Another pause in which Kelly mentally reviewed his glowing past. He
shook his head and smiled a sad smile. "If you could 'a' seen me ten
years ago!"
Kelly told me the story of his life more or less in detail some days
later. I say advisedly "more or less." Considering the reputation he
had given himself, I am relieved to be able to note that he must have
left some bits out, though goodness knows he put enough in. But
Kelly's matrimonial romance must be told.
Kelly went with a peach of a girl in the years gone by--swellest
little kid--gee! he respected that girl--never laid hands on her. She
wanted to go back to the old country for a visit, so he paid her way
there and back--one hundred and sixty-five dollars it had cost him.
Coming home from a ball where Kelly had been manager--this at 4
A.M.--a remark of the girl's led Kelly to suspect she was not the
stainless bit of perfection his love had pictured. So after three
years of constant devotion Kelly felt that he had been sold out. He
turned around and said then and there to his fair one, "You go to
hell!" He never laid eyes on her again.
A few years later Kelly met an American girl. He went with her three
years, was making seventy-five dollars a month, had saved eight
hundred and seventy-six dollars, and in addition possessed one hundred
and ten dollars in life insurance. So he asked the lady to marry him.
Y' know w'at she said to Kelly? Kelly leaned his shaggy mop of hair my
way. She said, "I won't marry nobody on seventy-five dollars a month!"
Again Kelly's manhood asserted itself. Do you know w'at Kelly said to
her? He says, says he, once more, "You go to hell!" He quit.
Whereupon Kelly drew out every cent he possessed and sailed for
Europe. When he landed again in New York City, d' y'know how much
money Kelly had in his pocket? Thirty-five cents. Then he went West
for seven or eight years, and tore up the country considerable, Kelly
did. He came back to New York again, again minus cash. A few days
after his return the girl of eight years before met him by appointment
at the Grand Central Station. What d' y'know? She asked Kelly to marry
her--just like that. Heck! by that time Kelly didn't give a darn one
way or the other. She bought the ring, she hired the minister, she did
the whole business. Kelly married her--that's the wife he's got right
now.
One of Kelly's steady, dependable waiters approached about 5 P.M.
"Say, girl, I like you!" Of course, the comeback for that now, as
always, was, "Aw go-an!"
"Sure, I like you. Say, how about goin' out this evening with me?
We'll sure do the old town!"
"I say, you sound like as if you got all of twenty-five cents in your
pocket!"
He leaned way over my counter.
"I got twenty-five dollars, and it's yours any time you say the word!"
It's words like that which sometimes don't get said.
For supper that night I sat at a table with a housekeeper, a parlor
maid, and a seamstress, and listened to much talk. Mainly, it was a
discussion of where the most desirable jobs were to be had in their
respective lines. There was complete unanimity of opinion. Clubs
headed the list, and the cream of cream were men's clubs. The
housekeeper and parlor maid together painted a picture which would
lead one to conclude that the happiest women in all New York City were
the housekeepers in men's clubs. The work was light, they were well
treated--it was a job for anyone to strive for. The type of men or
women in clubs, they remarked, was ahead of what you'd draw in any
hotel.
The parlor maid, an attractive, gray-haired woman--indeed, all three
were gray-haired--was very pleased with her job at our hotel. She
slept there and loved it. The rooms were so clean--your towels were
changed daily just as for the guests. Sure she was very contented. If
her mother were only alive--she died two years ago--she'd be the
happiest woman in the world, she just knew it. But every single
morning she woke up with an empty feeling in her heart for the
longings after her mother.
* * * * *
My diary of Thursday of that first week starts: "The best day since
I've been trying jobs--Glory be, it was rich!" And pages follow as to
the wonders of that one day--wonders to me, who was after what the
workers themselves think about the universe in general.
When I found how hard the Spanish woman I relieved at 1.30 had to
work, how much more rushed she was from 6 to 1.30 than ever I was from
1.30 to 9, and when I learned, in addition, that she received no more
pay for all her extra labors, I told her I would come early every day
and help her during the rush. This is all good psychology and I give
it for what it is worth. The first few days, this Thursday being one
of them, she was very grateful--spoke often of how much it helped to
have me there early. My last morning during my two weeks of the hotel
job I was so rushed with final errands to do before leaving New York
that it was impossible for me to arrive at work before 1.30, my
regular and appointed time. The Spanish woman knew it was my last day.
But she was so put out to think I had not arrived early that she
whisked out of that compartment the second I arrived, only taking time
to give me one fearful and unmistakable glare. Kelly caught the
remnants of it as she swung by him. He sauntered over to my counter.
"Say, the nerve of some people!"
That Thursday noon, I ate with the workers in the help's kitchen. So
much talk! First there was a row on fit to rend the rafters. One of
the Irish girls plumped herself down to eat and raved on about Lizzie,
an Armenian girl, and something or other Lizzie had done or hadn't
done with the silverware. Everyone was frank as to what each thought
about Lizzie. Armenian stock was very low that day. Just then Lizzie
appeared, a very attractive, neat girl who had been friendly and kind
to me. I had no idea it was she about whose character such blusterous
words were being spoken. With Lizzie and the Irish girl face to
face--Heaven help us! I expected to see them at each other's throats.
Such talk! Finally another Irish girl turned to the Armenian. "Why
t'hell do you get so mad over it all, now?" Lizzie stopped, gave the
second Irish girl a quizzical look. Slowly a smile spread over her
face. She gave a little chuckle. "Ho! Why t'hell?" We all laughed and
laughed, and the fight was off.
