by Monica Nolan
“Cute,” Pamela admitted, “but—”
“What about the part about pants and women’s figures—the ‘what shape are you?’ They could even illustrate with drawings of the different body types, you know, narrow-hipped but femme—”
“Good lord, Maxie!” Pamela burst out. “Haven’t you ever read The Step Stool? They have a policy on pants! Louise once wrote an editorial about how inappropriate attire sets back the movement!”
Dimly, Maxie remembered Stella saying something along those lines. But Louise had herself been wearing pants! She should practice what she preached and not go around confusing people, the would-be writer thought indignantly.
“Fine, you think it’s a flop,” she said, trying to keep her temper. “Maybe Stella will think differently. And if she doesn’t, I’ll rewrite it. I am a professional, and I’m ready to earn my pay.”
Pamela looked at Maxie, aghast. “Pay! The Step Stool doesn’t pay its writers!”
Maxie’s jaw dropped. “Not even a kill fee?” she managed to ask.
“What’s a kill fee?” Pamela asked blankly. But Maxie was too jolted to take any pleasure in explaining the term to her know-it-all girlfriend. The bottom had certainly dropped out of her writing career!
“I must say, Maxie.” Pamela kept her voice even with an effort. “I think you should have found out about payment before you took that assignment. It just proves that you have a lot to learn about the working world. Be realistic and let me get you a job in the packing room—I’m sure you’ll be promoted to stocker before the year is out!”
The prospect sounded unbearable to Maxie. “Stop trying to push me into the packing room, Pamela,” she begged. “Being cooped up in a windowless room all day would give me the heebie-jeebies.” On a hunch, she accused her practical girlfriend, “You just want me someplace you can keep an eye on me!”
Pamela flushed, and rose from the bed. “I’m not going to quarrel with you, Maxie. But I’m not going to see you anymore either—not until you prove you’re more than a fly-by-night in both work and love!”
“Fine,” Maxie said, as panic mixed with anger. Pamela’s threat sounded serious this time. “Suit yourself!” She couldn’t help following Pamela to the door, and calling after the disappearing girl, “But would you rather take your pants off with me, or discuss pants policy with Louise?”
The door of the room down the hall closed softly, but not before Maxie caught a glimpse of a mousy-looking girl, retreating hastily into the room. Oh dear! What a welcome for her new neighbor!
Chapter 10
A Job for Maxie
The following week found Maxie tied to the phone on the first floor.
She was waiting for a call from Miss Watkins. She’d told the career counselor when she dropped off her records that she was ready to do anything, really, anything! But Miss Watkins merely counseled patience. “Which I know from your PPA will be difficult,” she said sympathetically.
Maxie didn’t even have her work for Mamie to occupy her. She’d written the columnist a resignation letter. Pamela would be pleased, if she knew, Maxie thought, but Pamela wasn’t calling her up these days either.
When the phone did ring, it was usually the Tip-Top Tailor Shop, with an inquiry about the overdue bill for the alterations she’d had done in April; the billing department at Grunemans, where her charge account had gone unpaid this month; Countess Elfi’s, where she owed for her favorite face cream.
And even though she was sure Luigi didn’t read Mamie’s column, she couldn’t show her face at her favorite neighborhood restaurant until she could pay her tab there. Instead, she ate the cream-cheese-and-applesauce sandwiches she’d grown to hate. She’d rather drink cold soup!
“It turns out I haven’t just lost my allowance,” she told Dolly dolefully. “I’ve acquired a pile of bills!”
Dolly was a blessing—listening for the phone so Maxie could escape the confines of the Magdalena Arms from time to time, or keeping her company as they discussed their employment woes. They spent hours playing Ping-Pong in the lounge, listening for the phone. Maxie had become quite expert at the game.
Sometimes she listened to Dolly practice a new monologue, or helped her pick out an eye-catching outfit for “making the rounds,” as the actress called it. Then Maxie would be alone again, biting her nails, adding up figures on scraps of paper again and again, hoping the results would change, or looking through her possessions and trying to decide which piece of jewelry or clothing she could part with.
