The Third Generation (30 page)

William entered the high school across the street that month. He remembered his mother as he’d last seen her and missed the poignancy of her gradual aging which so affected Charles. He was a brilliant student and very popular with the teachers and pupils alike. Soon the house was filled with “boys and girls who flocked about him. Except for Ramsey Douglas all his new friends were white. William could not see that they were white and never thought of it. They never thought of him as colored. They achieved an intimacy that was wonderful. But whenever Charles came into the group they lost it.

Charles seldom took part in his brother’s activities. Their interests had grown apart. He was away from home a great deal of the time, and most of his evenings were spent with Harvard and his friends of the Gnothi Seautons. For a time he had a new girl, whom he took to the St. Valentine’s Day dance. They were late getting out and the streetcars had stopped running. He set out for home walking, singing softly to himself:

It’s three o’clock in the morning

We’ve danced the whole night through…

Two inches of fresh snow had fallen. The old houses flanking the car-lined street were dark and asleep and the park was blanketed with the new white snow. Slanting his hat at a jaunty angle, he became Hermes on winged sandals, bearing a message to Zeus. He could be anything he wanted to at night. It was pleasant to be Hermes through the deserted night.

The days sped swiftly in dreams and it was March before he found a job. His father sent him to a large eastside hotel to interview his old friend, Dick Small, who worked there as the headwaiter.

Charles arrived while breakfast was being served. Across from the elevators two pretty young white women sat in a glass-enclosed booth checking the room service orders. Brisk young waiters with shiny pomps and dark smooth faces, swinging their trays as dancers balanced urns, paraded swiftly past their sharp smiling eyes, hurrying into the elevators. They looked up at Charles as he hovered indecisively, and smiled. He asked for Mr. Small. One of them told him to be seated on the bench beside their booth.

He sat, fiddling nervously with his hat, and looked across the kitchen. Great ranges caught in stark white li loomed in the center of confusion. About them milled the waiters, pushing and quarrelsome, voices cutting across voices, panting with a senseless fury, their bright white smiles and unctuous manners saved for the guests in the dining room. Charles was frightened by what seemed to him a meaningless pandemonium. His first impulse was to slip silently away and forget that he’d ever been there. He’d come up on the elevator but he looked for the door to the stairs.

Before he could escape, a slight, balding man with birdlike movements and bright, dark eyes, impeccably attired, came into the kitchen and beckoned to him. He hurried across the room.

“You’re Charles Taylor.”

“Yes sir.”

The bright dark eyes searched him with a glance, scanned his fingernails, dug into his ears, observed the neatness of his hair, the cleanness of his collar, the polish of his shoes, but so briefly that Charles saw only the warm, cordial smile.

“Son, I’ve known your father for forty years. We went to school together. Professor Taylor is one of the finest men I know. Come into my office.”

He turned away so quickly Charles had to leap to follow. They entered a dressing room off from the kitchen which contained a desk and couch. A row of spotless tuxedoes hung neatly down one wall. Mr. Small sat behind the desk and waved Charles to a chair. A moment later a waiter entered with breakfast and silently served them.

“Son, waiting is an old and honorable profession,” Mr. Small said. “I wouldn’t hire a man who condescended toward it.”

“Oh, I don’t feel that way about it,” Charles replied, thinking of the hard, hurried confusion he’d just seen. “I just don’t know if I would fit. Everything seems so hurried.”

“In waiting tables time is the essence, son. Your guests must be served with rapidity. The leisure belongs to the guests, never to the waiter.”

“But they sound so—well, violent. You’d think they were going to fight.”

Mr. Small laughed. “When my waiters stop fighting at the ranges it is time for me to worry. But don’t let that worry you, son. A good waiter and a good chef always get along. I’m going to put you on as a bus boy at sixty dollars a month. The waiters will share their tips. Can you carry a tray?”

“I think so.”

“I’ll put you on room service until you learn. If you want to learn, I’ll teach you. No matter what your aim is in life, waiting tables is a good profession to know. Many of our most prominent men got their start waiting table.”

“I want to learn.”

“Good. You’ll never regret it.”

