How do I get along with fellow employees?
“Generally,” says Omar, “I think you do pretty well.”
“I think he does, too.”
“Thank you.”
“But you’ve had some run-ins,” says Omar.
“We all do. You know what it’s like downstairs, Omar.”
Omar himself has gotten into tantrums with slot attendants, and customers. He could have gotten fired a dozen times.
“Well,” says Omar, “we’ve had complaints from Latisha Johnson and Franco DeLima.”
“I’ve got complaints against them.”
“That’s a different story.”
“We don’t want to go into that,” says Roger.
“There was an incident with Franco,” says Omar. “Didn’t you threaten him?”
We go back and forth as to whether I legitimately threatened Franco DeLima. When he informed on me for theft, I said something like – I’m remembering this.
Omar considers that a threat.
“That’s not for now,” Roger tells Omar.
“I’ll give you a three,” says Omar.
“That’s not fair, Omar.”
“That’s for us to decide,” says Omar.
Roger gives me another shrug.
How do I relate to my superiors?
Omar laughs. He shakes his head.
“Pretty near insubordinate,” he says.
“You do have a mind of your own,” even Roger agrees.
“I’ll try harder,” I say.
“To do what?” asks Omar.
“To not have a mind of my own. Isn’t that the point?”
“Some initiative is okay,” says Roger.
“I already tried that once,” I say, “and got in trouble.”
“I think you could do better,” says Omar. “Your general attitude has been noticed.”
Ach zo.
Omar scribbles something and I’m sure it’s a two, maybe a one.
Do I extend myself beyond the call of duty?
“He sure does,” says Roger.
Omar nods. I think I’m getting a four on that, maybe a five. No, they never give you a five. There is always room for improvement.
How well-versed am I with the mechanics of the job?
“You’ve had trouble with some machines,” says Omar.
“Everybody has.”
“That’s true,” says Roger.
“The keys don’t always work, you know.”
“They do for everybody else,” says Omar.
“No they don’t.”
“Let’s not be here all day,” says Roger.
I’m getting a three for mechanics.
Am I fast, slow or medium moving from customer to customer?
“There’s faster, there’s slower,” says Omar, and gives me a three.
Am I trying to improve myself?
Omar laughs again.
“I don’t think you are. You wouldn’t accept supervisor even if it were offered, would you?”
That I can’t deny. They want you to be ambitious, but not overly ambitious. You really don’t know what they want.
I figure I’m getting a two on this.
Am I easily distracted?
“I think you’re always distracted,” says Omar.
Roger can’t disagree and neither can I. I imagine that gets me a two. Distracted, that’s me. I’m usually someplace else, sometimes in another country altogether.
Do I present a positive image before the public? I thought we’d covered this already. But it means do I make people want to come back for more.
“I’d give him a four for that,” says Roger.
I figure that’s what I’m getting.
Am I approachable, friendly?
“I don’t think so,” says Omar.
Omar is the most unfriendly person in the world, the least approachable. Nobody wants to get near him, employee or customer.
Oh he’ll smile, for shift manager or above.
“I think I’m friendly.”
“That’s what you think,” says Omar.
“That’s what I just said. That’s what I think.”
“Now you see, Jay,” says Omar, “you’re being argumentative and I scored you pretty good on your relations with supervisors. Do I take that back?”
“Do we not show…may we not show spine?”
“What you talking about?”
“Am I supposed to roll over?”
Roger moves in quick. “Jay, just relax and let’s just get this done.”
“But this isn’t a kennel.”
“What’s he talking about?” says Omar.
“Jay, be cool.”
This is that bad moment when you want to tell people who you are. Do you know who I am? But that is so uncool. That is so gauche. Melanie does it too often. She not only reminds me who I am, she reminds others. When our movie first came out and the line was a mile back, she asked for the manager, and she told the manager who I am. She said that this movie, The Ice King, that is packing them in, that is doing all this business, all this box office, right here in Marlton, was written by this man, right here, my husband. So may we please get a seat, to watch our own movie, this movie that my husband wrote, that is doing all this box office. The manager said this: Get in back of the line. Get in back of the line.
But it is tempting to tell Omar who I am. Does he know? Does he read? Does he care? Would it make a difference? Get in back of the line.
“I certainly am approachable,” I say.
“I think some customers are afraid of you,” says Omar.
“Afraid?”
“I’ve talked to a few customers.”
“I think you’re wrong, Omar,” says Roger.
I’m getting a three.
Attendance?
“That’s a joke,” says Omar.
“I only take sick days coming to me,” I say.
“You’re at the limit.”
“So?”
“I wouldn’t call that dependable.”
That’s a two.
Do I walk my zones properly?
“You know,” says Omar. “I talked to Pini about this. She caught you leaning against a post several times. She even warned you.”
“That’s four in the morning, Omar. There’s nobody in the place and I’m dead tired.”
“She warned you once, she warned you twice. You’re not allowed to lean.”
“I’ve seen others lean.”
“Who?”
“I won’t mention names. You know I won’t.”
Pini has her favorites. They all do.
“Leaning is an infraction. Rules.”
“But he does walk his zone pretty regularly,” says Roger.
