“But,” I remonstrated, “last time I had on six and you told me to put on five!”
“Yes, yes, but I expect you to use your common sense!”
That was his invariable comeback. And always followed by his patient:
“You see, it's dis vay—If you put on too much the hotel, vhy, dey lose money, and of course you see it's dis vay: naturally” (that was a pet word of Schmitz's), “naturally the hotel don't vant to lose money—you can see dat for yourself. Now on the odder hand if you don't put on enough, vhy of course you see it's dis vay, naturally a guest vants to get his money's vorth, you can see dat for yourself—you've just got to use your common sense, you can see dat for yourself.” Not once, but day after day, night after night. Poor, poor Mrs. Schmitz! Verily there are worse things than first-degree murder and intoxication.
But for all that Schmitz deigned not to allow it to be known that my scrubbings found favor in his sight, my own soul approved of me. The shelves and the sink I scrubbed. Then every perishable article in my ice chest or elsewhere got placed upon trays to go upstairs. By this time it was two minutes to nine. Schmitz, always with his hands clasped behind him, except when he was doing over everything I did, said, “You can go now.”
Upstairs among the lockers on the third floor the temperature was like that of a live volcano, only nothing showed any signs of exploding. Fat women who could speak little or no English were here and there puffily dismantling, exchanging the hotel work-uniform for street garments. Everyone was kindly and affectionate. One old Irishwoman came up while I was changing my clothes.
“Well, dearie, and how did it go?”
“Sure it went swell.”
“That's good. The Lord bless ye. But there's one bit of advice I must be giving ye. There's one thing you must take care of now. I'm tellin' ye, dearie, you must guard your personality! I'm tellin' ye, there 're the men y' know, but guard y' personality!”
I thanked her from the bottom of my heart and said I'd guard it, surest thing she knew.