In the late seventies I had one very brief career run as NYC's least illustrious photo assistant. One Sunday after coming home around 6AM, I got a call some two hours later from this studio photographer I worked for once before. Of course, no amount of money was gonna get my still drunken ass all the way back into Manhattan from Queens. But he pleaded, and pleaded, and pleaded some more, and not having any solid work dates lined up, I gulped down some aspirin and dragged my sorry twenty year old butt back into the subway.
Long story short, I go to collect my forty bucks at day's end (the going rate then for second assistant) and the son of a bitch tells me he's only going to pay me thirty. After begging me to come in, on a Sunday no less, the guy's actually gonna stiff me ten miserly bucks when he should be paying me double! I look at the guy incredulously, ask for my money again, and get the same response. Clearly, I had lost this argument. So I smiled at his self satisfied mug as I repositioned the office typewriter from his desk onto my shoulder (that's right kids, computers were just a gleam in your mother's eyes), walked out the studio, and slept soundly every Sunday morning since.