No Gratuities, Please

Cindy walked in and said, “Your break is over,” meaning it was her time to sit a spell.

I had been slumped in a cheap vinyl overstuffed chair with my feet on the coffee table quietly studying the Oregon rain as I smoked a cigarette. I came from arid country and had seen more rain in the six months I’d been in the Willamette Valley than I recalled from my 23 years in Idaho.

There were so many types of rain. Today wasn’t a downpour but instead a fine mist that softly covered the garden outside the window.

I groaned a little when getting out of the chair. I didn’t want to go back on the floor to clear place settings off dining room tables, set them again and serve lunch at my esteemed place of employment, Valley Acres Retirement Center.

Breakfast had been hell. The residents had been exceptionally picky, and I silently fumed: poached eggs were runny (ever seen one that wasn’t?), ‘where’s my Raisin Bran?’ (you’ve been eating Grape Nuts for the past month), ‘this prune juice tastes bad’ (of course it does, it’s prune juice), ‘where’s the salt? (for the umpteenth time: you’re on a low sodium diet).

And maybe I was in a foul mood from staying up too late the night before wrestling with algebra. I was struggling even though I had been a decent math student in high school.

Jerry, my live-in boyfriend, and I had left good jobs to move west so I could finally get a college degree. I’d piddled around in Idaho taking classes part-time at the local college but really wanted to attack school full-time, but not in Idaho. I picked University of Oregon. Jerry was all for it, so we packed it up and headed west.

We were naïve about college towns, thinking that with Jerry’s bachelor’s degree and nearly a decade of experience, he could find a decent paying job and along with the money I’d saved, I could be a kept woman while I went to school.

That bubble burst within the first month. We learned college towns are full of over-qualified people who can’t stand the thought of leaving the cultural mecca for life in the hinterlands where Folgers is the only coffee in the pot and cultural events are mostly at the State Fair.

You couldn’t get a foot in the middle management door without at least a master’s degree and then had to settle for a salary so low it wouldn’t pay the expensive rent.

Not that Jerry ever got a chance at one of those jobs. He did finally manage to land tree planting work and adapted quickly to the custom and culture of that kind of crew, which was to drink a ton of beer between the job and home with at least one stop at a bar. That kind of behavior was more-or-less expected in our home state, but not so much in Oregon. He had to quit when he got the DUI. He hired on with the local mill, but it closed down after the second paycheck.

His unemployment checks couldn’t cover our nut, so I cast around for a part-time job to make ends meet. I found a weekend gig at Valley Acres as a “Dietary Hostess,” schlepping breakfast and lunch to 80 well-heeled old folks then bussing those tables and resetting them for the next meal.

I didn’t excel at this job. I wasn’t bright and bubbly like Cindy, the second server in the dining room.

The elders I’d known growing up ate whatever food was placed in front of them. Not one of them lived in a retirement home.

I’d done a hitch at a nursing home right after graduating high school so knew Valley Acres folks were closer to retirees than standard residents at a care facility. These people came into the dining hall under their own steam, some with walkers or canes but no wheelchairs. Everyone dressed as if they were going out to eat in public with shoes polished, hair combed and styled, wearing nice clothes and some jewelry. They all seemed to have come from money and were used to being served.

Back on the floor that day, all my place settings were there waiting for attention but Adrian, one of the residents who liked to keep busy, had started bussing. Today I finally asked, “Why don’t you put the forks tine side down in the tub? Wouldn’t they soak better?”

His response, “Not enough room. You’d have to make more than one trip.”

Having run the dishwasher a time or two in the kitchen, I’d have to vote for tines down.

Norma, the recreation director, bounced in and chirped, “Adrian! It’s time to go shopping. We’re all waiting in the van.” She always bounced into a room. Never just walked through the door. She had a cheerful voice that matched her sunny disposition.

“Oh, Cindy’s not going to get this done if I don’t help,” Adrian said.

After three months they still couldn’t remember my name. Cindy was their favorite, so I guess it was a compliment.