She wasn’t quite alone; there was the new girl on the fifth floor, whose name turned out to be Kitty Coughlin. She was a thin-faced girl with dark crinkly hair and intense green eyes under heavy brows. While Maxie and Dolly played Ping-Pong, Kitty usually sat in a corner of the lounge poring over a thick textbook. She was studying psychology, she’d told the two girls, working on her thesis. At night Maxie could hear the new girl’s typewriter rattling away.
For all her study of the human psyche, their new neighbor seemed oddly naïve. She still dressed like a high school girl, in full-skirted pastel dresses or gingham middy blouses and skirts. She was wide-eyed when Dolly and Maxie explained the Magdalena Arms message system.
“This is the only phone?” Kitty said, when they showed her the phone at the first floor’s front desk. “And it’s all right for anyone to answer it? None of the girls has a phone in her room?”
“Mrs. DeWitt is a little old-fashioned,” Dolly told her, going on to explain that the practice of having the girls take turns as front desk receptionist for a reduction in rent had ended the previous year. “So if you hear the phone ring, answer it and take a message. We take turns sorting the mail too.”
The new girl seemed a little shocked. “That’s certainly a casual way to treat the U.S. Mail!” she exclaimed.
“Do you know,” Dolly reported to Maxie in a low voice as they rested after a hard-fought game, “I saw her down the street the other day, making a call from the luncheonette. She just can’t adjust to the catch-as-catch-can Magdalena Arms way of life.” She glanced at Kitty, bent over her books in the corner as always.
“Maybe she’s got a whatamacallit, fetish for privacy.” Maxie thought about her old psychiatrist, Dr. Ridgeway. “These psychological types are usually a little off.”
The word “fetish” reminded Dolly that she was booked for a photo shoot that afternoon, and she left the lounge, saying she’d better do her hair and makeup.
Whatever her fetishes, Kitty was certainly friendly. She was interested in everything Maxie did and was always asking her questions—what did Maxie do for fun? Where did she go? How did she get along with her mother? “I’m awfully interested in the mother-daughter relationship,” she explained.
Once the phone was for Maxie and it wasn’t a bill collector. Stella at The Step Stool asked cheerily, “How’s the fashion piece coming?”
Maxie was so happy to hear a friendly voice that she forgot how furious she was at The Step Stool over their no-pay policy.
“I’ve got a rough draft,” she told Stella instead. “Although Pa—some people think it’s a little frivolous.”
“I’m sure it’s terrific!” Stella enthused. “When can I get a look at it?”
“This week,” Maxie heard herself promising. She would have a sample, she reasoned, the next time she was asked. And it would certainly help fill the empty hours!
The unemployed heiress’s other occupation was budgeting with Phyllis. She’d agreed to the nightly sessions out of sheer boredom, but soon found Phyllis’s tutorials were not as dreary as she’d expected. The mild-mannered statistician was a fecund fund of money-saving tips. Maxie had always made affectionate fun of the earnest ideologue; now she felt a new respect for her friend, who knew how to stretch a dollar until it screamed.
“Should I mail my article, or walk it over to the Step Stool offices?” She asked Phyllis’s advice the next evening, after she’d finished her piece and had typed it as best she could on Lois�
�s machine.
“Shoe leather is more expensive than a stamp,” Phyllis said instantly. “And a stamp is cheaper than the bus.”
Phyllis had even explained the mysteries of the transfer to Maxie: “They let you ride on any number of different buses within a given time limit,” Phyllis told her, without upbraiding her for her ignorance as Pamela so often had. “So you see, you might even be able to go somewhere and come back on one fare!”
That seemed to Maxie a very generous system compared to cabbing, where you paid by the mile. “Why, I could explore the whole city for under a quarter!”
