By Joshua Ryan
Chapter 18: The Best Place to Get Boeuf Bourguignon
Did you ever stand around naked? Just stand around? You shift from one foot to another. You cover your nuts. Then you uncover them, just for the hell of it. Because you’re bored. Bored and anxious. You look around at the uniform stacks of uniforms. You smell the ink as Dev rubs it over a stencil and into your clothes, turning anonymous pieces of cloth into YOUR shirt, the shirt of Tommy, slap number 21338. First the front of the shirt, left pec; then the back of the shirt, between the shoulder blades. Then the shorts, right thigh, left butt. Then the underwear, right thigh, left butt. Your boots too–21338, left side of your left boot, right side of your right boot. And the cap. There was room for your number on the back of your cap. Dev was a perfectionist, so it took more than 20 minutes.
“Yeah,” he was saying, holding up a shirt to inspect his work, “like we say, they be seein you comin an goin! Same with you shorts. They watchin you dick, then they watchin you ass. They wanta SEE whose ass it is. You jus’ off thee slap farm, so you doan know. So I’m tellin. The freemen LOVE to look at us. Not kiddin! Even if you are like . . . older.” Meaning me. “These women jus love to flirt with you. These men too! Course you best not try any follow up. Least so somebody find out. Somebody in Crew 7.”
“Crew 7?” Kristian asked. Demanded, actually. He sounded like he was at the end of his rope.
“Course,” Dev said, not caring or maybe even noticing, “you never heard a that, no. You slaps are Crew 2 slaps. You in thee Housekeepin crew. Dint know that neither? So now you do. You wipe thee floors. You wash thee windows. You clean the freeman rooms. That’s what you doin. Then there’s Crew 3, that’s Laundry, an, oh, Crew 1, that’s Food Service—you know, thee kitchen help, thee busboys, thee dudes that cook for thee slaps down here. Thee chefs upstairs, they freemen, they woan cook for us. They may give us some a they leftovers, but . . . . But anyways, Crew 7. That is slappie heaven, dude. That is where Boss Derek live. An thee security slaps. They live there. An thee barber, thee barber for the freemen, for the guest. He in there. It’s so funny . . . . I hear Boss Derek was thee head a some big compny. Ver’ special. Now he special cuz he git to sleep in thee same room with thee barber and thee bouncers!”
“What crew are YOU in?” I said. I guess I was like Kristian; I was getting mad. I’d been thee head a some big compny, an now I was standin naked in thee basement, waitin for this li’l twit to put me in my slappie suit, and listnin to thee fuckin islan’ talk rattlin roun in my own head, mon . . . .
“Me? I’m a proud member of Crew 8. They call it thee Stretch Crew. Say that five time fast mon! We are thee ‘orderlies.’ We do whatever. We on call! Jus like thee doctors! Course, evry slap is on call. That’s why we slaps—go head, slap us roun! You never know—some guest pukes in thee hallway, they wake us up, we gotta deal with it. Diffrence is, probly it’s me that wakes YOU up, dude! Cuz you in Crew 2! You git to clean it up! That’s funny.”
He kept chattering as he worked through the stacks of clothes. “Evrything here in thee King George Hotel, it’s all in thee King George style. Other slaps you see roun town, they just wearin thee shorts and thee short-sleeves. But we wearin the long-sleeves. Like this!” He pinched his shirt and shook it, in case we hadn’t had a chance to notice and admire the thing.
“An that’s cuz we are thee slaps of thee King George Hotel. Probly you doan know it yet, but once you take you first trip UPstairs, you goan see it all. You will be amazed! The King George Hotel is one of thee great hotels in thee whole world! I dint know it myself, before I got here. I mean, my parents runnin a Thrifty Stop! Back in Akron! You ever been to Akron?”
Kristian looked completely confused. “No,” I said.
“It’s a prett’ nice place. You oughta go there sometimes. But I’m guessin, maybe you won’ have thee chance!” He chuckled, reflecting on his memories. “A Thrifty Stop—that is not EVEN a real hotel! You cannot COMPARE thee thing to what you be seein upstairs.” He pointed up, as if to heaven. “But there—I’m done! Almost. Just gotta ink up you caps an boots. But go head—put on you gear! This is one BIG day for you! Need ta move fast now, though. You spendin too much time.”