He sent Charles to the housekeeper, a doughy-faced woman with cold, suspicious eyes, for his white jacket, after which Charles found his way below to the locker room. The men sat about in their undershirts, smoking, talking desultorily. A few gambled with greasy cards on the dirty benches. They eyed him critically, without warmth. He felt like an intruder, a tourist who has wandered upon the ceremonial rites of a primitive tribe. He didn’t know it was his manner that set him apart. At one glance they knew he was not of them. He had none of the extroversion the occupation requires. Inside he was taut with timidity. Outwardly he strove to show a hard indifference. Silently the waiters resolved to break him in; none offered any assistance. He blundered about helplessly, looking for an empty locker. He was inarticulate; he didn’t have the humility to confess ignorance, ask questions. He’d never been able to meet new people, be congenial in strange circumstances. He knew he’d never like it here. Again he had the impulse to throw down his jacket and leave. Just quitting was always the easiest put. But his new feeling of responsibility to his parents held him; he couldn’t quit.

Silently he hung his coat and overcoat in a locker that was occupied, and donned his jacket. He didn’t have a black tie. There was one in the locker across from him. He took it without asking and left the room. It was like walking through a gauntlet to reach the door. Upstairs he found the women checkers relaxing in their booth, drinking tea. He asked for Captain Jackson.

They smiled at him. “He’s in the locker room.”

“Oh.” He started to move away.

“He’ll be up shortly,” one of them said. “Are you going to work room service?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“My name is Theresa and this is Marguerite—they call her Margy. What’s yours?”

“Charles.” He resented their kindness.

“Where you from, Charles?” Margy asked.

“From?” He didn’t understand her.

“Where did you work before?”

“Oh. I just went to school,” he admitted reluctantly. “I just graduated.”

“Didn’t you ever do this kind of work before?” Theresa asked.

“No.”

“It’s really easy. You’ll catch on quick.” He looked skeptical. “You’ll like it,” she said.

“I doubt it,” he said, but he had to smile. Their warm, outgoing friendliness had encouraged him despite himself. He liked them. “I suppose the first hundred years are the hardest,” he grinned suddenly.

“Look, he’s got dimples!” Theresa exclaimed, her eyes dancing with delight.

“Don’t corrupt my new boy with all your charm,” a soft, mellow voice said at Charles’s side. “He’ll be walking about in a daze soon enough.”

Charles started guiltily, turning toward the tall, brown, ascetic-looking man in rimless spectacles. “Oh! Captain Jackson, Mr. Small told me to report to you.”

“He didn’t tell you to report to these young ladies,” Mr. Jackson said with a dead-pan expression.

“No, sir, I was looking for you. I just stopped to ask—”

“Don’t be so mean to the boy, Jack,” Theresa said.

Mr. Jackson smiled. Charles relaxed.

“These young ladies cause more havoc on my station than a four-alarm fire,” Mr. Jackson warned. “You must inure yourself against their charms, son. You won’t be able to find the elevators.”

The young women laughed. “You know that isn’t so, Jack. You couldn’t get along without us.”

“Come along, son,” Mr. Jackson said.

As Charles followed he turned to smile at the two young women who smiled in return. Mr. Jackson took him into the small south dining room reserved for parties and assigned him to sorting silver, folding napkins and filling salt cellars. It was dim and quiet. He worked alone. All of his nature rebelled against the job. He was the servant of servants, required to take orders from everyone. He felt helpless and trapped, knowing all the while it was too much emotion to expend on such a simple job. But he couldn’t help it. He was too ingrown to control the emotional impact of the place.

Lunch was served. He went up on the elevators, entered the rooms of strangers, rolled out the wheel trays of dirty dishes. He stacked the dirty dishes in the big tin trays, the silver and the cups and saucers, the plates and coffeepots, rode the elevator down and carried the trays through the mad confusion of the kitchen to the dishwashers. The waiters shouted at him, “Watch out, boy!”…“Step lively, son!”…“One side, punk, one side!”…They pushed him aside. He clung to his tray with his left hand, balanced it on his right. Once in the elevator a coffeepot fell off. Reaching for it, he upset his tray. Soiled china shattered on the elevator floor, silver rang. At the kitchen level he had to get broom and mop and clean up the mess. The two young women a few feet off smiled sympathetically. The waiters stopped to look at the debris. Some were angry at being held up, others kidded him cruelly. The bus boys jeered. His face flamed fiery red. He felt sick to the bone with infinite shame. Captain Jackson looked at him curiously. The dishwashers screamed at him when he brought the tray of silver and broken china.

