive tap, then jerked his hand away and pressed Yes. If the person threatened to harm you, would you still report him or her? Sure. Yes. From , a novel by Rob Hart, published by Crown, 2019.

Seasonal Associate

But aren鈥檛 you in pain? you ask. 

Sure I am, Hans-Peter replies, or I wouldn鈥檛 need this stuff鈥攈e pats his pocket. You鈥檇 be better off at home then, you say. Well I can鈥檛 stay home, I can鈥檛, I鈥檝e got to be here now, Hans-Peter says. But if you鈥檙e sick? you say. You could talk that way forever and you will talk that way a few more times, and in a few days鈥攐nce you鈥檝e got sick and then recovered again and you鈥檙e told to work right next to the roller door that doesn鈥檛 shut properly so that a coworker of yours doesn鈥檛 have to work there鈥攜ou鈥檒l go to that workmate and say you鈥檝e just been sick so you really want to work in a warm spot and not in a draft. He鈥檒l shrug and you鈥檒l realize he鈥檚 sick right there and then, his eyes are watering. You鈥檒l put your hand on his forehead and feel how hot he is. You should go home, you鈥檒l say. He鈥檒l shrug again and say he wants to be taken on permanently, though. You鈥檒l repeat that he ought to go home but he won鈥檛 be put off, and you鈥檒l end up working in the draft鈥攕hivering, sweating, shivering. From by Heike Geissler, trans. Katy Derbyshire, published by Semiotext(e), 2018.

鈥淭he Job at the Technology Cafe鈥�

He has never felt old before, but he feels old now. In three months he will be 29. Next year he will turn 30. He has always worked in food service, has never made more than $12 an hour. The minimum wage in Seattle now is 15, but there are exceptions, loopholes. At his new job, for example, he will be paid 13.50 even though his employer is one of the richest technology companies in the world. He stares out the Metro bus window as streetlights penetrate the early morning dark. He feels the way that he feels in dreams sometimes or the way he moves underwater. He is not a morning person and he never has been. He is not really a work person, either (he would prefer not to, as the character in the story from AP English said), and for a moment he has forgotten why he accepted a job that requires such indecency. He trudges up the office building steps, mist sipping wetly against his cheeks. Inside, it is brighter, warmer. He flashes his badge at a security guard before stepping into an elevator and thumbing the button for the seventeenth floor. Life is change, he thinks as the elevator begins to move. Cities are change. 

Isn鈥檛 that what all the newspapers say? He doesn鈥檛 know much about other cities but remembers the moment when his own neighborhood began to change. The squat house on the corner knocked down and two skinny towers erected in its place. The blue house across the street shoved onto stilts and literally lifted off the ground. The new Audis and Beamers. The men in suits and ties. One summer when he was in college at the U he delivered a pizza to one of the new houses on his parents鈥� block. The woman who answered the door had been aloof and dismissive. And she left him a shitty tip. Life is change, he thinks as the elevator dings. Cities are change. Maybe this is true. He has only known one city. He has only ever thought of Seattle as home. He steps out of the elevator into a silent and unfamiliar dark. When Carlos called last month asking if he needed a job, he told his friend no. He already had a gig working front-of-the-house at a cafe on Stone Way, and while the situation was not ideal鈥攖he tips were shit and his boss鈥檚 son Adam could be a real pain in his ass鈥攖he cafe was walking distance from his apartment, his hours were flexible, and he brought home enough free food on most days that he rarely needed to cook. Lately, though, things had gotten harder. It was not only that his own rent had crept up鈥攆rom $600 when he moved in to $750 today. It was that the whole city seemed to have turned upside down. Close friends moved away because of the sudden surge in rent. Restaurants that he grew up in closed down and disappeared. Bowling alleys had become luxury condos. Used bookstores transformed into upscale cafes.

It was like one day he was living in one city, the next he inhabited a totally different place. So when Carlos called at first he thought that it was a joke. Work inside a tech company? There was little he could imagine that he would rather do less. The next week at work, though, sent him over the edge. First, Adam chirped at him about the temperature of his lattes鈥攏ot so hot! the little prick cried鈥攁nd then the night barista forgot to clean the espresso machine, which made his Tuesday morning hell. When a regular鈥攁 graying baby boomer who bought a house in Wallingford back when real estate was cheap鈥攅ngaged him in a conversation about pensions versus 401ks, he decided that it was time for him to go. He would be a cook, he thought, but not only a cook. He would also be a spy. Something exciting for a change. From 鈥淭he Job at the Technology Cafe,鈥� a short story in by Alex Gallo-Brown (2019). Appears by permission of the author and Chin Music Press.

On the Clock

Depression and anxiety are perfectly normal reactions to the insanely stressful world we鈥檝e built for ourselves. Suppressing our humanity is exhausting. It鈥檚 driving us crazy. It鈥檚 ruining our experience of life. It鈥檚 making us sick and terrified and cruel and hopeless. And it鈥檚 killing us. 鈥� Escape is possible; things don鈥檛 have to be like this. The current way we鈥檝e arranged our society is not inevitable, and it鈥檚 far from natural. America got this way because we spent the past half century outsourcing the running of society to technology, data, and free markets鈥攅ven though none of those things can tell if 别惫别谤测辞苍别鈥檚 miserable. 鈥� Chronic stress drains people鈥檚 empathy, patience, and tolerance for new things. If your better world values those things, you鈥檒l need to start by taking action to make 别惫别谤测辞苍别鈥檚 lives less miserable鈥攅ven people you don鈥檛 personally like, or feel deserve your help. Because, seriously鈥攊t鈥檚 up to you. Emily Guendelsberger, , Little, Brown, 2019.

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