So, get this straight. I’d been sold as a slave to the King George Hotel, the place where I’d once vacationed. I’d been changed from a respected businessman into a subhuman servant of people who were just like me, except that they’d never happened to be arrested on St. Bevons. I had completed my training as a servant and was about to don my servant suit, complete with my servant name and number. I was wearing a collar that would get me tracked and punished if I went more than 300 feet from my boss’s desk, and my collar could never be removed. I was being told by a slappie whose only experience of life was hanging out in a fleabag in Akron that I should be proud to spend my life in the uniform of the King George Hotel. And there was nothing I could do about it.
Dev had finished his job, and it was time for me to put on my new clothes—the clothes that told the world not only what I was but how happy I was to be that thing. They were witnesses against me, witnesses that, like Dev, would never shut up. My chest and my butt would always be announcing:
My Name Is
TOMMY
SLP 21338
How May I Serve You?
I climbed into my suit, laced up my boots, and planted my cap on my head. Kristian, now “Kris,” was doing the same, and soon we were standing side by side, all dressed up for the rest of our lives.
“That is SO better!” Dev said. “NOW you in style!”
Kris and I looked down at the two stacks of uniforms that were still on the table.
“OK,” Dev said. “I’m talkin bout that now. Right here, each a you got three nice slappie suits—thee one on you back an thee two on thee table. We call em thee wear an thee spare! Evry day, end a thee day, you take one suit off, you put it in thee laundry, an you grab on another suit. Day or two later, you git you same suit back—all clean! You never run out!”
“Is this it?” Kris choked out. “I mean, this is all we get?”
“Huh? Oh no mon, you also gittin you toothbrush. Same as in the Coop!” He pointed to a pair of baggies resting on the table next to the clothes. He was right—they were the same thumb-size brushes. “An you even got a comb in there. When you head start growin out, you gotta keep it combed. Boss Derek gonna tell you bout thee style for that.”
Kristian must have been staring too long at those priceless gifts, because Dev became concerned about his mood. “Doan be lookin so sad mon. You should be feelin ver’ good. Take me! When they first made me a slappie, I felt thee same. Like where is thee resta my stuff, mon? But I remember all thee times when I was a kid. My famly was always movin, always runnin roun, always packin shit an unpackin shit. I musta lugged a thousan fuckin boxes mon! Not to mention all thee fuckin school books, so I can be thee big successful son! You know how that is dude. But finely I’m standin in this room, an I’m standin right where you are mon, an right then I get it! I get thee whole thing. From now on, I got nothin to WORRY bout mon! I got nothin! This stuff is all I got, and it doan even belong to me!” He waited a moment to make sure the lesson sank in. “Now grab you gear. I take you to you rack.”
There were doors on each side of the big room. Dev unlocked one of them. It opened onto a long hallway that you could see might lead you to a lot of different things. Such as the laundry; you felt its wet heat coming at you from under one of the doors. After that there were some barred doors with numbers above them. Dev stopped at the door numbered 2 and pulled back the bars. A big padlock was hanging on them, but Dev said, “Thee security slaps come roun at night an lock us in. Which is too MUCH trouble durin thee daytime. We workin for thee hotel, so we ALways comin an goin here. Ver’ busy all thee time! But cmon in! This is you home now!”
The place wasn’t like the barracks back at the Coop. It was a little room with white-painted concrete walls, mostly cracked–and of course some barred windows, up near the ceiling. Twenty or 25 bunks were pressed into the space, anywhere they would fit. Some of them were single and some of them were double. Some of them had makeshift shelves on the wall next to them, or at their foot, but it wasn’t enough, because there were browns hanging from everything—hooks, pipes, bunk posts. They were like extra slappies, brought in when somebody finally realized that a slappie doesn’t need a head. Here and there on the bunks were real slappies, sacked out in their undies with blankets on their heads to keep out the light.
“That’s the night shift,” Dev said. “Gotta git they sleep.”
“Shut thee fuck up!” one of them said. Dev kept talking.
“Kris, you gonna be here. Rack 18. Tommy . . . Let us see . . . . Yes right. Number 7 is empty. Good deal too—Kris has to sleep in a double; you get a rack to youself. Without thee penthouse, sorry! You know, there is a real penthouse at thee top a thee hotel. Lord Mountbatten sleep in this penthouse once!”
