Part 3: The Job That Wouldn't Die

After my disastrous meeting with Eugenia, I went home to fix up my first attempt and to create a new hat exactly like the blue mohawk Peggy she'd given me. This version turned out much better, and faster, than the first, taking only about ten hours to complete. Still, ten hours was wholly unacceptable for twenty-six dollars. I wondered whether I should quit and decided to give Eugenia an ultimatum: Pay more or I walk.

I went the store with my two Peggys, both looking pretty darn professional except for the lopsided stitches in the back. She looked pleased.

"This is a lot better," she said before disappearing into the back for the blue wool used for the mohawk Peggy. "I was thinking two of the white will be good enough, but now I'd like you to work on some blue. How many balls of yarn will you need?"

I looked at the mounds of soft blue wool she held out to me and struggled to retain my composure.

"I need about three balls for each hat, not including the bill and pom-poms," I said. "On the blue ones, I guess I won't need to make those anyway." She began filling a bag with yarn, and my eyes glazed over imagining how fun that wool would be to work with.

"How long will you need to make each hat?"

"I can probably make two a week," I said.

She handed me the bag.

"Actually, I have a question." Eugenia had already turned to go upstairs, but I couldn't leave without asking for my raise. "It's going to take me a good seven to ten hours to make each hat. Is there any way you could pay me more than twenty-six dollars?"

The color drained from her face. "How much do you want?"

I crunched a few numbers in my mental calculator and returned with: "Thirty-five."

Eugenia stared in shock and began to pace. She said nothing.

Now, asking for a nine-dollar raise so quickly may seem like a big deal, but if these hats took ten-plus hours like the last two, I'd be making a paltry $2.60 an hour at $26. Even at $35 I'd be making well under minimum wage. I wanted this job, and I loved the idea of being a professional knitter, but I needed to make more than $2.60 an hour.

Eugenia looked at the samples I'd given her again, this time with a more critical eye.

"Well," she said, "these hats still have holes in them, and look at how loose these stitches are. I don't think your work is worth that much."

I shrugged. She was probably right: I probably wasn't experienced enough to be making Peggys for Eugenia Kim, but if she wanted them, she'd have to pay. I'd talked to my friends enough about this job that all of them, even my knitter friends who'd asked if they could get jobs with Eugenia as well, were incensed at how bad the pay was. They simply couldn't believe that I was wasting my time with this woman instead of finding a real job. I was starting to agree with them, even though my dream of being a professional knitter stayed in the back of my mind. This was my gutless way of quitting a low-paying job, I knew, but in a way I hoped she would find a way to pay a little more. Sick as it is, I enjoyed making the wretched things.

"How about this? Fix these hats and come back tomorrow. If I think they're worth it, I'll put you on the blue ones for thirty-five. If not, I'll cut you a check tomorrow." She took the bag of wool back from me. "OK?"

I nodded, sad that I'd have to spend yet more time on the hats I thought I'd finished, ambivalent about how hard I wanted to try to keep this job, and left.

Part 4: Knitaholic
(1, 2, 3, 4)