Working With the Working Woman

by Cornelia Stratton Parker

He leaned way over my counter.

“I got twenty-five dollars, and it's yours any time you say the word!”

It's words like that which sometimes don't get said.

For supper that night I sat at a table with a housekeeper, a parlor maid, and a seamstress, and listened to much talk. Mainly, it was a discussion of where the most desirable jobs were to be had in their respective lines. There was complete unanimity of opinion. Clubs headed the list, and the cream of cream were men's clubs. The housekeeper and parlor maid together painted a picture which would lead one to conclude that the happiest women in all New York City were the housekeepers in men's clubs. The work was light, they were well treated—it was a job for anyone to strive for. The type of men or women in clubs, they remarked, was ahead of what you'd draw in any hotel.

The parlor maid, an attractive, gray-haired woman—indeed, all three were gray-haired—was very pleased with her job at our hotel. She slept there and loved it. The rooms were so clean—your towels were changed daily just as for the guests. Sure she was very contented. If her mother were only alive—she died two years ago—she'd be the happiest woman in the world, she just knew it. But every single morning she woke up with an empty feeling in her heart for the longings after her mother.

My diary of Thursday of that first week starts: “The best day since I've been trying jobs—Glory be, it was rich!” And pages follow as to the wonders of that one day—wonders to me, who was after what the workers themselves think about the universe in general.

When I found how hard the Spanish woman I relieved at 1.30 had to work, how much more rushed she was from 6 to 1.30 than ever I was from 1.30 to 9, and when I learned, in addition, that she received no more pay for all her extra labors, I told her I would come early every day and help her during the rush. This is all good psychology and I give it for what it is worth. The first few days, this Thursday being one of them, she was very grateful—spoke often of how much it helped to have me there early. My last morning during my two weeks of the hotel job I was so rushed with final errands to do before leaving New York that it was impossible for me to arrive at work before 1.30, my regular and appointed time. The Spanish woman knew it was my last day. But she was so put out to think I had not arrived early that she whisked out of that compartment the second I arrived, only taking time to give me one fearful and unmistakable glare. Kelly caught the remnants of it as she swung by him. He sauntered over to my counter. “Say, the nerve of some people!”

That Thursday noon, I ate with the workers in the help's kitchen. So much talk! First there was a row on fit to rend the rafters. One of the Irish girls plumped herself down to eat and raved on about Lizzie, an Armenian girl, and something or other Lizzie had done or hadn't done with the silverware. Everyone was frank as to what each thought about Lizzie. Armenian stock was very low that day. Just then Lizzie appeared, a very attractive, neat girl who had been friendly and kind to me. I had no idea it was she about whose character such blusterous words were being spoken. With Lizzie and the Irish girl face to face—Heaven help us! I expected to see them at each other's throats. Such talk! Finally another Irish girl turned to the Armenian. “Why t'hell do you get so mad over it all, now?” Lizzie stopped, gave the second Irish girl a quizzical look. Slowly a smile spread over her face. She gave a little chuckle. “Ho! Why t'hell?” We all laughed and laughed, and the fight was off.

It seems Lizzie was known far and wide for her temper. She had been fired from waiting on the chefs because she let it loose in their dining room one night. Now they were trying her out up at our end of the service floor. Minnie, the oldest Irish woman at our table and in a decidedly ruffled mood that day, claimed it was the Armenian in her. “They're all like that. Shure, I got a Armenian helper—that kid over there. Wait till he says one word more to me. I'll bust a plate on his head and kick his prostrate form into the gutter. It'll be a happy day in my life!”

They all asked me about my work and how I liked it. Evidently mine was a job high in favor. “Shure you're left alone and no one to be under your feet or botherin' with y' every minute of the day. You're yo'r own boss.”