Working

by Studs Terkel

  My manager is very friendly with me. She knows she’s secure with me. I’m going to stay just where I am. It’s been seven years and I’ve been here every day. When we get to the age where we have to . . . (trails off). I can be dismissed at will. We have no protection.

  You stand on your feet all day. Years ago, there was a rule that there had to be a stool in the back of each counter. I don’t see that enforced any more. There aren’t any stools around. I think everyone’s feet feel tired at the end of the day. We have college kids that come in, especially before Christmas. They complain more about being tired than the older women.

  The managers seem afraid to tell the young people what doesn’t go. They’re not as willing to work. A little less courtesy, too. Maybe it’s a good sign, in a way. Maybe they feel this is nonsense, all the thank you’s and the please and everything. The same thing with their appearance. There’s a certain independence they’re showing. But in showing their independence they look like all the others. (Laughs.)

  When you have children that are going through college for years, it takes money. (Laughs.) That’s the reason many women go back to work, their children’s schooling. We have widows, women who were caught in the Depression, who couldn’t go into professions. So we turned to selling.

  Stores like ours that carry high-priced merchandise have make-up for black women. Many buy light make-up. They think they’ll look better. You have to be very careful when you’re selling a black women. Some like a strong fragrance. Some, because they’re black, will not buy a strong fragrance. These are middle-class women. The prejudice behind the counter —I can’t begin to tell you. They use the words. You wonder how it’s ever going to be resolved. Sometimes you get discouraged with humanity.

  There are other things you’d like to be doing. I was interested in teaching but the Depression . . . You would have liked to do something more exciting and vital, something you felt was making a contribution. On the other hand, when you wait on these lonely old women and they leave with a smile and you feel you’ve lifted their day, even a little, well, it has its compensations.

  DR. STEPHEN BARTLETT

  He is a dentist who has practiced for nineteen years in an upper-middle-class suburb just outside Detroit. He is forty-six, divorced. It was a late start for him; he enrolled at dental school at the age of twenty-eight.

  He comes from Tennessee. “I worked for three years in the mines, digging thirty-inch coal” for his brother, who was an operator. “I was in one cave-in.” He drove a truck. He worked in the world of outdoor advertising: “There was a lot of corruption, a lot of the under-the-table bit. That took all the fun out of it for me.”

  One day a week he teaches at a hospital in the city. He rides a motorcycle to and from his office, which is five blocks from his home.

  Dentistry is very precise. No matter what you do, sometimes things just don’t go right. One of the big diseases dentists have is stress. It’s physically hard because you’re in an uncomfortable position most of the day. With techniques today, young fellows are sitting down. I wish I’d sit down more, but I’m not accustomed to it. So I stand most of my day.

  The mouth you work on usually is not in an ideal condition. If the patient is not cooperating, moving their mouth or salivating a lot, it’s hard to get the job done. You’re nervous. If you’re not satified when you’ve completed your work, nobody else knows, but you do. You’re your own worst critic.

  The patients are in a tense position too. There is stress on both sides. The consciousness of pain is always with you. There are two categories of people: those that are more scared of the needle than the drill, who don’t want Novocain, and those more scared of the drill. If you get those who don’t want Novocain, you’re under more stress, because the equipment today is high powered, fast. All they have to do is jerk once on you and they’ve damaged themselves.

  You don’t make money unless you have your hand in somebody’s mouth. It’s not like any other business where you can get income by being away. Any time you’re not working on a patient, you’re losing money. Your overhead continues.

  What appeals to me here is that I can practice the dentistry I like. I couldn’t be happy practicing in an area where a guy comes in and says, “Come on, doc, pull it, it hurts.” Rather than pull a tooth, we could fix it with endodontics or root fill or put a gold crown on it. You don’t have to really lose your teeth. When someone loses teeth, it’s a traumatic experience. It’s getting more so with all the TV ads. With toothpaste and mouthwashes and all this, people are getting a lot more conscious of their teeth.

  I insulted a girl last night, a young, beautiful child. I noticed the corners of her mouth turned down a little bit. I asked if I could see her teeth. I wanted to see what kind of work she had there. She was missing a lot of teeth. The mouth closes like a person who’s a denture wearer, and she will get old before her time. That’s one of the first things I look at.

  I went to see Fiddler on the Roof. When I saw a close-up of Topol and his teeth, he had partials. To me, this made him human. Did you know that Clark Gable for a number of years had only one tooth here in front? And no one saw it. When you’re close to it, it’s your life.

  Teeth can change a person’s appearance completely. It gives me a sense of satisfaction that I can play a role. The thing that bugs me is that you work hard to create, let’s say, a good gold bridge. It requires time, effort, and precision. Before I put them in place, I make the patient look at them. An artist can hang his work on the wall and everybody sees it. No one sees mine except me. A dentist is creative too. It requires a certain skill, a certain art. If you do a good job, damm it, you’re proud of it. And you want other people to appreciate it.

