Harry Flammable

by Frank O'Keeffe

  14

  WHEN I WALKED INTO class there were hoots of laughter and someone yelled, “Way to go, Harry!” I’d been right about it not taking a genius to figure out it was me in the picture in the Morning Independent. Somebody had made three photocopies of it, enlarged about three sizes, and stuck them to the chalkboard. Cartoon word balloons were drawn in chalk around the edges. In one I was saying, “You say there was a firefly in the soup, sir?” In another, the flame-throwing Johnny Random was saying, “What do you have to do to get a lousy glass of water in this dump?” and the third one had me saying “Will that be cash or cremation?”

  Joe Straka came up and clapped me on the shoulder. “Stay cool, man.”

  I put on a brave face but I wasn’t feeling cool. It didn’t help when the last announcement on the P.A. for the morning was, “Would Harry Flam-uh-Flanagan please go to Mr. Shamberg’s office now please.”

  Well, I thought as I walked down the hall, I guess this is it. Maybe I won’t have to show up at The Ritz after all. It would be a relief if Mr. Shamberg told me I’d been fired.

  Mr. Shamberg’s door was open and he was sitting behind his desk. “Come in, Harry. Have a seat.”

  I sat as Mr. Shamberg shuffled through some papers. The orangutan poster with its “hang in there baby” caption didn’t offer me much comfort. Instead the nursery rhyme “Rockabye Baby” started running through my head. I wasn’t sure if I was the baby in the cradle or I was underneath the tree, but I knew the bough was about to come crashing down.

  Mr. Shamberg stopped shuffling through the papers and looked up. “Harry, I can’t find your work experience employment activity sheet. Did you turn it in?”

  “My employment activity sheet,” I repeated. I wondered what was the use of it now. “I got it signed and …” What had I done with it? I remembered taking it home on Thursday and I knew I had it with me when I’d got to school on Friday. I had it in my pants pocket. I groaned. It was still in my pocket. The pocket of the pants I’d changed out of and left at The Ritz Friday night before going to the reception.

  “Sorry, Mr. Shamberg. I had it on Friday morning, but I forgot to turn it in. It’s in my other pair of pants at The Ritz.”

  “Okay. Make sure you pick it up today and turn it in to me tomorrow.”

  I sat there.

  “That’s all,” Mr. Shamberg said. “You can go.”

  That’s all. I couldn’t believe it. No mention of what had happened at the reception. No mention about an irate phone call from The Ritz. If all the kids in my class knew about the reception incident, why didn’t Mr. Shamberg? Should I mention what had happened and get it over with or wait until The Ritz actually fired me?

  Mr. Shamberg looked puzzled. “I said that’s all, Harry.”

  I came to a quick decision. I’d have to tell Mr. Shamberg when I got fired anyway. There was no point in going over what had happened twice. This was a reprieve. “Thanks,” I mumbled and I scurried out of his office.

  * * *

  I was in the locker room at The Ritz, about to change into my uniform, when Kin came in.

  “Oh, Harry, I have a message. Ms. Capstone in personnel office wants to see you. Maybe you get raise.”

  I could never tell if Kin was trying to be funny or what.

  This time there was going to be no reprieve like in Mr. Shamberg’s office this morning.

  Again I had to wait in the outer office. The wait seemed longer this time. Finally the secretary ushered me into Ms. Capstone’s office.

  Ms. Capstone’s eyebrows did their thing, which meant “take a seat.” I did and waited some more. Her suit, this time, was red, and the belt she wore was black. For some reason, karate came to mind. Ms. Capstone was peering at a newspaper. Five or six more littered her desk and I could see that parts of them were highlighted in red. One of the newspapers was the Morning Independent, with the now infamous picture on the front page.

  Ms. Capstone’s hair was pinned back on both sides of her face and, as I waited nervously, I could see both eyebrows dancing like live, hairy caterpillars on her forehead as she scanned one of the newspapers. I noticed it was the Globe Tribune. I gulped. Surely I wasn’t featured in newspapers all across the country. The Morning Independent was bad enough, but the Globe Tribune was a national morning newspaper.

