Page 53 - Self Talk

name agin girlie?” he turned and leaned in close, too close, to my face. “Sandy,” I replied, forgetting the customary southern “sir.”
“Well, San-deee, let me tell you somethin about this-here job. You’re gonna work your tail off and I don’t take no mess’n up, no chit-chat and no at-tit-TUDE. Got that?” “Yes sir,” I barked back.
“Then git yourself in here tomorrow bright an early and we’ll see just what your mamma taught ya.”
Lucky for me, this was just a summer job. But for “blondie,” “mamma” and other women on the floor, it appeared to be forever. I knew right then that I couldn’t go back, but I never forgot those nameless women sweating bullets over those bleeping sewing machines.