"I Just Wanted to Work"

Last Sunday, after finishing her weekly grocery shopping, my mother's friend Maria* noticed a flyer hanging on a bulletin board near the store exit. "¿Necesitas trabajo?" the sign read. Need a job?


Maria and her husband, Lorenzo, live in Collier County, FL, home of double-digit unemployment and one of the regions in the United States that has been hardest hit by the housing bubble burst. The couple has been unemployed and actively seeking work for over a year.  They have a four-year-old daughter who has mental and physical disabilities. They are behind on their rent, utilities, car, etc. Need a job? Hell yes, thought Maria. She scribbled the phone number down on her Winn Dixie receipt and hurried home to call.


The woman on the other line said her name was Martha. She said Maria could start work on Monday morning cleaning rich people's houses. Easy work, said Martha. Rich folks are pretty clean. Maria had never cleaned houses for a living. But she and Lorenzo were desperate for a paycheck. Where should I report for work? Maria asked. Martha insisted that she would pick Maria up and drive her to the homes. She said that the cleaning ladies always ride together for work.


At six o'clock the next morning, Martha pulled up in a large van. As Maria entered the van she discovered about fifteen other women, mostly of Mexican origin, scrunched together in the back seats. As Maria entered the van, she asked Martha where they were headed. Martha mumbled something about how her clients were very important people and she never revealed their addresses to anyone out of concern for their privacy. Maria felt a bit nervous, but the threat of eviction from her apartment made her more apprehensive than her secretive new boss. She found a spot among the huddled women and braced herself for the ride.


They drove about fifty miles outside of Naples, where Maria lives. When they arrived at the first mansion, Maria was the first woman out of the van. She couldn't wait to stretch her legs. She was staring, mesmerized at the opulent homes around her, when Martha tapped her on the shoulder. You have to leave that in the car, she said. Leave what? Maria asked, perplexed. Your handbag. According to Martha, no handbags, cell phones, or other personal items were allowed in clients' houses. Again, the privacy rule. Maria reluctantly put her purse in the car but hid her cell phone in her jacket pocket when Martha looked away to speak with another employee.


Almost instantly after Martha led the troupe of maids into the gigantic house, Maria found herself alone with Martha. It turns out that the other women were veteran maids and had hurried off to claim the slightly-easier work, leaving Maria with what she would soon discover to be the hardest chore - scrubbing the tile floor.


Now, for those of you who are unfamiliar with South Florida-style interior design, let me inform you that in most houses, the ENTIRE floor is tiled. Let me also remind you that this was a mansion. An honest-to-goodness mansion. And, as Martha explained to a now-trembling Maria, my mother's poor friend would have to scrub ALL the floors, on hands and knees, with a small brush and a bucket of water. Martha stressed that each tile had to be scrubbed individually, because the homeowner, a wealthy investor, was rather particular about his floors. Work quickly, though, Martha warned. This is only the first house of the day.


After a few hours, Maria needed to use the restroom. Martha told her this was prohibited. She would have to wait until the shift was over - in nine more hours.


Maria received the same response when, two hours later, she asked Martha for a glass of water.


There were no breaks.


There was no lunch time. And the women were not allowed to take food or drink with them into any of the clients' homes.


And how much are we getting paid for this? Maria asked. She wondered why she had not inquired before. Maria realized that she had not asked because it hadn't mattered. She had been desperate for work, for any work.


The other women, mostly undocumented Mexican women, worked without complaint - they were accustomed to poor treatment and low pay. But Maria was not used to this. As a Cuban immigrant, she had legal status. Prior to the economic downturn, she and Lorenzo had both worked in well-paying jobs.


After a few more hours, Maria couldn't take it anymore. She had been scrubbing tiles all day and she needed some water. An irritated Martha led her outside to a garden hose. Maria still did not get to pee, and by now she felt her bladder would explode.


Maria didn't make it through the shift. She pleaded with Martha to take her to a gas station so she could use the bathroom and get a bite to eat. Martha eventually agreed. When they arrived at the gas station, Martha told Maria she had five minutes. A fed-up Maria told her she quit. She called Lorenzo and tearfully told him to pick her up at the BP station, fifty miles from their home.


When Maria related this incident to my mother earlier today, my mom stared at her friend in disbelief. There were so many red flags! And how could you let some stranger pick you up and refuse to tell you where she was taking you and withhold your purse and not let you pee and...


And Maria's answer was simply, I just wanted to work. I just wanted to work again.



*Because this is a true story and I wish to protect the privacy of my mother's friend, all names are pseudonyms. My family has encouraged Maria to contact the police and help put an end to Martha's exploitative scheme.