The Right Man for the Job Part 1

The Right Man for the Job

There are folks out there who would kill to have the summer job I had. Well, not kill, but some probably would have thrown a few punches. I have to admit, I was pleased with myself for landing a post at one of the greatest beachside resorts on the east coast. Nice scenery, decent pay, women walking around with less clothing than usual. On the surface, things seemed like they were going to be pretty carefree. And in terms of the work, that forecast was correct. But there were other factors that I wasn’t anticipating that made things a lot more interesting, and worth fighting about.
I showed up on time for my first day at Pecho Del Sol. There were several other twenty-somethings there at the front office, ready to be initiated as new employees. I suppose the place was looking to go younger. Once everyone arrived, this starchy woman named Paula (the lady running the show) ushered us into a small room with chairs and a television set. We watched a thirty-minute training video hosted by a perky young lady named Sandy. Every frame she was in she was flashing her huge smile, befitted with shimmering pearly whites. I wondered if Sandy still worked at Pecho Del Sol. Maybe she had never worked here at all and was just a paid actress. Maybe she had worked here during the time this video was filmed but quit some time after. If she had actually worked here, I couldn’t imagine she would have ever done something that would result in her being fired. She had to be the ideal worker if she wound up doing the video. I thought it might have been nice to meet Sandy. She was cute as a button.
The video highlighted how gargantuan and grandiose this particular getaway was. The thirty-eight-story hotel towered over the sprawling, palm-covered property. There were aerial shots of happy guests traversing the white sands of the beach shore. Others were jet skiing, water skiing, windsailing or fishing. If that wasn’t your thing, you could powerwalk, partake of the fitness center, or play shuffleboard. The more athletic could make good use of the golf course and tennis courts. The pool was quite expansive, and packed practically to capacity. Statues of majestic mermen doubled as fountains that shot water out of their fingertips. And there was Sandy, hitting up all the hotspots, showing us what to do and how to do it.
I was a little sad when the video ended, figuring in all likelihood I would never see Sandy again. But I didn’t have time to dwell on it, for Paula was back, handing out uniforms to all the new employees—yellow polo shirts. We were supposed to already have on khaki shorts to complete the ensemble.
“I want you all to go to the locker rooms and change. You’re expected to wear this everyday. Cleaning it is your responsibility. Wear tennis shoes; they’re good for mobility. Ladies, no heels—you don’t want to look like tramps. You can wear heels when you get up to my level,” Paula explained. The females murmured and chortled. None of them seemed to care about getting to her level. “If the shirts don’t fit, come back and find me and we’ll fit you for a different one. But you all look to be the same size, roughly.” A portly girl in our midst rolled her eyes. Paula continued, “When you’re done changing, just come back in here and I’ll assign you to your group.”
We dispersed. In the boys’ staff locker room, the other guys started talking about what girls they saw in the previous room they were hoping to be grouped with. I personally hadn’t paid very close attention thus far, so I didn’t have any opinions as of yet. But I did wonder if these girls would find me attractive. A lot of the guys in that locker room had much larger pectorals than I did. Not to mention their deltoids.
Back in the video room, Paula said we all looked like bottles of sunshine. Even the portly girl somehow managed to pull off the look, though her shirt looked like it would rip any moment. I think she was too proud to request a larger one.
I sat back in my seat and listened intently as Paula whipped out a neon pink clipboard with a single sheet of paper attached to it.
“Now I’m going to place you in groups of three,” Paula announced. “You will do everything with your group. For the first day you’ll have a current staff member showing you the ropes. From then on out, you’ll be doing everything yourselves. You won’t be doing the same thing everyday. There is a master list that tells you which tasks your group will perform on any given day. So when I call your name get into your groups. And then we’ll head outside so you can get started.”
I didn’t hear my name right off the bat. I looked around and saw my peers stand up once their name was called. They began forming their groups and introducing themselves. The tension mounted as she continued to call out names and I still didn’t hear mine. I thought maybe they scratched me from the list at the last minute and I would be turned out into the streets. That would’ve been embarrassing. I already put on the shirt. But then it finally came rolling off her lips:
“Clarence Kelso, Eleanor Di Papriccia, and Darlene Stockton.”
So I stood up and looked for the two others to stand up also. One was a blonde who had good posture. The other had dark brown hair that was tied behind her head in a haphazard way. She had a necklace that was more like a band that went right around her neck.
I meandered to an empty spot in the room and waited for them to follow me there. I had only seen the back of the dark-haired girl’s head up to this point, but now that I saw her face I realized that she was a real looker. She introduced herself as Eleanor. Darlene showed up behind her. I told them they could call me Kelso.
After grouping up, we went outside where a row of golf carts sat waiting. By each cart stood a staff member, wearing the uniforms and looking like veteran bottles of sunshine. This was where Paula took her leave of us. She was a busy woman after all. But before she left, she had some parting words for us.
“Remember that your number one priority here is to make other people happy. You may feel underappreciated for what you do, but just know that you are making things better. Now get moving, you spring chickens you.”
Darlene, Eleanor, and I filed into a random cart helmed by a forty-something African-American man named Timothy Borges, our purely coincidental black chauffer.
“You can call me Timbo,” he told us.
There were two upholstered seats in the front and a similarly upholstered bench in the back that faced the opposite direction. Eleanor took the front seat next to Timbo while Darlene and I took the seats in back. Then we were off.
“Some gig, right?” Darlene asked me.