  Ms. Capstone closed the newspaper and looked at me. The way her eyebrows sprang together and then leaped apart, I think it was the first time she’d noticed I was bald.

  “What happened to your hair?” her voice boomed. “It didn’t catch fire too, did it?”

  “Um, no. I shaved it off.”

  “Hmm. Well. You probably know why you’re here.” Ms. Capstone indicated the newspapers.

  I nodded.

  “When I interviewed you, I reminded you that The Ritz has a very high reputation and nothing should be allowed to sully that reputation. I said that the comfort and needs of our guests come first. Here, at The Ritz, we pride ourselves on privacy. We do not like our guests exposed to the prying eyes of reporters or gossip columnists. It seems, however, that you have single-handedly given The Ritz the publicity we do our best to avoid, and, I might add, in almost every major newspaper in the country.

  “I must admit that my first instinct was to phone up your teacher, Mr. Shamrock, and tell him you were fired. Usually my first instinct is correct.”

  I didn’t dare correct Ms. Capstone on Mr. Shamberg’s name.

  “However,” Ms. Capstone went on, as her eyebrows seemed to be trying to circle her forehead, “on investigating this unfortunate incident, Mr. Henry Nicholson, in charge of our outside catering, spoke up on your behalf. Mr. Nicholson has a soft heart, but I respect his judgment. It appears you were pressed into service by a more experienced member of the team who was, it turns out, more interested in seeking a movie career than serving the guests of The Ritz. She tendered her resignation this morning to follow what she called an acting career. Your immediate supervisor in the kitchen, Kin Woo, also gave you a good reference.

  “These people speaking on your behalf did not sway me, however, as it is my duty in public relations to make sure that none of The Ritz’s employees do anything to smear the reputation of the hotel. What did sway me towards giving you one more chance was the column in the Globe Tribune by the columnist Marius Lippencott. You may have heard of him. He’s a very respected journalist and I know him personally. He’s stayed here on many occasions.

  “Anyway, after reading his column, I telephoned him. He was an eyewitness to the fiasco, and from reading his column and what he said to me on the telephone, it appears that Mr. Random was the cause of his own misfortune. It would also appear that The Ritz is not about to be sued. We could have been, but we have also received a written apology from Mr. Robert Rudsnicker on behalf of Pocket Money Pictures for Mr. Random’s behaviour. It appears also that Mr. Random has not been one of our most civil guests. Um, forget I said that. Confidentiality is paramount when dealing with our guests, no matter what the provocation. At The Ritz we must always endeavour to cater to our guests, no matter how difficult that may be at times.

  “I am, therefore, giving you one more chance. I’m not sure it’s the right decision but I am hopeful you will not get yourself in another situation that will discredit the good name of this hotel.” Ms. Capstone’s eyebrows stopped dancing and rested as though they had finished conducting an orchestra. “You may go.”

  “Thank you,” I blurted as I rose to leave.

  “Don’t thank me. Thank Marius Lippencott.”

  I felt overjoyed. I wasn’t fired. I changed quickly and went into the kitchen. Kin waved me over.

  “Thanks for speaking up on my behalf with Ms. Capstone,” I said.

  “So, did you get a raise? No? Too bad.” Kin laughed. “Maybe you stick to turning carrots for a while. Lots to do this week. I won’t be here rest of week. I got a small part in the movie.”

  As I started in on a mountain of carrots I thought that everyone had
a part in this movie except me.

  On the way home I stopped at a newsstand and asked for a copy of Saturday’s Globe Tribune. On the bus I searched through the paper for Marius Lippencott’s column. I found it on page 5 along with a photo and signature of the columnist. I blinked in surprise when I saw the heading — “Stupor Star.”

  Only a year ago actor Johnny Random was being hailed as the one most likely to save Hollywood from the mediocre. He had just won an Oscar for his role in Man From Magalluf. I’ve never understood how these awards are selected but movie critics tripped over themselves to jump on the bandwagon and laud this Tinsel Town saviour, describing him as “brilliant,” “on a roll,” “beyond his own comprehension,” and “unstoppable.” In short, the best thing since sliced bread.

