I Won’t Work Without Pay for More Than Two Months

Two Months

On the fifteenth of every month, the banking app sent a notification. Salary received. The number was not big, but it covered rent, groceries, phone credit. Then the fifteenth came and no notification. The sixteenth came and no notification. Finance posted in the group: within this week. Friday before end of day: next Monday. Next Monday became end of month. End of month became “wait a little longer.”

I drew a line for myself: two months.

The first time I heard about unpaid wages was in the break room. Two weeks into the job, I was filling a paper cup with hot water. A colleague next to me lowered his voice and said they had not been paid for two or three months. The cup burned my hand. I switched hands. At lunch I skipped the cafeteria, bought a rice ball at the convenience store downstairs, and sat on the edge of a flower bed to eat. The rice ball was cold. After I finished, I opened the job app and refreshed my resume. Back at my desk, I looked at my things: a pen, a notebook, a keyboard cover still unopened. That day, I did not work overtime.

There was another time. A sheet of A4 paper was taped to the company notice board. It said business was difficult and wages would be delayed. There was a red stamp on it. I glanced as I passed. I did not stop. People did not talk much. Someone ordered takeout as usual. Someone went to meetings as usual. Someone laughed as usual. On payday, the money did not come. A month later, it came. That day I went to the supermarket and bought ribs. I made soup at home. The pot bubbled. I ate, washed the dishes, wiped the stove. From that month on, I circled payday on the calendar, three days ahead.

At this company, it dragged too. On payday, the group chat was quiet. The finance office door was closed. Someone stood at the door with a reimbursement form, stood for a while, then walked away. The boss’s blinds were half drawn. I opened the banking app. The balance had not changed. I took a screenshot. Then I opened the attendance record and took a screenshot. I opened the pay stub and took a screenshot. In the chat history I searched “salary,” “payday,” “delay,” and took screenshots. At home that night, I put them in a folder named: Date.

A message from the landlord popped up: it would be convenient to transfer this month’s rent. I transferred it. The balance dropped. I looked at the fridge: half a carton of eggs, a handful of wilted greens, two bottles of water. I boiled noodles. I put an egg in. I ate and washed the bowl. The tap was running. I thought, if next month it still does not come, I will leave.

I can wait. For the first month, I can wait. But there has to be a date. The date written clearly. Who signs it. Which day it will be paid. How much. A verbal “wait a little longer” is the same as nothing. If the second month comes and it still has not, I will not wait. Rent does not wait. Utilities do not wait. Phone credit does not wait. My stomach does not wait. The stomach medicine is in the drawer, almost gone. A box is over thirty. I did the math: if wages do not come, I will have to ration even stomach medicine.

I started revising my resume. At ten p.m., the laptop screen was bright. I changed “responsible for” to “did,” changed “participated in” to “wrote,” “launched,” “coordinated.” A friend sent two job links. I replied “thanks.” The next day at lunch, I took an interview call on the stairwell. The signal was bad. I walked along the wall. The person asked: expected salary. I gave a number. The person asked: when can you start. I said: two weeks.

The company still had not given any written notice. Only the supervisor said at the morning meeting that everyone should get through this together. When he said those four words, he was holding coffee. The cup was new. The sleeve had a green logo. I looked down at my own cup. It had plain water. After the meeting I went back to my desk and pinched off the yellow leaves of the pothos. I bought the pothos when I joined. Nine ninety. The keyboard cover was still there, the edge curled. The stomach medicine was in the second drawer, tangled with a charging cable.

I went to the labor inspection office. It was on the second floor. A copy machine stood by the door, one yuan per page. I copied bank statements, pay stubs, attendance screenshots. I took a number. A073. The chairs were blue plastic. The person in front held a child. The child squeezed a pack of tissues. The staff member asked: company name, registered address, months owed. I said each one. She typed. Printed a receipt. Stamped it. The stamp was red. I put the receipt in the folder.

A colleague messaged: Did you file for arbitration? I replied: Yes. She sent a handshake emoji. After a while she unsent it. I did not ask. In the afternoon she put a candy on my desk. Mint. I put it in my bag and did not eat it.

I printed a “Notice of Forced Termination of Labor Contract.” For the reason I wrote: failure to pay labor remuneration on time and in full. I signed my name and wrote the date. Took a photo. Put it in an envelope. Sent it by courier to the company’s registered address. Then I put my work badge on the front desk. No one was there. I left it on the counter, weighted with a sticky note: Returned. The sticky note was yellow, the last sheet.

While clearing the drawer, I put the stomach medicine in my bag, wound the charging cable, and left the pothos to the colleague next to me. She said: You’re leaving? I said: Yeah. She asked: What about the wages? I said: Arbitration. She did not ask again. She was holding a stapler. She pressed it once. It caught no paper. I pushed the chair back under the desk. A wheel stuck. I pushed harder. It went in.

Out of the office building, the wind was strong. A delivery rider waited for an order. The security guard scrolled on his phone. I crossed the street and did not look back. On the subway, I opened the job app and changed my status to “available immediately.” At my stop, I got off and bought a bottle of water. Condensation dripped onto my hand.

A month later, the company account sent money. Not all of it. Note: wages. I transferred it to the landlord. The rest went to medicine. I switched to another stomach medicine, five cheaper. I put the receipt and the transfer screenshot together. There was another page in the folder.

Later I went to a new company. At the end of the interview, I asked: What day is payday each month. The person said: The tenth. I asked: Will it be delayed. The person smiled and said: No. I nodded. On the tenth of my first month, my phone buzzed. Text: Salary received. I looked at the balance and took a screenshot. After work, I bought a bunch of greens and two eggs. At home I boiled noodles. I ate and washed the bowl. Tomorrow I still have work.