  I don’t think a patient knows whether you’re a good dentist or a bad one. They know one of two things: he didn’t hurt and I like him or he’s a son of a bitch. It’s strictly a personality thing. I tried to change my personality when I first started in and I did myself more damage than good. My first cards I had printed when I became a dentist were S. Harrison Bartlett. It was ridiculous, I dropped it. I’m not a formal type. I tell jokes, I make notes and remember things of interest to them. I try to say something personal to each of my patients. I don’t antagonize people.

  I’ve had some patients who did not stay with me. There are some people who are used to deference. This is not my way. They’re always demanding. If you run a little late, they get upset—or if you don’t hand them the napkin properly. They get irritated and raise their voice or they try to tell you what they want done and what they don’t want done. Damn it, when they’re in my office, I’m the boss.

  Some tried to put me down when I was trying to establish myself. It hasn’t bothered me for a number of years. Some people are chronically late, and that’s all right. But if you’re late with them once, they’re upset. Sometimes they call up a half-hour before the appointment and say, “I forgot.” I make adjustments now. My girl has a list of people who can come in immediately. So when somebody doesn’t show, we start down the list. Otherwise, that’s time lost which cannot be made up.

  I have people who pay me once a year for income tax purposes, or they’re waiting to clip coupons. I have people that drive Cadillacs but can’t pay their dental bills. It’s not because they don’t want to. Dentistry is one of the first areas in business cut back in a recession, that people tend to ignore, unless they have a toothache.

  When a person walks into the office, it’s an instinct. You know who’s gonna pay and who isn’t gonna pay. I’ve never used a collection agency. I should, ’cause I have an awful lot on the books. But this bothers me. I don’t want to do it.

  My life is entirely different since my divorce. If someone told me of these opportunities as a married man, I would have called them a liar to their face. It is really unbelievable. The banter. When you’re in a dental chair, you’re under stress, I don’t care who you are. As a consequence, your guard is down. People reveal more of themselves and their
true nature than at other times.

  Fantasies about women come before and after work. The schedule is set up that you’re operating against time. You have a half-hour to get this done. Now in the evening or going back over the day I might think, “Goddamn, she was good looking!” Or, “I wonder what she meant when she said that?” Or, you know, “Hmm!” Draw your own conclusions.

  I like girls. And women. I’m called a dirty old man lots of times in a joking situation. That’s part of my image too. But you don’t eat and play where you work, this bit. I not only work here, I live here. So I’m very careful. Reputation is very important in a small community such as this one.

  Dentistry as a whole feels it’s a second-class citizen. I know a lot of dentists who wanted to be physicians and couldn’t get into medical school, so they went to dental school. I personally don’t feel second-class because I spend every third month in the emergency room of the hospital. Believe me, medical men don’t know the first thing in the world about dentistry.

  People say, “Oh, he’s a dentist.” That doesn’t bother me. When I first got my D.D.S. and I was a new doctor, hell yes, I was very proud and I wanted everybody to recognize that. Remember, I was older when I got out than most fellas, so it doesn’t bother me as it might the others.

  I wouldn’t be a physician if they gave it to me, to be honest with you. I don’t know any profession in the world that is better than dentistry. You’re your own boss, you set your own hours, you can go anywhere in the world and practice. You don’t have the burden of life and death over your head at every decision. Your working conditions are ideal. Okay, they’re physically hard, but there’s nothing wrong with that.

  There are supposed to be peak years for a dentist, I’ve been told. I don’t know what they are. My predecessor was an old man, his hands were shaking and all this bit. I know that will be a factor in time to come. But I think if you keep your image up-to-date, you’ll decrease the age factor. I’ve seen many young men who are old and I don’t propose to go that route.

  DOC PRITCHARD

  We’re in a Manhattan hotel near Times Square. It is an old, established place of some three hundred rooms. Its furnishings are quite simple, unpretentious. There are permanent guests as well as transients.

  He is a room clerk, on the 8:00 A.M. to 4:00 P.M. shift, five days a week. He’s been at this work twenty-two years. “I not only room people, I do cashiering, checking out, cashing checks, all that sort of thing. The day goes pretty fast. Before you can say, ‘Jack Robinson,’ it’s time to go home. (Laughs.) It’s difficult at times.” (Laughs.)

  I begin at eight in the morning. I have to have a smile on my face. Some mornings that’s a little difficult. The first thing you run into is people checking out from the night before. You might get a slight lull and then people begin arriving. They’re like little bees. You’re concentrating on what you’re doing. It’s a little difficult to have that smile all the time. I have one particular girl who says to me, “What? No smile this morning?” So I smile.

  Clerks are really underpaid people. It is one of the lowest paid jobs in the United States. I think they should put out more money for a good hotel clerk. If you get a fellow on the front desk who has got a good personality and can get along with people and he’s on his toes, I mean really serving the guests, I mean really getting out there and encouraging them to come back—the hotel has to be halfway decent too. Then I think you’ve got a clerk that’s worth two hundred dollars a week.

  They don’t get that. It’s difficult sometimes for them to get along with just one job. A great many of ’em moonlight. Or they work a couple extra nights in another hotel. A great many actors went into this. They did it just to eat between jobs. This was before the unemployment check. Many show people worked in hotels. They’d do it until the next part came along. Then they’d quit. So nobody really cared.