Lying on bunk number 7 was a gray plastic mattress and a gray wool blanket, loosely “folded.” At the foot of the bunk was a wooden shelf with a broken back. Dev said it would be plenty good for my browns. My boots could go under the rack. “That’s one rule we got—no boots in thee aisle, dog! Obvious reason! Well, the john’s right over there. Ver’ con-veen-i-ent for gittin up in thee night.” I glanced sideways and saw a wooden door hanging from its hinges as if permanently ajar, and behind it a set of steel toilets. No seats, but after the shit holes at the barracks, it seemed like a new invention.
“Well,” Dev said, “there’s two shifts in this hotel. There’s 5 p.m. to 5 a.m., that’s thee night shift. Then there is 5 a.m. to 5 p.m., that’s thee day shift. Which is thee shift you on. Which means it’s near time for you chow. Thee other slaps comin back pret’ soon. They be tellin you what you do. Later mon.”
He went away, leaving Kris and me standing clueless, adjusting our shorts and spinning our caps in our hands. But Dev was right. Pret’ soon the barred door swung open and a mob of slaps came striding in, smelling of wet hair and shower soap. Anyone who’d seen Dev’s froofy, ear-length hair knew that the King George wasn’t into the bald look. The idea was immediately confirmed by the cries we heard—“Hey peanut head!”, “Nother buncha cue balls!”, “Fresh eggs, right from thee Coop!”–as the day crew of Barrack 2 gathered itself to inspect us. Eighteen to 35 years old; typical mix of races. All happy to be at the end of their shift.
“Yeah,” one of them said. “Not exackly what I expectin, but you gotta take what you git.” The slappie attached to the voice was a nondescript white at the upper end of the age range. “OK slaps,” he continued, “I’m Wing. I’m thee boss in here. I give thee work orders.”
“Yay Wing!” someone sang out. “Tell em who’s boss!” General laughter.
“Shut up, assholes! Like I was sayin, this is Housekeepin, mon, an I give thee work orders. I need somebody on floors, and I need somebody on rooms.” He looked back and forth at Kris and me. “OK, mon, you be cleanin thee floors,” he said to Kristian. “Pree, over there, he be tellin you what to do.” The slap named Pree made a hand motion. He was an Indian, and I could see Kristian wince. Maybe Dev had worn him out. Or maybe he was a bigot. If so, he would have a great life as a slap on St. Bevons. “An you,” he continued, meaning me, “gonna be cleanin thee rooms.”
It seemed that Wing felt the need to explain his decision. “Doan want thee guest mistakin thee slap that’s cleanin they johns for some sweet lil punk that’s workin its way through college. Don’t want them marryin they daughters off to no slappie boy like this” (pointing at Kristian). Laughter. “That’s why you,” that is me “are thee new slap on rooms. Dave here, he the lead slap on that.” Dave was either a very dark-skinned white or a very light-skinned black. He was short, and he had a thick, pushy body. Twenty-eight, 29. Not in the “lil punk” category.
So much for Wing’s talent agency. As soon as Kris and I had learned our fates, it was time for Barrack 2 to go to the big room for chow. It was only about 5 p.m., but yeah, that must be the shift’s last meal of the day.
There were slaps from the other barracks pushing into the room, and it took a while for me to squeeze my stool under a table. The talk was the kind you’d expect. Lots of comments about people I didn’t know, and lots of punchlines that made no sense to me. The only one I understood was, “So I said, No sir, I can’t take a tip. If I could, I wouldn’t be here sir.”
I kept my head down and listened. Finally, to have something to say, I asked, “Where’s Boss Derek?” That was a hit. Everybody at the table started repeating what I said and laughing at me for being such a dweeb. “Where de man! Where de MAN! Dude, he ain’t never goan eat with no slappies like us. He be eatin back in his ROOM, foo’! Eatin with thee security boys! Eatin, or maybe somethin else! Get thee picture, dude?”
I got the picture.
Meanwhile, I was dealing with the food that was being ladled out by a couple of kitchen slaps. What was in that mound of dark stuff on my little steel plate? I put my spork in, and it turned out to be last night’s boeuf bourguignon. Last night’s, or the night before’s. I’d had that dish myself, in the Oak Room upstairs. Now I was having it again: cooked, recooked, scraped off, and mashed together so it could be sent downstairs for a second try.
It took me a while to get the shit down, but the kitchen boys were ready to wipe off the tables, so I gulped hard and finished. Afterwards I watched the inevitable card games until it seemed to be time to drift back to the rack. I hung my browns on a rusty hanger I found under the bunk and fell asleep looking forward to learning my new job–cleaning up after people like I was, when I was a person.
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