An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser (i can read book club .TXT) 📕

“t’ing,” “dat,” “udders,” and so on, but so grateful was he for any courtesy at this time that he was inclined to forgive his obviously kindly mentor anything for his geniality.

“Watch whoever’s doin’ anyt’ing, at first, see, till you git to know, see. Dat’s de way. When de bell rings, if you’re at de head of de bench, it’s your turn, see, an’ you jump up and go quick. Dey like you to be quick around here, see. An’ whenever you see anyone come in de door or out of an elevator wit a bag, an’ you’re at de head of de bench, you jump, wedder de captain rings de bell or calls ‘front’ or not. Sometimes he’s busy or ain’t lookin’ an’ he wants you to do dat, see. Look sharp, cause if you don’t get no bags, you don’t get no tips, see. Everybody dat has a bag or anyt’ing has to have it carried for ’em, unless dey won’t let you have it, see.

“But be sure and wait somewhere near de desk for whoever comes in until dey sign up for a room,” he rattled on as they ascended in the elevator. “Most everyone takes a room. Den de clerk’ll give you de key an’ after dat all you gotta do is to carry up de bags to de room. Den all you gotta do is to turn on de lights in de batroom and closet, if dere is one, so dey’ll know where dey are, see. An’ den raise de curtains in de day time or lower ’em at night, an’ see if dere’s towels in de room, so you can tell de maid if dere ain’t, and den if dey don’t give you no tip, you gotta go, only most times, unless you draw a stiff, all you gotta do is hang back a little⁠—make a stall, see⁠—fumble wit de door-key or try de transom, see. Den, if dey’re any good, dey’ll hand you a tip. If dey don’t, you’re out, dat’s all, see. You can’t even look as dough you was sore, dough⁠—nottin’ like dat, see. Den you come down an’ unless dey wants ice-water or somepin, you’re troo, see. It’s back to de bench, quick. Dere ain’t much to it. Only you gotta be quick all de time, see, and not let anyone get by you comin’ or goin’⁠—dat’s de main t’ing.

“An’ after dey give you your uniform, an’ you go to work, don’t forgit to give de captain a dollar after every watch before you leave, see⁠—two dollars on de day you has two watches, and a dollar on de day you has one, see? Dat’s de way it is here. We work togedder like dat, an’ you gotta do dat if you wanta hold your job. But dat’s all. After dat all de rest is yours.”

Clyde saw.

A part of his twenty-four or thirty-two dollars as he figured it was going glimmering, apparently⁠—eleven or twelve all told⁠—but what of it! Would there not be twelve or fifteen or even more left? And there were his meals and his uniform. Kind Heaven! What a realization of paradise! What a consummation of luxury!

Mr. Hegglund of Jersey City escorted him to the twelfth floor and into a room where they found on guard a wizened and grizzled little old man of doubtful age and temperament, who forthwith ouffitted Clyde with a suit that was so near a fit that, without further orders, it was not deemed necessary to alter it. And trying on various caps, there was one that fitted him⁠—a thing that sat most rakishly over one ear⁠—only, as Hegglund informed him, “You’ll have to get dat hair of yours cut. Better get it clipped behind. It’s too long.” And with that Clyde himself had been in mental agreement before he spoke. His hair certainly did not look right in the new cap. He hated it now. And going downstairs, and reporting to Mr. Whipple, Mr. Squires’ assistant, the latter had said: “Very well. It fits all right, does it? Well, then, you go on here at six. Report at five-thirty and be here in your uniform at five-forty-five for inspection.”

Whereupon Clyde, being advised by Hegglund to go then and there to get his uniform and take it to the dressing-room in the basement, and get his locker from the locker-man, he did so, and then hurried most nervously out⁠—first to get a haircut and afterwards to report to his family on his great luck.

He was to be a bellboy in the great Hotel Green-Davidson. He was to wear a uniform and a handsome one. He was to make⁠—but he did not tell his mother at first what he was to make, truly⁠—but more than eleven or twelve at first, anyhow, he guessed⁠—he could not be sure. For now, all at once, he saw economic independence ahead for himself, if not for his family, and he did not care to complicate it with any claims which a confession as to his real salary would most certainly inspire. But he did say that he was to have his meals free⁠—because that meant eating away from home, which was what he wished. And in addition he was to live and move always in the glorious atmosphere of this hotel⁠—not to have to go home ever before twelve, if he did not wish⁠—to have good clothes⁠—interesting company, maybe⁠—a good time, gee!

And as he hurried on about his various errands now, it occurred to him as a final and shrewd and delicious thought that he need not go home on such nights as he wished to go to a theater or anything like that. He could just stay downtown and say he had to work. And that with free meals and good clothes⁠—think of that!

The mere thought of all this was so astonishing and entrancing that he could not bring himself to think of it too much. He must wait and see. He must wait and see just how much he