“But he was caught leaning. I can’t go against regulation.”
“Come on, Omar,” says Roger.
I figure I’m getting a three.
Do I display temper? That’s some question from a guy who walks around with a snarl on his lips and fire in his eyes.
“I think he’s pretty even-tempered,” says Roger.
“I’ve never lost my temper.”
“Not with a customer he hasn’t,” says Roger.
“But what about Franco, and there’ve been other instances.”
“That was at the beginning,” says Roger, “when he didn’t know his way around.”
“I was uncomfortable, not temperamental.”
“Okay.”
I may be getting a four.
How am I in emergencies?
“I think he’s pretty good,” says Roger.
“Down on the floor every minute is an emergency, you know that, Omar.”
That’s probably worth a four.
Am I well-spoken? Do I understand the language? This is most strange since English is the least spoken language anywhere in Atlantic City. I do not understand Hindi, Urdu, Jamaican, Spanish, Russian, Polish, Flemish, French, Italian, Hebrew, Arabic…English, yes, but to what good? S
ome Blackese escapes me, too, but I am starting to catch on. Even picking up some Spanish. How can you not?
I expect a four on this.
Am I respectful to minorities?
“I treat everyone alike.”
“That’s the trouble,” says Roger, meaning it as a joke.
This isn’t the place to say that in good times you hate them all, black, white, whatever. This is war. They’re the enemy.
Blast them all, the long, the short and the tall.
I think my score on that is three.
Am I respectful to the elderly, the disabled?
“I think he is,” says Roger.
“I’ve never seen him trip anyone,” says Omar.
I say, “Not on purpose.”
Maybe a four.
Have I ever been caught sleeping on the job?
“I never caught him.”
Even Omar has to admit that he’s never caught me snoozing, except at the beginning, when I was just getting the hang of graveyard. Tough adjustment.
“But you have been caught reading,” says Omar.
That’s when I was really getting into Henry Miller.
“Pini caught you.”
“Again, that was four in the morning, the place was empty…”
“But you were caught reading.”
“Regulations, right?”
“You can make fun all you want, but yes, regulations.”
“He’s a writer,” says Roger.
“I don’t care what he is.”
“It was four in the morning,” says Roger.
“I don’t care.”
“I think we can make an exception, and it was only once.”
It was much more than once, but I only got caught once.
“You’re always supposed to be ready for a customer,” says Omar. “That’s why we’re here. We’re not here to read.”
“He was only caught once, Omar.”
“We can’t make an exception, Roger. If he gets away with it, anybody else can start reading.”
“You mean it could lead to reading.”
“You don’t get my point?”
“This is all yours, Omar.”
So it is. Usually I favor Roger’s insouciance. But I could have used more help.
My final score is three. Pretty good and pretty much as I expected. As I’m leaving, Roger catches up.
“Sorry about that,” he says.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say. “I’m fine.”
But I know how I really feel. I feel shamed.
Roger confides that he’s so fed up with this whole business, he can’t wait to call it quits.
Thirteen more years to go, and then there’s his wife, Charlotte, who works here as a cocktail server, and she’s not so happy, either, in her job, all that running, it’s given her leg and foot problems, for which she may need surgery, and as for him, he may need triple bypass.
“So I won’t be around for a while.”
“When did this happen?”
“I’ve had heart problems for years.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I’ll be going on disability.”
“The stress of the job?”
“They don’t know.”
“I’m sorry about this, Roger. I really am.”
“Thanks.”
Bad luck and it’s true that bad things happen to good people. You do start caring. You seldom think of them as having a life outside the job. You forget that there’s more to them than the one dimension you get to view of them those 40 hours a week and you forget that after they punch in and punch out, just as you do, they go home to start another day, another life, just as you do.
Roger gives me an easy zone, Zone 8, to finish off the night. He knows it’s been rough with Omar. I’m thinking of Omar and I’m thinking of Roe Morgan and they become one, and soon they become everybody along with the pigeons. That’s bleak! Taking it all together, the trick is to renounce bitterness. Outrage is okay, but not bitterness. Must not let that happen. BUT – it does seem that all the wrong people are in charge, all over.
Chapter 14
This is the worst of it, the worst part, 9:50 p.m. and the waiting outside the supervisor’s office for your assignment and your key. You don’t know where they’ll send you, to a place where it is civilized and the tips are bountiful, or to a place where it is cold and full of the buses, Zones 12 and 14, usually reserved for me, depending on the supervisor. You have as much say over your destiny as a leaf in the wind.
But that’s not the worst part, not yet. The worst part is just waiting in line with about 20 of them, all of them younger than you, except for one or two and sometimes three, but most of them younger and full of gusto and plugged into hip-hop, like Humberto Valdez, who is tall and thin and restless and full of mindless wisecracks, and I think I dislike him the most, for all that, and I think I dislike them all, right now, right here, when I find myself so different and so out of place, so wrong.
They’re rapping and you don’t even have the same memories as they do. We are all in uniform. We are an army of slot attendants.
