Once again, my morning newspaper stimulated my thinking. This time it was an article about “Negotiating Your Salary.” It made me reminisce about all of my jobs throughout the years, starting with babysitting when I was nine-years old. I guess that doesn’t really count, because the baby was my brother, and my parents didn’t pay me.

I do remember not being able to reach him when he was crying in his crib, because I was short, and I couldn’t lower the side. So, I climbed up, bent over and got my knee caught in the slats. Baby and I both cried for awhile until I was finally able to pry my knee loose. I called my parents to come home right away. Since they were next door it didn’t take very long. On that day I learned about job safety—no baby sitting without knee pads.

When I was thirteen, I started babysitting for other people’s children for real money. Not much money, but it was real. I was paid $0.25 an hour until I negotiated it up to $0.35. After all, I could earn $0.25 from a lemonade stand in my front yard. Then the mean kid across the street undersold me, and I began to sell cheese sandwiches with my lemonade until Mother shut me down. That’s when I learned about supply, demand and bankruptcy.

At fifteen, I got a job selling items in a children’s clothing store. The owner didn’t trust me at the cash register, so I became a salesperson who had to hand my sales to another clerk. When the owner ordered me to go clean the toilets, I flushed the job! I don’t remember what she paid me, but that’s when I learned about job description.

When I turned sixteen I worked every summer vacation in the offices of a mens’ trouser factory. I started at $3.50 an hour, and my job was to fill in when an office employee went on vacation. I learned that punching a clock had nothing to do with my fist. Sometimes, it meant typing on a manual typewriter for eight hours a day. I needed the money for college. “No pain, No gain.” One time the factory went on strike, and I didn’t know if I should cross the picket line, until one worker shouted, “Go ahead kid. No one wants your job!” During the summer before my senior year,  I did negotiate a raise up to $3.75 an hour.

After college, I married Warren, a graduate student. Unfortunately, his salary, as a teaching assistant, wasn’t enough for both rent and food, so I went to work for the Head of the Sociology Department at Purdue University. A nice professor hired me, but I was to discover that my future boss was out of the Country. After I accepted the job, I also  discovered that so many secretaries had quit working for him, that the employment office at the University informed him that I was his last chance. I had wondered, Why, with my poor typing skills, did I get that job?  Unfortunately, I had not done my homework, and I needed the blasted money.
The newspaper article never did cover—needing a job so you won’t starve.

When my husband continued school to earn his PhD, I decided to create a job. So “practicing my pitch,” I approached the principal of the local high school and asked, “Do you have an attendance counselor?” When he said, “What’s that?” I knew I had it made.  I said, “The monies you get are tied to attendance, so I can keep track of that for you.” I had made it up, but he thought it was a great idea—even the salary I quoted him.  So, when a young voice called the school and said, “This is Mr. Jones and my son, Bucky is ill today.” I would say, “I am so sorry, Mr. Jones.  I will call you back to see how he is doing.” Suddenly, I was then in the business of miracle cures, and school attendance improved.

All this time, I had been writing and selling articles, but after my husband’s graduation, I started writing full time, and everything I did involved contracts. First, it involved being paid regularly for  columns and articles in magazines, and then payment for my books that had been accepted by publishers.  With my books came money advances on royalties. Although the royalties belonged to me no matter what, there was little negotiation involved, because the additional money depended on the sales of the books. Happily, I did quite well.

That career led to teaching classes at the Evening Program at Emory University, and speeches at large conventions and meetings around the Country. I wrote my own contracts and naturally learned the hard way when I made a mistake.

Two dumb mistakes:  One book title had been changed without my knowledge by the book editor, because I did not have “title approval by author” in my contract.

I was not paid for one speech for six months, because the convention treasurer had gone abroad. From then on contracts stated: “immediate payment at speech conclusion.” Who would have thunk it??

Playwriting is a whole new bag of worms. Luckily, as a member of the Dramatists Guild of America I had the benefit of an attorney to check out the contract, but financial negotiation was up to me. I knew that I was paid the high end of what was available for my first play, HERE AND THERE for the Detroit Repertory Theatre, and felt it more than fair, and although the theatre sat only around two-hundred people, the play was going to run for two months—six performances a week.

The second play, UNDER MIDWESTERN STARS was a different story. It was to appear at the very large  Kansas Repertory Theatre (for a month) that  seated around six hundred and fifty people each night for (also) six performances a week. The cast had been selected from Broadway actors and the director came from Los Angeles (as well as the set designer). Bridge music (between scenes) was written by a composer from Chicago.  It was a $500,000.00 production, and I had to negotiate my advance on ticket sales. Here’s how it went:

I arrived at the business office of the theatre, and faced five people sitting behind a very long table—kind of like facing a parole board. The chief negotiator smiled and said, “I think we can offer you $.” I replied, “I don’t think so.” He conferred with the others. Then he smiled again and said, “Well, then, How about $$?”  I looked at him, shook my head and said, “I don’t think so.” By then, I was grateful for my strong bladder.

 Back to the parole board, and then—not smiling—he said, “ $$$ is the best we can do.” I paused, looked at all of them. No one was breathing, as I cheerfully said, “Okay, that should work.” My advance belonged to me, no matter what, and then I negotiated what percentage of ticket sales would go to me.

I understand that, now, in big cities, some baby sitters get $25 an hour, and I’ll bet that they have some lawyers on retainer, so they can sue if they get their knees caught in crib slats.

Maybe, I missed my calling.

Esther Blumenfeld