“Oh, the good Lord and the Virgin Mary bless ye, child!” And she patted me affectionately on the back.
Indeed, I had been getting affectionate pats most of the time, though the majority of them were from the male help. The composite impression of that first day as I took my way home on the sticky Subway was that the world was a very affectionate place, nor was I quite sure just what to do about it.
The second morning I was given a glimpse of what can be done about it. As I was waiting for the elevator on the service floor to be taken down to work, a very attractive girl came along and immediately we became chummy. She had been at the hotel three weeks; her job was to cut fruit. Had she done this sort of work long? Not in this country, but in Europe. Just one year had she been in America. At that moment two youths passed. I saw nothing, but quick as a flash my new friend flared up, “You fresh guy—keep your hands to yourself!” So evidently that's the way it's done. I practiced it mentally. “Lots o' fresh guys round here,” I sniffed. “You said it,” muttered the still ruffled fruit cutter.
Downstairs, Kelly was waiting with a welcoming nod—Kelly, the unpernickety steward. Everyone was as friendly as if we had been feeding humanity side by side these many years. During the rush the waiters called out as they sped by: “Hi there, little one!” “There's the girlie!” “Ah there, sweetheart!” Verily the world is an affectionate place. If a waiter had an order to give he passed the time of day as he gave it and as he collected his order.
“And how's the little girl to-day?”
“Tiptop—and yourself?”
“A little low in spirits I was to-day until I seen you'd come—an' then. You love me as much as you did yesterday?”
“Move on there. W'at y' a-doin' talkin' to my girl! Now, honey, I'm tellin' you this here guy is too fresh for any lady. I'd like one order of romaine lettuce, bless your sweet heart, if it won't be tirin' your fingers too much. That's the dearie—I'm back in a moment.”
Across the way, arms resting on the counter, head ducked under the upper shelf, leaned a burly redheaded helper to the Greek.
Every time the pantry girl looked his way he beamed and nodded and nodded and beamed. “How you lak?” “Fine!” More beams and nods. Soon a waiter slipped a glass of ice coffee, rich in cream and sugar, under my counter. Beams and nods fit to burst from the assistant coffee man across the way. Beams and nods from the pantry girl. Thus every day. Our sole conversation was, “How you lak?” “Fine!” He said the rest with coffee.