Part 1: Getting the Job

"Hello; Eugenia Kim."

"Hi, my name is Lisa Pettibone. I'm calling in response to your job posting on Craig's List. What exactly are you looking for?"

"Well, we're a small hat design shop and we're looking for people to knit hats for the fall line. Have you been knitting for long?"

"Almost a year." Not a lie, but a generous estimate. I'd been knitting for seven months.

"Well, how about you come in for an interview tomorrow at, say, four o'clock, with some samples of your work?"

"Anything in particular you'd like to see?" I scribbled a note about the interview on a slip of paper and hunched, poised, for further instructions.

"Any hats that you've done would be great. And if you've got one, a sample knit in targa."

"OK." I wrote down 'entarja,' hoping I'd spelled it right or could at least find a definition in a dictionary.

"Um, do you know what in targa is?"

I swallowed. "No idea."

"Well, it's..."

Perhaps that's when I should have realized I was in over my head. The stress, annoyance, and sheer effort of being a professional milliner should have come screaming through my brain. Then I might have nicely hung up on her and started looking for a real job. Instead, I cast reason aside and listened to the woman on the phone explain targa and took notes as best I could. After all, I needed a job, and this was the best lead I had. Plus, what could possibly be more fun than life as a professional knitter? It had to pay well, because her hats were selling for $100 plus on her website. But the real perk was that this interview, unlike all the others I'd been on in my search for steady income, didn't require me to wear a suit.

I spent the better part of the next day trying to knit a sample in targa, which I learned means creating patterns with color (think those ugly dog sweaters PTA moms are so fond of). When I finished my sample, I packed up all my projects and walked down to Eugenia Kim's store on 4th Street between Avenues A and B. I rang the doorbell and looked in awe at the gorgeous, amazingly cool hats on display. As on her website, none of these were knit, so I felt like I would be joining some elite club by getting a sneak peek at her new line.

I was led behind the store façade to the pulsing workshop in the back. There were crates, cartons, and boxes filled with finished and unfinished hats. My meeting was with Anya, a funky, friendly gal whose outfit was completed with a Eugenia Kim hat -- how New York! -- and who sat on the floor among dozens of types of yarn: bulky, worsted weight, cashmere, wool, alpaca; it was all represented.

I pulled out the camisole I was working on, and her jaw dropped.

"Did you knit this all yourself?"

"Yes …"

"And you've only been knitting a year?"

"Seven months, actually." This interview was getting better every minute. Apparently my ability to knit over and over again in straight, even stitches was rare, as she'd seen several applicants who'd shown her sloppy stitch work. With each project I showed her, she was impressed with a new talent -- I could work from a pattern, modify it, create my own patterns, and I'd taught myself targa in one day! With the last, she decided to upgrade me.

So, though Eugenia needed someone to work on her Frankies (whatever that meant), I was given the task of knitting a sample Peggy.

The Peggy she gave me was the cutest, most bizarre thing I've ever seen. It was basically a ski mask knit in white cashmere, with a bill over the face hole and pom-pom "ears." It looked impossible to figure out, but a cinch with the right pattern. I told her so and she assured me she'd e-mail the pattern that night.

I stood up, so giddy with the bag of cashmere and sample that I almost forgot to ask her the most important question:

"What's the pay?"

"Oh, I don't know," Anya said. "Eugenia?"

And there was Eugenia Kim, a pixie-like Asian woman, adorable, trendy, just the sort of person rich folks would want to buy $100 hats from. And I was in her employ. Awesome.

"I don't know how much we're paying for the Peggys. I'd have to check," she said, disappearing upstairs.

"Don't worry, though. We pay our employees very fairly," Anya said.

"Oh, I'm sure you do. I just want to be sure I'm making at least … minimum wage to do this," I said, twirling the bag of cashmere in my hand. I figured I could make about $50 per hat, but I wanted this job so much I figured I'd aim low. "I mean, I have rent to pay."

Anya gave me an official Eugenia Kim order form and told me to record the time I spent making the hat. It was supposed take five and a half hours to make, but I would almost certainly need longer for my first hat.

"Oh, when do you think you can have this done by? Thursday?" It was Tuesday.

"Sure."

I thanked her and left, suddenly eager to call all my friends with the exciting news and await the e-mailed pattern.

Part 2: Life in the sweatshop
(1, 2, 3, 4)