“It’s OK Adrian, I can finish,” I said.

He left and I continued my task, humming the Nilsson lyrics, “I’d rather be dead than wet my bed… I’ll tie my tie ‘til the day I die…” That song, along with John Prine’s “Hello in There” ran through my head nearly every weekend.

I had little in common with my co-workers. None were students and few had done much other than work the nursing home circuit. In the break room they mostly gossiped about people I didn’t know or recounted what was on TV the previous night. I mostly eves-dropped on their chit chat because they rarely spoke to me directly. They’d questioned me early on about where I came from and if I had a husband and kids. Then they ignored me.

Lunch that day went better than breakfast. I left around 2 p.m. and went home for a beer and another round of studying.

Then it was up at 4:30 a.m. to get to my shift at 5:30 a.m. I wasn’t too happy that my hips and belly were rapidly outgrowing my white uniform.

Ernie was in a lobby chair watching TV when I checked in. He was one of the early risers. I guessed he was in his early 80s. He was freshly shaved, hair combed, and he had dressed in slacks and an ironed button-down shirt.

“Hey Ernie. How are you this morning?”

“Fair to middlin’. What did the little boy say when the teacher asked what he would do if he broke his arm in two places?”

“What?”

“I’d avoid those two places from now on.”

“Good one.”

“Did you go out dancing last night?” he asked.

“No.”

“I always went dancing on Saturday nights. You know you can get a girl giddy by mixing Coke with aspirin?”

I wondered if he drank Coke back when there was cocaine in it. That would make a girl giddy. I found that rum in my Coke made me giddy.

I also wondered if I’d ever have a Sunday morning off again to go dancing on Saturday night.

Then I went off to fill water and juice glasses, place cold cereal boxes in front of bowls, and check cards to make sure everyone was present. A missing place card meant the diner was off to the hospital or the mortuary.

Dave, head cook, and Lydia, his assistant, were cranking out mass amounts of oatmeal and some powdered egg concoction in the kitchen. Dave was in his early 30s, tall and a tad overweight (who wasn’t in this place?), and kept his full head of hair combed back like Elvis. Lydia was closer to 50, average height with a few gray hairs and the physique of a gal who never thought to exercise.

Dave was OK. He could be funny but was usually grumpy. Lydia was chief gossip in the break room and loyal to Dave. He and Lydia took pride in their work and did what they could with #10 cans of fruit and vegetables and “select” cuts of meat to make things edible.

Working the floor that day I watched Cindy work magic on her side of the room. She called residents pet names, flirted, laughed, took their petty complaints seriously, and generally made them feel important. No wonder they remembered her name.

I was polite but that was it.

I began to think the weather that winter was a direct reflection of my situation in life. Clouds hung low sending occasional hard rain but mostly drizzle. Temperatures remained in the mid-forties and the light continuously passed through a gray filter. Winds came and went as they brought one storm front after another. I was always cold. A sunny day was a distant memory.

Jerry and I kept our heads down, pinched pennies, and eventually he got a job as a short-order cook at a local restaurant, one job he certainly wasn’t qualified to do. He hadn’t cooked a meal in the two years we’d lived together.

Meanwhile I slogged through the job and school. I was beginning to think my choice of business college was a mistake. Class subjects didn’t pique my interest, and my fellow students didn’t seem to have a sense of humor and only cared about money. I didn’t have anything against financial stability, but didn’t dream of riches.

I did, however, embrace all the P.E. classes I was required to take. And I passed algebra by some miracle.

One Sunday beef stew was for lunch. This was not unusual.

What was odd was Harry, a dapper old gentleman (who could be fussy as hell) asked for a second helping. I was surprised because Harry was generally a light eater.

“Sure,” I said.

“This is the best beef stew I’ve ever eaten,” he said.

I wondered how that could be, since Harry had been eating that stew at least twice a month since I’d started. But I had to admit that Dave did do a good job with it.

“I’ll tell Dave you said so.”

