Chapter 6: The Interview
The lobby of the Beacon Grand smelled of polished wood and coffee. George Alden stood just inside the doors, hat in his hands, his new trim clean against his collar. Across the street he could see the salon lights burning.
"You must be Mr. Alden," a voice said. "Right on time."
The man approaching had a broad, calm face, a neat gray beard, and a manager's suit worn like work clothes.
"Paul Mensah," he said, offering his hand. "Thank you for coming in."
George shook it carefully, aware of the tremor in his fingers. "Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Mensah. And it is just George, if that suits you."
"It suits me fine, George. Come sit down by the fireplace, where it is quiet." Paul gestured toward two chairs away from the front desk. "Water? Tea?"
"No, sir. I am ready to answer your questions."
Paul smiled as they sat. "Your application was the shortest I have ever received. One line under experience: work with my hands, all my life."
"That is the truth of it," George said. "I did not want to dress it up."
"I appreciate that. But help me understand. Night porter means luggage at midnight, mopping when pipes leak, walking the floors at three in the morning, helping guests who are tired and sometimes rude. It is honest work, but hard. Why would a man your age want it?"
George folded his hands to steady them. "Because I need to work, Mr. Mensah."
"Plenty of men your age would say they have earned their rest."
"Rest has not suited me lately," George said quietly. "My wife passed a little over a year ago. The house got very quiet. A man can sit in a quiet house and disappear a piece at a time, or he can put on a uniform and be useful to somebody. I would rather be useful."
Paul studied him without pity. "I am sorry for your loss."
"Thank you. She would have told me to find something to carry. Luggage counts, I think."
That earned a low chuckle. "It counts. Now, the nights run backward. Dinner at dawn, sleep while the street is loud. Have you ever worked nights?"
"Not in a hotel," George said. "But I have kept long hours, and I sleep lightly these days. I would rather be awake where I am needed than awake at home staring at the ceiling."
"And the physical side? Some bags are heavy. Some guests expect you to move quickly."
"My hands shake some," George said, holding them out plainly. "They have for a while now. But my arms are sound, my legs are sound, and I know the difference between hurrying and rushing. I will not drop a bag, and I will not pretend I can do what I cannot. If a trunk needs two men, I will ask for two."
Paul nodded. "That is a better answer than most young men give me. They all tell me they are strong as horses."
"Horses are sensible," George said. "They know their limits."
Paul leaned forward. "One more thing, and I ask everyone this. Do you want charity, George, or do you want work?"
George met his eyes. "Work, Mr. Mensah. Only work. If I do it poorly, I want to hear it. If another man is better suited, hire him. I am not asking you to carry me. I am asking for a chance to carry my share, paid what the job pays, not a penny more out of sympathy."
"And if the job pays less than a man of your experience might expect?"
"Then I will take it and be glad," George said. "A dollar earned standing up is worth more to me now than ten given to me sitting down. I made a promise across the street today to pay a debt from my first paycheck. I mean to keep it."
Paul was quiet a moment. Then he stood and held out his hand again, not a greeting this time.
"Then welcome to the Beacon Grand, George," Paul said. "You start tomorrow night. Come at nine, and we will fit you for a uniform and show you the floors."
George stood, his throat tight. "Thank you, Mr. Mensah. I will not make you regret it."
"Call me Paul," he said, gripping George's hand firmly, like an equal. "I do not expect to regret it. Something tells me you know how a house is supposed to treat people."
George smiled, small and tired and real. "I had a good teacher," he said. "A long time ago."
Outside, October dusk was falling over Newbury Street. George put his hat on, straightened his shoulders, and crossed toward the salon window to give a young stylist the news, his head held high.