It seems Lizzie was known far and wide for her temper. She had been
fired from waiting on the chefs because she let it loose in their
dining room one night. Now they were trying her out up at our end of
the service floor. Minnie, the oldest Irish woman at our table and in
a decidedly ruffled mood that day, claimed it was the Armenian in
her. "They're all like that. Shure, I got a Armenian helper--that kid
over there. Wait till he says one word more to me. I'll bust a plate
on his head and kick his prostrate form into the gutter. It'll be a
happy day in my life!"
They all asked me about my work and how I liked it. Evidently mine was
a job high in favor. "Shure you're left alone and no one to be under
your feet or botherin' with y' every minute of the day. You're yo'r
own boss."
The talk got around to the strike at the Hotel McAlpin of a few years
ago. It was for more pay. The strike was lost. I asked why. "Shure,
they deserved to lose it. Nobody hung together."
We discussed domestic service. Every day at that hotel I wondered why
any girl took work in a private home if she could possibly get a hotel
job. Here was what could be considered by comparison with other jobs,
good pay, plus three nourishing meals a day, decent hours, and before
and after those hours freedom. In many cases, also, it meant a place
to sleep. There was a chance for talk and companionship with one's
kind during the day. Every chance I got I asked a girl if she liked
working in a private home, or would change her hotel job if she got a
chance. The only person who was not loud in decrying private service
was Minnie during this special Thursday lunch. But Minnie was so sore
on the world that day. I do believe she would have objected to the
Virgin Mary, had the subject come up. Minnie had worked years in
private families and only six years in hotels. She wished she'd never
seen the inside of a hotel.
That same night at the supper table the subject came up again before
an entirely different crowd. Three at the table had tried domestic
service. Never again! Why? Always the answer was the same. "Aw, it's
the feeling of freedom ya never get there, and ya do get it in a
hotel." One sweet gray-haired woman told of how she had worked some
years as cook in a swell family where they kept lots of servants. She
got grand wages, and naively she added, you get a chance to make lots
on the side, o' course. I asked her if she meant tips from guests. Oh
no! She meant what you made off tradespeople. Don't you see, if you
got the butcher bill up so high, you got so much off the butcher, and
the same with the grocer and the rest. She had a sister not cooking
long who made over one hundred dollars a month, counting what she got
off tradespeople. It is a perfectly accepted way of doing, mentioned
with no concern.
But on the whole, that supper table agreed that domestic service was a
good deal like matrimony. If you got a good family, all right; but how
many good families were there in the world? One woman spoke of working
where they'd made a door mat of her. Barely did she have food enough
to eat. There were four in the family. When they had chops the lady of
the house ordered just four, which meant she who cooked the chops got
none.
After lunch this full Thursday I rushed to assist Mary. I loved going
down the stairs into our hot scurry of excitement. Indeed, it was
seeing behind the scenes. And always the friendly nods from everyone,
even though the waiters especially looked ready to expire in pools of
perspiration. At Monsieur Le Bon Chef's counter some sticky waiter had
ordered a roast-beef sandwich. The heat had made him skeptical. "Call
that beef?" The waiter next him glared at him with a chuckle. "An'
must we then always lead in the cow for you to see?" A large Irishman
breezed up to my Bon Chef. "Two beef a la modes. Make it snappy,
chief. Party's in a hurry. Has to catch the five-thirty train"--this
at one o'clock. Everyone good-natured, and the perspiration literally
rolling off them.
Most of the waiters were Irish. One of them was a regular dude--such
immaculateness never was. He was the funny man of the place, and
showed off for my special benefit, for I made no bones of the fact
that he amused me highly. He was a very chippy-looking waiter--pug
nose, long upper lip. When he ordered ice coffee he sneaked up on the
Greek a la Bill Hart, ready to pull a gun on him. He had two names at
his disposal and used one or the other with every order, no matter who
the chef was. In a very deep tone of voice, it was either, "James,
custard pie!" or, "Dinsmore, one veal cutlet." But to me it was
always: "Ah there, little one! Toast, I say _toast_. Dry, little one.
Ah yes! There be them who out of force of habit inflicted upon them
take even their toast dry. You get me, little one?"
He was especially immaculate this Thursday. I guessed he must be
taking at least three ladies out that evening. He looked at me out of
the corner of his eyes. "_Three_, little one, this hot night? Winter
time, yes, a man can stand a crowd about him, but not to-night. No.
To-night, little one, I take but one lady. It allows for more
circulation of air. And you will be that One?"
The Greek this hot Thursday became especially friendly. He twirled his
heavy black mustache and carried on an animated broken-English
conversation most of the afternoon. Incidentally, he sent over one ice
coffee with thick cream and two frosted chocolates.
The little Spaniard next to him, he who served pies and ice cream and
more amazing desserts--he, too, became very friendly. There was
nothing the least fresh about the little Spaniard. He mostly leaned on
his counter, in moments of lull in trade, and when I so much as looked
his way, he sighed heavily. Finally he made bold to converse. I
learned that he had been two years in this country, eight months at
his present job. When I asked him how he spent his off time, he
replied in his very broken English that he knew nobody and went
nowhere. "It is no pleasure to go alone." He rooms with an American
family on the East Side. They are very nice. For some years he had
been in the printing trade in South America; there was something to a
job like that. But in New York he did not know enough English to be a
printer, and so, somehow, he found himself dishing pies and ice cream
at our hotel.