One evening Phyllis took the ex-deb to the public library. “You can borrow books and read magazines and newspapers for free,” she said, as they toured the periodicals room of Bay City’s main branch.
“Why does anyone bother to buy a newspaper?” Maxie asked in wonder.
The statistician showed Maxie how to polish her own shoes, and was teaching her to iron. Dolly could do her hair as well as Henri, the number-cruncher assured the doubtful ex-deb; and besides, Phyllis thought Maxie looked better without a bouffant.
Under Phyllis’s tutelage, Maxie was now recording all her expenditures in a little black book, putting them in categories like “food,” “clothes,” “sundries,” and “beer.” “This will help us build your budget,” Phyllis explained.
Looking over the list, Maxie was appalled at how fast the costs mounted up: the breakfast with Mamie, the trip to Waukesset, the apple strudel, the toll call to Sookie, the cleaning bill for Lois’s outfit, and even the cigarettes from the corner store. “Why, I spent a fortune in three days!” she said in dismay.
Phyllis didn’t scold Maxie for her spendthrift ways, as Pamela had. She simply pointed out the many ways by which Maxie could save money in the future: eat the Magdalena Arms breakfast, which was included with her board; make all toll calls person-to-person or collect; no cabs, not even in so-called “bad” neighborhoods—the intrepid statistician insisted you could travel safely anywhere by bus.
“I can show you how to cut down on cleaning bills,” Phyllis added as she studied the list. “And we’ll take up in-room recipes—there’s absolutely no need to dine out!” She tapped the last item. “You could save a bundle if you gave up these.”
“Give up smoking?” Maxie recoiled a little. “What if I just stopped tipping so big?”
“Do you realize what you spend on cigarettes in one year?” There was a zealous light in the social scientist’s eyes. “In addition, several scientific studies show they’re bad for you—you’ll be sleeping better, breathing deeper, and saving on medical bills in the future!” she concluded triumphantly.
“Oh, those scientists always have some bee in their bonnet.” Maxie discounted Phyllis’s studies. “Why, the army gave Uncle Karl cigarettes in the service, along with his chocolate ration and the condensed works of Nathaniel Hawthorne!”
“It’s true, cigarettes are bad for you,” a new voice piped up. It was Kitty. She’d been hidden behind the bookcase, and Maxie hadn’t even realized she was there. She’s always eavesdropping! Maxie thought, irritated.
Maxie was smoking a cigarette the next day, leafing through a magazine—borrowed from Lois—and pondering her pearls and their potential price when the phone rang. She jumped up to answer it, and when she heard Miss Watkins’s “Hello, Maxie!” lilting over the wire, she knew it was the call she’d been waiting for.
“Do you have my results?” Maxie asked eagerly. “Have you found me a job?”
“No results quite yet.” Miss Watkins explained that she’d sent Maxie’s tests and educational records, from her kindergarten attendance sheet to her Oil Portraiture Completion Certificate, to Mrs. Spindle-Janska at the Institute of Applied Technology, where the inventor of the Personality Penchant Assessment was Professor of Personnel. “She’s going to feed the information into the OCIVAC, a computer specially designed for personality assessments,” burbled Miss Watkins excitedly. “It’s something very new in our field. You’re a fortunate girl, Maxie, to get this kind of attention from Mrs. Spindle-Janska herself!”
Maxie didn’t feel fortunate. “But, Miss Watkins, my rent won’t wait for your results,” she said desperately.
“I found something,” the career counselor said a little hesitantly. “It would be purely for pay, I’m afraid. Your lack of experience is a stumbling block. How do you feel about recreational work? There’s an opening in the Bay City Summer Recreational Program for Disadvantaged Youth.”
“Miss Watkins, that sounds like heaven!” Maxie exclaimed. Anything that got her out of the Arms and put a little cash in her pocket would suit her, she felt like adding.