“Take it away! Take it away! Take it away!”

“Where?”

“Dump it in Lake Erie.”

He picked up the tray and started off. A waiter pushed him aside. Finally one of the older waiters said, “Take out the silver and throw away the broken dishes, son.”

After that he went about his duties with a mute antagonism. Ignorant bastards, they didn’t like him, he thought. To hell with them! He’d finish out the day and never come back. To hell with that kind of job! When it came time for him to eat he had no appetite. He dreaded going to the range and asking for his food. He picked at his plate in silence.

“Kind of got you up a tree, eh, kid?” one of the fellows said with a peculiar smile.

He didn’t answer. Then finally the day was over. He hurried to get away.

“Good night, Charles,” Theresa called.

He turned and found the two young women smiling at him.

“Good night,” he said, smiling in return.

“See you tomorrow,” Margy said.

“I doubt it,” he replied.

His mother asked him how he liked the job.

“I don’t like it. I don’t think I’ll stay.”

“It’s just until September,” she reminded him. “If you stay on until then it will be a great help toward your expenses in college this fall.”

“I’ll get something else. I don’t like that kind of work.”

“You’ll get used to it, son,” his father said. “It’s strange at first. But when you get to know the fellows it’ll be different.”

“I don’t want to know the fellows,” he maintained stubbornly.

“You must learn, son, you can’t have everything just as you would like it,” his mother said sadly.

“No, Mother,” he replied with a tightening of the lips that made them look so much alike. “No, I can’t. But there’s nothing that says I have to take it if I don’t like it.”

She winced from the hardness of his manner. All of the old worry and trepidation stirred in her again. “You just watch,” she warned. “You’re going to make your bed hard.”

He looked at her with glinting eyes. “Sometimes it’s hard either way.”

She let the subject drop. But that night, finding him alone in the kitchen, she tried again.

“You mustn’t give up so easily, son. I know it isn’t always pleasant, but you must learn to stick it out. Your grandparents—my parents—started in life without a cent. When they were—”

“I know, Mother, I know all about it,” he interrupted rudely. “You’ve told me about it a thousand times.”

She lit the fire beneath the kettle to make a cup of tea, and sat watching him finish his sandwich and glass of milk. Except for his hair, he looked a great deal like her oldest sister, Maggie, she mused. But he didn’t have Maggie’s push.

“Has Mother ever told you about your great-grandfather, Dr. Jessie Manning? He was in the United States Senate before the Civil War.” There was the queer note of pride in her voice which he despised.

“Yes, you’ve told me all about all of ‘em,” he said harshly.

She was suddenly saddened by his attitude. Why couldn’t he realize his great potentialities? Why couldn’t he be proud of himself?

“You must never forget it, my son,” she said in a tear-filled voice. “You children have the blood of conquerors flowing in your veins.”

Looking up, he saw the age and disappointment in her face, and was instantly contrite. “I know, Mother; I’m sorry I talked like I did.”

“You must learn to surmount the petty obstacles that arise in your path, my son.”

“All right, I’ll go back tomorrow,” he consented. But afterwards he was angry with her for forcing him to do something he didn’t want to do.

Everything was different the next morning. His initiation was over. He’d come back. In the locker room, while he was changing, the fellows were friendly and helpful. They joshed him about dropping the tray.

“You know what to do when you got a bear by the tail?”

“What?”

“Let it go, boy, let it go!”

He laughed. Now he felt more assured, less timid. When he went upstairs to report for work he didn’t feel as if he were going to his execution.

A good-looking, brown-skinned boy approached him and said, “My name’s Roy. You’re gonna work with me this morning.”

“Okay, Roy. Mine’s Charles.”

Roy stopped to chat with the checkers. He was a favorite with them.

“How’s God’s gift to the teenagers?” Theresa greeted him, smiling.