“Some gig.”
“This place is enormous.”
“Absolutely.”
From my peripheral smelling, I came to the conclusion that Darlene’s hair smelled nice—like some kind of floral arrangement. But after I turned around to catch a whiff of Eleanor’s, I caught the scent of something grander—like fairies baking cookies inside of a floral arrangement. I found it interesting that Eleanor had the superior smelling hair despite its disheveled appearance. I didn’t share these findings aloud though. I hoped my own hair smelled good.
Our first stop was the bathroom, for Timbo had to empty his bladder pronto. The rest of us waited in the cart. Soon after Timbo entered, a short boy of fifteen or sixteen exited. He had on the yellow polo and khaki shorts, yet he was scowling. Not so much a bottle of sunshine. The three of us turned to him and stared.
He noticed us. “What do you want?” he asked.
“We’re new here,” Darlene said. “We’re just curious as to who you are.”
He looked at us, puzzled. Then he straightened up and said, “I’m Troy. Troy Detwiler. I’m the towel boy at the pool.” He pointed off into the distance towards the pool entryway. “It’s not open yet.”
We introduced ourselves to him. Then a rhyme struck me and I snickered.
“Towel Boy Troy,” I said. “Like Cowboy Troy.”
Darlene laughed. Eleanor didn’t. I don’t think she knew who Cowboy Troy was. And Troy was clearly not amused.
“Good one,” he mumbled.
“I’m just joshing. You seem angry. What’s eating you?”
“I don’t like being a towel boy. I want to do what you’re doing.”
“Well… why aren’t you?”
“They don’t think I’m mature enough.” His voice quivered with indignation.
Timbo returned and reclaimed the wheel. We bid Towel Boy Troy farewell and drove off.
We had a pretty rigorous day of learning the tricks of the trade. Moreover, the lunch break was short. The sun was hot. The guests were noisy. But at the end of the day, Darlene suggested we go to the hotel piano bar for drinks on her. Eleanor and I agreed. We ditched our work garb in the locker rooms and hunkered down to a nice frosty brew.
Darlene’s hair had surprisingly kept its nice shape throughout the day. Eleanor undid her hair and let it sprawl behind her neck. I could faintly smell it, and I smiled. It still smelled fabulous.
“Alright,” Darlene declared. Eleanor and I looked at her, anticipating a discussion of important business matters. “Who’s driving tomorrow?”
Who doesn’t like driving a golf cart around? My first urge was to throw my hand in the air and yell, “THIS GUY DOES!” But I wanted to be polite, so I resisted. I would get a turn.
“You can drive, Darlene,” Eleanor suggested. “But I get shotgun.”
“That means Kelso spends two straight days in the back. I don’t want to do that to him,” Darlene said. What a peach. But I didn’t mind.
“She can ride shotgun, Darlene. The back’s fine with me for another day.”
“Suit yourself,” Darlene muttered.
I looked across at the bartender. Even he was a bottle of sunshine.
“What’s your name, barman?” I asked.
He looked up at me. “Robert,” he replied. “Robert Duffy.”
We introduced ourselves to him and again I thought of something that tickled me.
“Bobby Bartender!” I exclaimed. He nodded and walked away.
“You keep giving people nicknames and we’re not going to make any friends, Kelso,” Darlene said. “It’s childish.”
“It’s wordplay,” I claimed. “Besides, you’re making friends. Me and Eleanor, we’re your friends.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be seeing you guys every day. I’m going to need some change-of-pace friends,” Darlene said. “Woman can’t live on bread alone.”
“Well you need more grains than anything else,” I reminded her.
She finished her beer then held the empty glass to my face. “Barley. Now that’s a grain.” She set it back down. “Well I have to get home. I’ll see you both tomorrow. Bright and early.” She got up and we thanked her for the booze. Then she left, and I looked over at my lone drinking partner. Eleanor was staring out into space, her glass long since empty. I still had a ways to go.
“So your last name is Di Paprika?” I asked.
It looked like it took a few seconds to register with her. Then she turned around to face me. “Di Papriccia,” she corrected. Then she turned away again.
“My bad. Is that Italian?”
She nodded.
“You don’t have an accent. I like that. I can understand everything you’re saying.”
She nodded.
“Your hair smells really nice,” I told her.
“Thanks.” She was still preoccupied, and I was growing frustrated with her. I couldn’t just sit there in silence with someone so attractive. She seemed fine with it though.
I sat looking at my beer and figured I wasn’t going to finish it. Then I looked at her empty glass and decided I would try something. I switched my glass with hers. She looked down at my nearly full glass sitting before her. She quickly glanced at me and then picked up my glass and took a sip.
“There you go. Drink up,” I encouraged.
“Thanks. I just have something on my mind,” she said. “It’s been a long day.”
“It’s not my fault is it?”
She belched. “No, of course not.” She took a few more gulps. “It’s something else.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
She downed the rest of my drink and set it down. “Nope,” she said, and sat up to leave. I followed suit.
“You’ve been drinking. You may drive into the ocean. I should take you home.”
“I take the bus. Thanks though.” And then, after one last belch, she was gone.
My curiosity had spiked. My own affairs no longer interested me—at least for now. I had the beautiful, mopey Italian on my mind… or maybe half-Italian. Or whatever. I wondered if I would make any headway in learning about her. Even doused in alcohol, she wouldn’t spout any insight. But then I told myself it had only been one day. I had the whole summer to figure her out.