So this night I’m waiting with the rest of them and am in a hurry to get this over with, get the assignment, get the key, and get downstairs and lose myself in the job, and then start liking these people, these kids, all over again, when we’re all in the same boat – but it’s never that quick, this part. There’s always dithering among the supervisors, confusion as to who made up the schedule and who marked an assignment for a slot attendant who’s on his day off.
I’m trying to think of something, something else, as that’s the trick, for now, think of something else, be in another place, and what comes to mind is F. Scott Fitzgerald saying, “No one is reading me; what’s the point of all this writing?” When I turn the corner into the office I trade some patter with Flint Odesso and Bob Michaelson, we’re about the same age and we speak English, and I’m glad it’s Maggi Holt on duty, Horny Maggi.
She says, oh, there is no assignment for me, no key and just when I think it’s over, I’ve been fired, and begin calculating what unemployment benefits are due me, and worse, the loss of Medical Benefits, when you’re sure to need root canal, Maggi says that there’s a message for me from the Executive Offices. Someone in Marketing wants me. In fact, the Director of Marketing wants me, Shelly King.
“Whoa,” says Gabe. “Big time!”
Maggi asks if I know what this is all about.
“I don’t know. Do you?”
“I’m only a supervisor,” Maggi says. “We’re nothing to them. They don’t tell us a thing.”
She doesn’t even know where the Executive Offices are located. That’s another world. That’s where they start at $100,000 a year.
That’s where they have real offices, with carpeting and secretaries.
Maggi is impressed.
“Is this the start of something?”
“I swear I don’t know.”
Can’t be trouble. That’s another department and I’ve already been there, and will probably be there again.
No, this is different, and quite astonishing.
“She wants you right away,” says Maggi.
The secretary, Shelly King’s secretary, asked what shift I was in, and was surprised that it was graveyard. But anyway, Shelly King was staying late just for me.
I take the staircase down to the casino floor and haven’t a clue where to begin, where the plush offices begin. I pass by Zone 10, the Hot 7s, and here’s Carmella, busy, at a machine, some customer complaining about the coins, dollars, that keep getting stuck. “Nothing works around here. I’m never coming back.” Carmella asks for my help, but I have no belt, no equipment, so we both tell the player she’ll have to wait for a supervisor. “Oh you people,” says another satisfied customer.
“I need to talk to you,” says Carmella.
I explain I have to be someplace. She doesn’t know anything about Marketing, but she knows it’s something big.
>
“Good luck,” she says. “Gaucho.”
“What does Gaucho mean?”
“Means handsome,” she says.
“Carmella, you’re such a tease.”
“Oh? Are you sure I’m teasing?”
Mark the guard is standing post by the mid-escalators, and I ask him if he can accompany me to Marketing. The guards know every inch of the place.
“Sure.”
He calls in for permission and when his replacement arrives he says, “Let’s go.”
We snake our way to the northern edge of the casino, enter a storage room, then a suite of secretarial offices, and then take an elevator up to nine. Before he drops me off he says he knows my fear of elevators – must be something from a previous life. Yes, Napoleon. “Weren’t you once a war hero or something?” Mark says.
“Yes, but most wars take place on the ground floor.”
He’s thinking of making his move on Clara, that hot dealer who’s got the hots for him.
“Don’t tarry. If not you, somebody else.”
“That’s right,” he says. “There’s always somebody else. See ya.”
Now I’m all alone up here and follow the sign that says Marketing. It’s quiet, as you’d expect this time of night. There’s no graveyard for executives, unless there’s a banquet or some other function. Or they’re up there on the top floor in the Golden Player Lounge. That’s where Bob Foster, our president, hangs out when he stays late, schmoozing up the premium crowd.
So I’m walking the long, thick-carpeted hallway and remember that some time back I walked an even longer hallway to meet the president of Alliance Pictures. Then I knew what it was, and I knew that it was good, but now I don’t, I don’t know what it is. Must be good, though. Or maybe not. You never know what they want. You never know what you did. At some point in life, you don’t want anything, not bad news, certainly, but not even good news. You’ve had it to the brim.
Years before, Melanie’s mom was upset when Melanie phoned her to give her the news that Alliance Pictures was buying and coming up with big money for the The Ice King. Melanie said, “Mom, I’ve got good news.” Her mother said, “What’s wrong?” Even after Melanie straightened it out, and expected congratulations, her mom was still upset and begged her not to startle her like this again. She had reached that stage where she simply didn’t want any news. That’s how it gets and now even I usually answer the phone with, “What’s wrong?”
Usually nothing is wrong, but sometimes it is, and it’s always about health, someone’s health. We are defective units. We were created with so many parts that can go bad, like used cars. Never mind what’s waiting for us on the outside, but our very own bodies keep trying to kill us. Usually it’s someone from Melanie’s side of the family, or Melanie’s friends from high school or college. Some, still relatively young, have come down with serious defects, and one or two have even died. I’ve quit responding to my friends, so they’ve quit bothering, most of them, though I do get e-mails from friends I made in the newspaper business, the horseracing business and the boxing business. Boxers and jockeys and thoroughbred horse trainers are the finest people around. I respond to them. Boxers are very gentle people, outside the ring. I have few friends in the movie or literary world. That’s fair, on both sides.
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