The Workers: An Experiment in Reality. The East — John Shaqi
The Workers: An Experiment in Reality. The EastWyckoff, Walter A. (Walter Augustus)
History
The Workers: An Experiment in Reality. The East
Wyckoff, Walter A. (Walter Augustus)
Unemployed -- United States; Working class -- United States
The bell rings. I run to the indicator, and then climb to the door that
bears the corresponding number. A lady asks for a pitcher of ice-water.
Unluckily the ice-chest is locked, and the key, I learn, is in the
keeping of the head-waiter. After hasty search, I find that official
seated on a rock in the shade behind the barn, conversing with some of
the hands. He tells me that there is no ice in the chest, and advises
my going to the ice-house. I do so with all possible speed, and am
fortunate enough to find a piece of loose ice not far below the surface
of saw-dust. Back to the kitchen I run with it, wash it, and chop it
into fragments. But all this has taken time; it is very hot, and the
lady, no doubt, is very thirsty. As I hand her the pitcher of water,
her caustic acknowledgment expresses anything but gratitude.
The verandas are no sooner swept for the afternoon than the stage
appears from the station. I must be in attendance to relieve the newly
arrived guests of their lighter luggage and, with the help of one of
the stable-boys, to carry their trunks to their rooms.
It was in such services as these that I met with an insuperable
difficulty. Before I launched upon the enterprise of earning my living
by manual labor I settled it with myself that I would shrink from no
honest work, however menial, that might fall within the range of my
experiment. I confess that, in my present avocation, when it came
to the necessity of cleaning the cuspidors used by a tobacco-eating
gentry, the task was accomplished only after hard setting of teeth,
and much involuntary contraction of muscles. But I hasten to let
fall a veil already too widely drawn from the hidden rites of a
porter's service. The difficulty in point was of another kind, and
had to do with tips. I was not unprepared for the emergency, for the
proprietor had hinted, in our first conversation, with every mark of
embarrassment, and with a tone of apology for the eight dollars a
month, that that amount was sure to be supplemented by gratuities.
It might have been different under other circumstances; but when I
had seen the guests and noted the unmistakable marks of residence in
cheap flats and low-rent suburban cottages, and realized the careful
husbanding of funds and the close calculation which make a summer
outing possible to them, their fees were some degrees beyond the
possible to me.
In the case of the luggage, it was easy to bow acknowledgment and to
decline in favor of Sam, the stable-boy, who, beaming with delight,
stood ready to receive gifts to any amount, and who loved me warmly.
But when I was alone with some guest in the act of a personal service,
the situation created by a proffered fee proved embarrassing to us
both, and was not to be relieved by bows and expressions of sincere
appreciation.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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