"But," I remonstrated, "last time I had on six and you told me to put
on five!"
"Yes, yes, but I expect you to use your common sense!"
That was his invariable comeback. And always followed by his patient:
"You see, it's dis vay--If you put on too much the hotel, vhy, dey
lose money, and of course you see it's dis vay: naturally" (that was a
pet word of Schmitz's), "naturally the hotel don't vant to lose
money--you can see dat for yourself. Now on the odder hand if you
don't put on enough, vhy of course you see it's dis vay, naturally a
guest vants to get his money's vorth, you can see dat for
yourself--you've just got to use your common sense, you can see dat
for yourself." Not once, but day after day, night after night. Poor,
poor Mrs. Schmitz! Verily there are worse things than first-degree
murder and intoxication.
But for all that Schmitz deigned not to allow it to be known that my
scrubbings found favor in his sight, my own soul approved of me. The
shelves and the sink I scrubbed. Then every perishable article in my
ice chest or elsewhere got placed upon trays to go upstairs. By this
time it was two minutes to nine. Schmitz, always with his hands
clasped behind him, except when he was doing over everything I did,
said, "You can go now."
Upstairs among the lockers on the third floor the temperature was like
that of a live volcano, only nothing showed any signs of exploding.
Fat women who could speak little or no English were here and there
puffily dismantling, exchanging the hotel work-uniform for street
garments. Everyone was kindly and affectionate. One old Irishwoman
came up while I was changing my clothes.
"Well, dearie, and how did it go?"
"Sure it went swell."
"That's good. The Lord bless ye. But there's one bit of advice I must
be giving ye. There's one thing you must take care of now. I'm tellin'
ye, dearie, you must guard your personality! I'm tellin' ye, there 're
the men y' know, but guard y' personality!"
I thanked her from the bottom of my heart and said I'd guard it,
surest thing she knew.
"Oh, the good Lord and the Virgin Mary bless ye, child!" And she
patted me affectionately on the back.
Indeed, I had been getting affectionate pats most of the time, though
the majority of them were from the male help. The composite impression
of that first day as I took my way home on the sticky Subway was that
the world was a very affectionate place, nor was I quite sure just
what to do about it.
The second morning I was given a glimpse of what can be done about it.
As I was waiting for the elevator on the service floor to be taken
down to work, a very attractive girl came along and immediately we
became chummy. She had been at the hotel three weeks; her job was to
cut fruit. Had she done this sort of work long? Not in this country,
but in Europe. Just one year had she been in America. At that moment
two youths passed. I saw nothing, but quick as a flash my new friend
flared up, "You fresh guy--keep your hands to yourself!" So evidently
that's the way it's done. I practiced it mentally. "Lots o' fresh guys
round here," I sniffed. "You said it," muttered the still ruffled
fruit cutter.
Downstairs, Kelly was waiting with a welcoming nod--Kelly, the
unpernickety steward. Everyone was as friendly as if we had been
feeding humanity side by side these many years. During the rush the
waiters called out as they sped by: "Hi there, little one!" "There's
the girlie!" "Ah there, sweetheart!" Verily the world is an
affectionate place. If a waiter had an order to give he passed the
time of day as he gave it and as he collected his order.
"And how's the little girl to-day?"
"Tiptop--and yourself?"
"A little low in spirits I was to-day until I seen you'd come--an'
then. You love me as much as you did yesterday?"
"Move on there. W'at y' a-doin' talkin' to my girl! Now, honey, I'm
tellin' you this here guy is too fresh for any lady. I'd like one
order of romaine lettuce, bless your sweet heart, if it won't be
tirin' your fingers too much. That's the dearie--I'm back in a
moment."
Across the way, arms resting on the counter, head ducked under the
upper shelf, leaned a burly redheaded helper to the Greek.
Every time the pantry girl looked his way he beamed and nodded and
nodded and beamed. "How you lak?" "Fine!" More beams and nods. Soon a
waiter slipped a glass of ice coffee, rich in cream and sugar, under
my counter. Beams and nods fit to burst from the assistant coffee man
across the way. Beams and nods from the pantry girl. Thus every day.
Our sole conversation was, "How you lak?" "Fine!" He said the rest
with coffee.
With the lunch rush over, Kelly sneaked around my entrance and jerked
his head sidewise. That meant, naturally, that I was to approach and
harken unto what he had to say. When Kelly imparted secrets--and much
of what Kelly had to impart was that sort of information where he felt
called upon to gaze about furtively to make sure no one was
over-hearing--when he had matters of weight then to impart he talked
down in his boots and a bit out of the corner of his mouth.
"Say, kid"--Kelly jerked his head--"want to tell you about this eatin'
business. Y'know, ain't no one supposed to eat nothin' on this floor.
If the boss catches ya, it's good-by dolly. Sign up over the door
sayin' you'll be dismissed _at once_ if you eat anything--see? But I'm
givin' ya a little tip--see? I don't care how much ya eat--it's
nothin' to me. I say eat all ya got a mind to. Only for Gawd's sake
don't let the Big Boss catch ya." (The Big Boss was the little chief
steward, who drew down a fabulous salary and had the whole place
scared to death.) "See--pull a cracker box out so and put what ya got
to eat behind it this way, then ya can sit down and sorta take your
time at it. If the boss does come by--it's behind the cracker box and
you should worry! Have a cup of coffee?"
I was full up of coffee from my gentleman friend across the way, so
declined Kelly's assistance in obtaining more. Every day, about 2.30,
Kelly got in a certain more or less secluded corner of my compartment
and ate a bit himself. "Been almost fired a couple of times for doin'
this--this place is full o' squealers--gotta watch out all the time.
Hell of a life I say when a fella has to sneak around to eat a bit of
food."
That second afternoon, Kelly stopped in the middle of a gulp of
coffee.
"Say, w'at t' hell's a girl like you workin' for, anyhow? Say, don't
you know you could get married easy as--my Gawd! too easy. Say, you
could pick up with one of these waiters just like that! They're good
steady fellas, make decent pay. You could do much worse than marry a
waiter. I'm tellin' ya there's no sense to a girl like you workin'."
That was an obsession with Kelly. He drilled it into me daily. Kelly
himself was a settled married man. Of his state we talked often. I
asked Kelly the very first day if he ever went to Coney Island.
"Ustta--'ain't been for ten years."
"Why not for ten years?"
Kelly looked at me out of the corner of his eyes. "Got married ten
years ago."
"Well, and w'at of it? Don't you have no more fun?"
"You said it! I'm tellin' ya there's no more fun. Gee! I sure don't
know myself these ten years. I was the kind of a fella"--here Kelly
was moved in sheer admiration to do a bit of heavy cursing--"I was the
kind of fella that did everything--I'm tellin' ya, _everything_. Bet
there ain't a thing in this world I 'ain't done at least once, and
most of 'em a whole lot more 'n that. An' now--look at me now! Get up
at four every mornin', but Sundays, get down here at six" (Kelly was a
suburbanite), "work till three, git home, monkey with my tools a bit
or play with the kids, eat dinner, sit around a spell, go to bed."