The dishwashing job was hers, I told Margie. Minimum wage, $1.75 an hour, but they throw in breakfast and lunch. Good food: I help cook it.

The boss took some convincing. I filled in for a woman who needed summers off to be with her school-aged kids, but he wanted a dishwasher for the long haul and, like me, Margie would be going back to college in the fall.

“How long did the last man stay?” I challenged. Four days. And the one before him? A week. It’s a crummy job. The two guys you have now probably won’t last the month. If Margie stays until Labor Day she would beat the longevity record.

It’s dirty work, he added. Sweaty. Heavy lifting. Margie’s built like a tank, I assured him, the shortstop on my softball team. She got the job.

On her first payday Margie joined me at the lunch table, trembling with rage. The two male dishwashers were making $2 an hour, they bragged. She worked just as hard as they did. It’s not fair!

It’s more than unfair, I told her. It’s illegal. I was majoring in political science and knew all about the Equal Pay Act of 1963: equal pay for equal work. We’ll confront the boss and make him raise your pay. read more…