In Which Brief Stories Are Told

Housekeeping

Housekeeping Not many guests leave tips these days, which is why I’ll remember them. A five-spot every morning beside the TV . And cheerful in a meaningful way. Not Good morning! as some kind of obligation. Honestly old school. Though mostly it was the woman, her face full of smile and a bright chirp to her voice, like a cardinal’s on the first real spring day. No effort to it. Even when they surprised me, coming back into the room as I was remaking the bed—I’d gone to see Francine for different sheets—they were super polite about it, almost as if they were the ones imposing. A nice-looking couple too, though he was maybe a few years her senior. I could count on my fingers the real tips I’ve gotten here, in the decade I’ve worked for Hilton, though overall we’re paid pretty decent, so I’m not complaining. And that’s not counting the change left behind—piles of pennies and dimes—mostly, I think, to avoid problems with security at O’Hare. And every so often some elderly couple at the end of a lengthy stay might leave a stack of ones—guilt money for the discount they’d gotten through AAA or AARP . They’ll have seen the room prices listed In Which Brief Stories Are Told 76 ) on the back of the door and worry that they’re cheating Mr. Hilton out of his retirement. So they leave a little extra. Old school, as I said. Tipping’s rare these days, even for those people willing to pay eighty bucks to see Donny Osmond in some kind of musical . Still, anything’s more than I got at the last place—I won’t mention it by name. Eighteen years I cleaned those toilets, chlorined the love-spit from the sheets, lined up the melon shampoo, and for what? Washcloths stained with beach grime, blood, red wine—even shoe polish!—and discarded every which way. Once I found fish heads wrapped in the bath towels—guts, fins, scales. Someone had used the hotel linen for cleaning their catch! And not a tip among them. It was out East. Fancy-smancy. I won’t say where. The guests would come for the whales—tour boats and sightings during migration —and it was more often men with men and women with women than families or couples, if you know what I mean. And no disrespect, but two men in a king are seldom the neat freaks portrayed on TV. This Hilton’s better, here in Chicago, and not because it’s where I grew up. I think it’s being in the Midwest. That couple just seemed midwestern, as I said, though she was the friendlier one, like she had some job that required her to be friendly—as a receptionist or a hostess or something—but it wasn’t enough to satisfy her, eight hours a day. More like friendliness was in her nature, and it spilled out naturally. The guy too, though he was more reserved than her, older. To be honest, I hardly deserved the tips. They reused their towels, put trash in the baskets, rinsed the glasses . . . The most I ever had to do was change the bedding. I left the day after they checked out. Retiring, I told Human Resources. I mean, I’ve got thirty-some years in altogether, and no reason to stay. There’s Will’s pension, Social Security in a few years, and Grace in California, living it up, no plans to provide Housekeeping ( 77 me with grandkids. So I tell Francine—she’s been with Hilton nearly as long as me—there’s no reason not to. It was the sheets that had done it. The grayish tinge in the middle, like a body’d laid there, unwashed, for a week. And those were the ones I put on clean. So I’m on my way down the hall to get another set, when the couple comes back for their coats—they decided to walk in Grant Park, cold as it was—and it’s like they’re embarrassed to interrupt. All apologetic. Their own room! So I put on the other sheets, but the tinge is still there. A kind of shadowy impression, like you’d see on one of those shrouds at the Field...