After the second bowl Harry asked for another helping. I was worried the little guy might explode from putting that much food away.

He sat at the table after everyone had left.

When I was clearing nearby, he asked, “Did you know I used to be a banker?”

Of course I didn’t. I knew nothing about these people other than how they liked their tea.

“I’m not surprised,” I said. Harry dressed well and had a fine-looking cane. He carried himself with an air of authority.

“I am 88 years old,”

“Oh,” I said, a little surprised at the number. He seemed younger than that.

“I came to this place when my heart started acting up. My daughter’s husband had to move to Boston for work. I didn’t want to move all that way, or at least that’s what they told me.”

It’s funny how that little bit of information affected me. Harry was no longer just a stick figure in the dining room. He was a person who had lived a full life and was now stuck in the John Prine song. I felt bad for him but didn’t know what to say, so just muttered, “I see” and moved to the next table.

Harry finally stood up and ambled out of the room, his cane tapping a little faster than usual.

When I cleared his spot there was a five-dollar bill under the plate. I smiled. How sweet. I knew it was for Dave but was tempted to keep it. This was the 1970s and five bucks would buy a six pack, chips and dip — an evening of decadence for Jerry and me. Harry would never know the difference.

But I took it back to the kitchen and laid the bill out on the counter next to where Dave was working.

“What’s this?” he said.

“It’s a tip,” I said. “Maybe the only one you’ll get in this job.”

He stared at the money. “For me? Who did this?”

“Harry. He’s had your stew every other Sunday for years, but today he liked it a LOT.”

Dave shook his head. “I can’t take it — against the rules.”

I hadn’t expected this and was a little alarmed. Harry would be crushed if it wasn’t accepted. “It’s not like you’re stealing from him,” I said. “He can afford five bucks and he wants you to have it.”

Dave shoved the bill in his pocket. “OK.”

I went back to work the following Saturday. I noticed Harry’s place card was missing.

I asked Cindy where he was and she said, “He died early last week.”

Inevitable, right? Eighty-eight with a bad heart. I did think, “At least he had some good beef stew before he went.”

On morning break I found a spot by the window and propped my feet against the sill and studied the light rain cascading down onto the garden.

Dave came in and sat next to me. This was unusual. He never sought me out. I looked up from my study of grey on green to see he was agitated.

He immediately volunteered, “I took the money back to Harry last Sunday.”

My stomach churned. “You did?”

“Yeah.” He lit a cigarette and looked intently out the window. “I took a nurse with me. Harry got really mad. Said he’d been tipping people all his life. The nurse got on his case and told him he couldn’t break the rules. Harry threw the money on the floor. He tried to argue again but couldn’t because he started crying. Crying. That was awful. The nurse picked up the money and stuck it on his dresser and we left.”

Dave waited for me to say something, but I sat there dumbstruck. Intense sadness enveloped me.

Dave added, “Harry died the next day. I think I killed him.”

I studied the wet outside as Dave smoked. I thought about how a man who spent his whole life acquiring wealth and influence, then hung on as best he could to his dignity, could be brought to his knees by a stupid policy.

Could five dollars really kill a man? Outrage and despair paired with a bad heart, an emotional outburst, and yeah, it probably sent him to the Great Beyond.

Finally, I told Dave what he wanted to hear, “Harry was old. He had a bad heart. His number was up.”

“You think so?”

“Sure.”

Dave wiped away his tears as he left.

I didn’t stay at that job much longer. I found a school program that offered a work study job closer to my field, which was not business after all. Jerry learned to make good pies at his restaurant job but ultimately moved back to Idaho for work in his field.

When I think about Harry I don’t see the death of an 88-year-old as a tragedy. He’d had a long life. What still bothers me is that a person who once was a mover and a shaker, had a busy life, experienced hardship and happiness, did remarkable things, had stories to tell, is eventually shelved, and subject to arbitrary rules of others.

Many of the elderly accept this as their lot.

Harry did but in the end, it broke his heart.