  I find this surprising, since Man from Magalluf was, after all, only Random’s second film. His first, Night On the Veranda, one of the biggest flops ever, was forgotten in the orgy of praise that followed Man from Magalluf.

  My mother frequently quoted that old adage “One swallow doth not a summer make,” and I’ve always believed it. After what I witnessed last night, I’m convinced that Johnny Random had already had quite a few swallows, and I don’t mean the feathered kind. The critics may soon be eating their own reviews. Success seems to have gone to this actor’s head, although judging by last night’s performance, it wasn’t just success.

  This “star,” who makes about $70,000 a day, was being entertained at taxpayer’s expense, along with other actors and crew of Pocket Money Pictures. The mayor and council of Summervale threw a small party to show their appreciation to Pocket Money Pictures for choosing their city as the site for the filming of part of Funeral at Feng-t’ai. Shooting begins sometime next week.

  Of course, scribes (free loaders), including yours truly, from various news media attended to cover the event, partake of the free food and drink (champagne was provided), and bask in the glitter of some of Tinsel Town’s tinsel.

  Now I don’t claim to be a film critic, but I do know a bad performance when I see one, and believe me, this performance stunk out the house. It would seem that our “star” is so mesmerized by his own aura that he feels all he needs to do is show up and people will applaud.

  Admittedly, answering what are some-times repetitive and often inane questions may be irksome, but hey, when you’re tagged with the star logo, it comes with the territory.

  If Summervale was a country it could declare Johnny Random persona non grata. But it isn’t. But does that mean it has to tolerate the type of boorish behaviour witnessed last night?

  The reception was being catered by The Ritz, an establishment which prides itself in quality service and good food (I’ve stayed there often), and indeed The Ritz’s catering staff didn’t let this fine hotel’s reputation down last night. The food and service were magnificent. Dessert was crêpes Suzette flambé on request and our “star,” in a fit of pique because he wasn’t served his crêpe flambé before some of us lesser mortals (he hadn’t asked for one), grabbed a bottle of brandy off the serving cart, slopped it about, and almost managed to flambé himself.

  The kid trying to serve him, who probably makes minimum wage in a part-time job, was doing his best. Johnny Random owes that kid, The Ritz, and the people of Summervale an apology.

  Fame, for this self-indulgent stupor-star, appears to be a heady experience, although he already had a snootful when he unwittingly almost became an even hotter Hollywood property by self-immolation. If this was not just a random act (sorry, but I can’t resist the pun), he may find that fame can be as fleeting as a flash in the pan and can get snuffed out quicker than a crêpe Suzette.

  I didn’t understand all the words that Marius Lippencott had written but I understood enough to know he was calling Johnny Random a jerk.

  I’d just got home when the phone rang. I answered it. It was Celia.

  “How did it go today?” she asked.

  I told her everything and she sounded pleased. I also told her about Kin getting a part in the movie.

  “How come you weren’t in school today?” I asked.

  “I was in real early to get permission to have most of the rest of the week off. With shooting on the film starting this week, I was asked if I could work overtime. By the way, I found out that I’m not the best boy. I’m just a runner. Calling me best boy was just that creep Ralph’s idea of a joke. Hey, Joanne showed up today. She quit her job with outside catering but she wasn’t too happy to find that Ralph isn’t really with casting, and she had to help me change light bulbs.”

  “Still,” I said, “she gets to work on the set. Maybe I should get friendly with Ralph.” I laughed. “Everyone’s getting something to do on this film except me.”

  15

  I’D REMEMBERED TO COLLECT my work experience sheet at The Ritz and I turned it in to Mr. Shamberg.

  “Oh, Harry. I heard there was a kerfuffle at some reception that The Ritz was catering. Would you know anything about that?”

  I wondered, how much does Mr. Shamberg know? Probably everything. If my whole class knew yesterday, he must have found out by now. Mr. Constantine, my homeroom teacher, was sure to have mentioned it in the staff lounge. It was in his classroom that all the cartoons of me had appeared on the chalkboard.

  “Um. I was there,” I said. “It was a reception for Pocket Money Pictures at city hall and Johnny Random, the film star, spilled some brandy when he was being served a flaming crêpe. The brandy caught fire, but no one was hurt,” I added hurriedly.

