HR was no problem. Bill did that on the Friday before he reported to work. The lady was nice, pleasant, unassuming, mommy-like, efficient. He was relieved when they did not fingerprint him or send him for fingerprinting.
All hotels, as Bill would discover, have a whole side to them that the public never sees, or rarely sees, which is surely not meant to be seen. For those who work in the hotel, entry to that inside inside, the belly of the beast, begins every day at the service entrance.
Bill went in that first day a bit apprehensive, feeling shy and a touch scared. He was met by hotel security, an old, fat man with a belly hanging over his belt. He was the guardian of the labyrinth.
This man, Paul, led Bill just a few steps away toward a windowed counter where another man sat. He was the timekeeper, another older man, another man Bill assessed as a long-timer, an old-timer. He appeared to be quite happily ensconced in his space.
The interplay was simple and quick. The man, who did not introduce himself, asked Bill his name and then promptly produced a time card for him. The card had a machine-printed label with his name and his work number on it. Bill was told to memorize the number and refer to it in the future at punch-in and punch-out. Eventually, of course, they would get to know each other, and Steven, not Steve, would be ready with Bill’s card in hand as Bill got to the window.
Security Paul led Bill into the inner depths of the back of the house. He led him through a huge kitchen to the chef’s office where Bill was welcomed. The chef picked up a house phone and a few moments later a man appeared, obviously a cook from the looks of his uniform. Bill assessed him at about forty. He was trim, slight, had a dark mustache and a heavy accent, a Greek accent, Bill would find out.
Jimmy Ganotis was his name. Jimmy smiled broadly, reached out his hand to shake hands with Bill. The chef told Jimmy Bill was the new broiler cook, to take him to get a locker and uniforms, then to show him around, take him on the rounds and get him settled into his job.
So off they went.
Jimmy was apparently very happy. He had been working without regular help for more than a month. Every night he had help for the busy time, but he was opening and closing all by himself and working more hours than he wanted to. He was making money, but he didn’t want to work late every night.
Bill found all this out on the way to the laundry and the locker room. They were two different places, not exactly next to each other.
At the laundry, a cute girl, maybe around Bill’s age, issued Bill three uniforms. She smiled sweetly at him as she did so.
“My name’s Millie,” the girl said. “And you are?”
“Bill,” Bill said.
“Well, Bill,” Millie said, “you come see me often.” She shifted on her feet behind her counter, as if to accentuate her skinny little body. “I’m here almost every day. Don’t you be shy cause I’ll give you whatever you want.”
“That’s good to know” Bill said.
“I’m not kidding,” Millie said. She stepped back from her counter far enough so Bill could see her fully. She was thin, Alfreda thin, Marie thin, cinnamon colored, sort of. Bill thought maybe half black, half Latino. He could see she was wearing a housedress, button down the front. It fell below her knees. On her feet she wore slippers, flats, open-toe.
She smiled one last time at Bill as he gathered up the three hangers on which she’d hung his pants and jackets.
“See you tomorrow,” she said, again smiling. This time Bill saw she had dimples. “Turn in the dirty one every day, get a clean one. Keep two as extra in case…”
