Just a Little Faster

"That's bullshit," says Lindsay, when I tell her my position. Earlier that day, I had started a new job, thinning grapes on contract. All day, I had struggled to cut enough grapes from the right cordons at the right speed. My boss keeps at me, telling me to go faster-- but I'm going as fast as I can. Do I just suck at the work?

"No one does it properly," she assures me. "It's impossible!" she gathers her dishes together to make dinner. "Just cut 'em quick," she continues, arranging things on the counter. "Cut anything. Cut the right amount, that's all they ever check. They never," she points a knife at me, "check where you cut 'em from."

"So... just be sloppy?" I ask, feeling more cheerful.

"Oh, yeah," she says, chopping vegetables. "Even the vineyard owner, he once saw me hunting in the vines for the right cordon. He goes, 'You'll never make money that way. Just cut what you can see.'"

"Hmm."

"Yeah. Dude. Trust me. You'll be fine. Besides," she adds. "The only reason Martin tells you to go faster is because he likes you. He's just trying to help."

She should know what she's talking about, I guess: she's worked for Tony for weeks. I resolve to cut whatever grapes I can see the next day, to be as fast as possible, if not as accurate as I could be. Six or seven of us hang around at a picnic table at the back, eating dinner and drinking beer. A few of the other girls who have just started work, like me, have the same problem and Lindsay gives them the same advice. "Like," she embellishes, "you know sometimes there are bigger bunches? Just cut them in half. That's two." I slowly unwind. My back is sunburned, my nails are dirty, and I can't wash the smell of the grapevine spray out of my skin. I'm utterly exhausted.

All for less than a hundred dollars.

Next morning, I wake up just as tired. I pack a lunch (although I have no idea if I'll have time to eat), two litres of water, sunscreen, and gardening gloves. I pile into the van with the German girls, and we head out toward the vineyard. It's pretty far out-- almost on the way to Nelson-- and it's enormous. We literally drive for ten minutes on a gravel road, past endless grapevines, little streams, terraced hills and weeping willows, from the entrance all the way to the block. You could probably see us for miles, fifteen or twenty vehicles stirring up great clouds of white dust.

I'm assigned three rows and get started. I have to cut three bunches off each cordon, which is usually nine bunches a plant. Once in awhile, a plant will have only one or two cordons, though, so I have to be careful; but I learn to spot these pretty quickly. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. I clip along at a good pace. I actually think this to myself: "Wow, I'm clipping along at a good pace." I'm not too careful. I sort of try to get the grapes from all over the plant, but not necessarily. I definitely don't care which cordons they come from. I just make sure there's nine.

I finish the first row and move on. After a bit, I see my boss coming up the row, checking my work.

I try not to feel nervous.

"Alieda," he says. It sounds ominous, like a bark.

"Yeah?"

"Your work is good," he says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Really? My work is good? Ha! "There's just one thing," he continues.

I look at him and smile a little. "Just a little faster?" I hedge.

"Bingo," he says. He points to the end of the row. "I want you to finish this row in an hour and a quarter. That's eleven-thirty. Okay? You can do it. Just think: I'm from Canada. I have a leaf on my flag! I can do anything!"

"Right."

"If you were American, I'd have my doubts. But you're all right." He walks away, looking almost cheerful. "Eleven thirty!" he shouts as he goes, but I'm already clipping at high speed.

I finish with ten minutes to spare, and move onto my third row, feeling safe. I've cut five or six bays by the time he finds me.

"Hey," he says, pleased. "You've finished ahead of schedule! Bonus for you eh?" It's the first time I've seen him really smile. He consults his watch. "Okay," he says. "You need to cut a hundred and twenty plants an hour. That means," he squints. "You have till... ten-past-one to finish this row. Quarter-past at the latest. Okay?"

"Okay," I say, and get clipping. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. I cut the first bunches I clasp eyes on, and sometimes I cut big ones in half. That's two.

I'm doing really shotty work, I know, but I guess that's what he wants.

At one o'clock, I have just ten plants left. I feel good, knowing I'm going to finish in time. So this, I think, is how I was supposed to be working all along.

All of a sudden, to my shock, a van pulls up to the end of the row. I see Lindsay and several others from the hostel inside. They flap their hands at me a bit. Are they waving me over? What's going on?

I jog over, feeling a little bewildered. "Hey," I say to the driver. "What's going on?"

"We're going to a new block," says the boss' wife.

"Oh!" I say.

"You have to finish your row," she says, and then, like I was a squashed bug: "Everyone is waiting for you."

Oh, no.

I panic, running back to my row to finish. Onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnine. Several others get out of the van to help me out. In a minute, it's finished, and I see she's right: the entire caravan of vans is pulled up in a row, engines running, waiting.

How humiliating.

So we drive to the next bay, and I can't believe I was the last one. Last, out of fifty people! But I thought I was on time! I was ahead of schedule! I beat myself up a little, then take the opportunity to chug some water and eat my PB & J. We step out of the van and into the crowd, everyone milling around, waiting for the boss to brief us.

"There she is," says the boss' wife, an ugly look on her face.

"Hey," says the boss loudly, spotting me and pointing. "Alieda, come here. Everyone, this is Alieda." I hunch my shoulders and step forward, stomach flopping. I haven't felt like this since grade two, in Mrs. Hanson's class. "Move back so everyone can see her," he says to Lindsay, who shoots me an apologetic look and steps back.

"How humiliating," I say around my last mouthful of sandwich, as nonchalantly as possible.

"Alieda was the last to finish today!" he announces. "So we're gonna embarrass her. Everyone point an laugh if you want to."

I look around and see fifty faces. Everyone looks a bit confused, like they can't believe this is happening to me. I take a sarcastic little bow and step back. I can hear a roaring in my head, like a rush of blood. Lindsay looks horrified and I think I might cry, but I smile instead, although I'm furious.

I move to my assigned rows and notice the feet behind and in front of me. I try to keep in pace. I think I'm ahead of some of them.

"Alieda," shouts my boss and I look. He makes a gesture like he's backslapping his own hand. I roll my eyes and plod on, chest aching with the weight of my anger.

I finish three rows in the afternoon, back stiff from stooping, more sunburned than ever, thirsty, hot, dirty, sweaty, and cranky. I've had nothing to eat or drink all day but a sandwich and a little water. I have been pointed at, laughed at, yelled at, humiliated and left behind. I feel sorry for myself the entire way home.

Did I mention my back hurts?

By the time John gets home, one side of my back is swollen and sore to the touch. An old injury from the book store has seized up, rearing its ugly head. It hurts in every position, even after John kindly massages the knots around the slipped disc.

The chiropractor will cost more than $100, which is all the money I've earned from the day's work.

I resolve to find a new job.

The next day I call in sick.