  Mr. Shamberg gave a small smile and said, “No mountain bikes involved, I take it. By the way, I got the insurance settlement for mine.”

  When I got to homeroom class, the previous day’s excitement and kidding had almost been forgotten, although David Craven, the class cartoonist, tried to revive it briefly by drawing a waiter with a dragon’s body and my head. Flames were shooting out of my mouth and were hitting a plate, piled high with pancakes, in front of a very startled-looking Johnny Random.

  At The Ritz it was very busy. Mountains of vegetables were waiting to be turned, but late in the afternoon I was pressed into service with the room service crew. Mostly I just had to set up the carts while Mario and Helga did the ordering and delivered the food. Just before it was time for me to leave, a woman from personnel arrived and told Mario that someone called Lucille, who was supposed to relieve Helga, had telephoned to say she was ill and the hotel couldn’t get a replacement.

  Mario groaned. “We’re really busy and Harry is going home in a few minutes.”

  “I could stay until nine o’clock,” Helga said, “but no longer.”

  “How about you, Harry?” the woman asked. “Could you stay? It’d be until eleven but we’d pay for a taxi home, and, of course, we’d pay you overtime wages.”

  “Okay,” I said, “but I’ll have to phone home.”

  “Great,” the woman from personnel said. “Give this voucher to the cab driver and the hotel will take care of it.”

  “Oh, what about supper?” I asked.

  “You can have supper in the staff cafeteria,” Mario said. “You can go now, if you like. It won’t get real busy until a little later.”

  Things had quieted down when I got back and Mario went to have supper. Helga showed me how to put in some of the food orders on the machine that rang up the orders in the kitchen. First, you punched in the time and your name. Then the food order and room number. Each food item had an abbreviated code and most of the codes were on a list near the phone. New York steak with horseradish sauce was NY/Horserad, w/w meant whole wheat bread, and w/t meant white.

  It got busy again for a while and around 9 p.m., Helga went home, leaving Mario and me. Then things started going crazy. Mario was answering the phone every few minutes, punching up orders and barking out orders for me to set up carts.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” Mario said, “but there must be a big party in room 1103. That’s the fifth big order in a row. Now they wa
nt forty baked potatoes.” He rushed off to the kitchen and returned with three orders for that room, and asked me to deliver them while he took care of another call that came in just then.

  When I got off the elevator with the cart on the eleventh floor, I could hear the noise down the hallway. The door to 1103 was wide open. I could see it was a fairly large suite but it was jam-packed with people. The noise was almost deafening. Music blared, voices were raised, and there was a lot of laughter. I rapped on the open door a number of times before I was noticed.

  “Hey Vincent, it’s room service,” one of the party-goers yelled across the room.

  A short guy with a red face and a drink in his hand pushed his way through the crowd. He swayed a little and spilled some of his drink. When he reached the cart he lifted the lids off the food. “Where’s the baked potatoes I ordered?” His voice was slurred.

  “They’re being baked,” I said. “They’ll be here soon.”

  “Okay.”

  I handed him the bill and a pen to sign for the food. He swayed some more, dropped the pen on the floor, and then got down on his hands and knees to look for it. I found it and held it out to him. He was still kneeling on the floor when he scrawled his signature on the bill and I could leave. I was glad to escape.

  When I got back down to room service, Mario was putting the final touches to the baked potato order and was heading off to deliver it.

  “Hold the fort, Harry. I’ll be back as soon as I can. There’s one more order on the go in the kitchen. It’s for the fifth floor. If it’s ready before I get back, take it up, okay?”

  The phone was quiet until the kitchen rang to say the order for room 543 was ready. I went and got it and I was surprised to see it was a plate of fried liver. Mario hadn’t returned, so I put it on the cart and took it up. A little grey-haired lady answered the door of room 543 and smiled when I wheeled the cart into her room. A screeching yowl came from the bathroom and I jumped in surprise. The lady put her finger to her lips and whispered, “My children, Sammy and Felicity. It’s past their supper time and they don’t like to be kept waiting.”