  I doubt if a hotel clerk really commands a heck of a lot of respect. I’ve had people talk to me just like I was some sort of dog, that I was a ditchdigger, let’s say. You figure a fellow who comes to work and he has to have a cleanly pressed suit and a white shirt and a tie on—plus he’s gotta have that big smile on his face—shouldn’t be talked to in a manner that he’s something so below somebody else.

  It affects me. It gives you that feeling: Oh hell, what’s the use? I’ve got to get out of this. Suddenly you look in the mirror and you find out you’re not twenty-one any more. You’re fifty-five. Many people have said to me, “Why didn’t you get out of it long ago?” I never really had enough money to get out. I was stuck, more or less.

  In a lot of hotels, the cashiering is done by a certain person and the rooming is done by the clerk. Here I do everything. At times I even act as manager, because if the manager’s out, you have to take hold. There’s a good deal of bookkeeping. It can get quite confusing. I’ve had fellows from universities come in. I would try to break them in. They couldn’t make head nor tail out of being a room clerk. The one thing you must remember: Forget what happened yesterday and let tomorrow take care of itself. It’s today you’re working. Everything you do has to come under this date. So many look back two days and post back two days and this is how we get fouled up. (Laughs.)

  There’s pressure when you’re doing it all. There is tension, quite a bit of tension. On a busy day I’ll go home and it takes me about an hour and a half to unwind. I just want to sit there and pick up a book or a paper or something. Just get away from it all.

  My legs are quite tired. I’m on my feet the whole time. In doing these jobs I don’t have much of a chance to sit down. You’re moving back and forth and pivoting most of the time. You’re not in a large area. You’re turning and pivoting. Ofttimes through the day I take a walk in front of the desk.

  The thing I don’t like about it is you’re trapped—in a small area eight hours a day. You’re behind the desk. We had a grill on our desk and I asked them to take it away, because I felt like I was in jail. The other side is open, wide open, where you can talk with the guests. But this cage was near the cash. I told it to more than one guest. There’s a glass there now and a sign: Please go to the front.

  “When I broke in, it was shortly after World War ll. Hotels were much busier. I’ve worked most of ’em. I’ve even worked resort hotels. You might work two or three months, then you got to trudge out and look for another job. I’d rather work in a commercial house like this. Here you got things set winter through summer.”

  You see a lot. I’m not a nosy person. I don’t care what another person is doing. It’s none of my business. I’ve found out that people who do worry about what a guest is doing, nine times out of ten they’re wrong. Especially when you’re dealing with people in the arts. Many times it’s pertaining to business, has nothing to do with what that person who thinks like Archie Bunker thinks is going on. I’ve got enough to worry about what I do without worrying about what somebody else does.

  The clerk in a hotel is rarely tipped. The bellboys, rather, get all the tips. A fellow that comes into the hotel to do a little cheating will always tip the bellboy heavily. The boy can’t help him at all, in any way, shape, or form. It’s the clerk who watches his mail, watches his messages, and watches who comes in and out to see him. It’s really the clerk who covers for him. But he never seems to realize that. If the manager wishes that he be ejected from the hotel, it’s the clerk who can save him. The bellboys couldn’t do a thing for him.

  The clerk knows what’s going on. The fellow relies on the bellboy to keep his mouth shut. The bellboys never keep their mouth shut. The first guy they tell is the clerk, when they come back—if the clerk doesn’t already know it. (Laughs.) Occasionally you will get people who seem to know their way around. They will throw the clerk a couple of bucks or a five-dollar bill now and then.

  We’re not getting any young blood. There’s no incentive. I don’t blame’em—to be tied up in one spot. There’s not as many hotels as there used to be. A great many of the two-hundred-, three-h
undred-room houses are being torn down or they’re turned into office buildings. All that’s left are a few old stand-bys. There’s the big hotels, monstrosities. There is no homey feeling. You’re just a lonely traveler. If you go down to the bar, you don’t know who the hell you’re gonna run into. Your information clerk will probably be a nineteen-year-old college girl or boy. He doesn’t know a thing about hotels. He could care less. He wouldn’t even have an idea what you did for a living. These hotels are going to be missed.

  Everybody’s in a rush: “Will you please hurry up with my bill? I’m in a hurry, I gotta catch a plane.” It’s a shame, because we could live in such a relaxed society . . .

  I’m getting a little older. Can’t take it the way I could twenty years ago. Sometimes you just sit and ponder the day. You get a lot of laughs. (Laughs.) A fellow walked in one morning, he wanted to know if I had seen his wife. He took a picture out of his pocket and held it up. He said, “If you see her, tell her I was looking for her.” It was a picture of a nude woman. (Laughs.) You get a lot of laughs.

  I have about nine years to go until sixty-five. My hope is that I’ll be in good condition, so I can do two or three days work at least in hotels. I know I’ll miss people. You always have the idea that you’re gonna better yourself. You think, Gee, I wonder if I could write a book or just exactly what I could do. I think I could have done a lot better than just being a clerk.