“Good!” Miss Watkins sounded relieved. “I’m glad you’re so open to new experiences. You can start tomorrow—they need a Recreational Aide urgently in the Dockside neighborhood. Do you know where the Eleanor Roosevelt School for Troubled Girls is located?”
Maxie assured her she did. “Netta teaches there,” she reminded Miss Watkins.
“Oh, of course! Report there tomorrow at eight A.M. Your supervisor is Miss Santucci. And, Maxie—” Miss Watkins paused. “May I give you a word of advice?”
“Shoot!”
“My preliminary analysis of your PPA shows signs of impulsiveness, recklessness even, that might—”
“I got you,” Maxie interrupted. “I’ll try to keep my impulses under wraps. Thanks again, Miss Watkins!” Maxie hung up the phone jubilantly. Turning around, she saw Kitty. Why was that girl always at her elbow?
“Sounds like you got a job.” Kitty didn’t even try to conceal her curiosity. “Where will you be working? What will you be doing?”
“I’m an aide!” Maxie announced. “In the Bay City Summer Rec Program. I guess I’ll be helping the kids make sit-upons and so forth.”
Kitty looked thoughtful. “That Miss Watkins must have connections. Those rec program jobs are all patronage positions.”
It was Maxie’s turn to be curious. “How do you know?” Kitty often displayed odd bits of esoteric knowledge, but this was interesting information.
“Oh . . .” Kitty turned vague. “I just heard that somewhere. But gee, Maxie,” she added with little-girl enthusiasm. “I’ll bet you’ll be a whiz at the job! The campers will love you!”
Dolly had come back from her photo shoot and was in time to hear Kitty’s last comment. After the studious girl went back to the lounge, the unemployed actress told Maxie with an air of discovery, “I know what’s making that psych student act so strangely—Kitty has a crush on you!”
Chapter 11
Recreational Aide
“How was your first day?” Kitty was hanging around the front hall the next afternoon when Maxie wearily stumbled up the steps.
“Fine!” Maxie managed a smile. She was too tired to care about Kitty and her crush, but she didn’t want to admit to the psych student that this Recreational Aide business was more complicated than she’d realized.
“Did something happen to your handbag?” Kitty called after her, as the exhausted aide began to climb the stairs to the fifth floor. The elevator was out again. Maxie’s legs were like Jell-O and she leaned heavily on the bannister.
“Just a little accident,” she said faintly. An errant ball had bashed in her white wicker purse during the chaotic game of dodgeball she’d refereed that morning. But that was only a sample of the damage she’d suffered. Her matching white shoes were streaked with black. Her burnt-orange linen was smeared with bits of clay, and she’d lost her hat. Her effort to appear employment-worthy had been for nothing. She’d gotten a surprised look from her supervisor, Miss Santucci, and had overheard the other Recreational Aide, Pat Pressler, referring to her as “Miss Society.”
Supervisor—that’s a laugh! Maxie thought bitterly as she reached her room and collapsed on her bed. Carmine Santucci had provided Maxie with a whistle and a smeary, mimeographed sheet of suggested activities and then abandoned her to her fate.
O
f course Carmine had her hands full as much as Maxie. The three girls divided the kids into three “tribes”—Carmine was chief of the Choctaws, Pat managed the Menominees, and Maxie spearheaded the Sioux. The Recreational Aides rotated their tribes around the asphalt courtyard for outdoor games; the gym for basketball, rope climbing, and the like; and the cafeteria, which was used for crafts. Today’s craft had been clay modeling.
How am I going to survive another day? Maxie wondered in despair. There was so much more than sit-upons involved in this new job. A constant stream of activities was required to keep her charges occupied. When boredom set in, the hard-bitten nine-to-twelve-year-olds turned to violence, attacking each other at the drop of a hat, especially if the magic phrase “your mother” was invoked. Maxie was bruised from separating the fighting preteens. Wasn’t there an easier way to earn her living?
I’ll think about it tomorrow, Maxie decided, closing her eyes without even shedding her soiled clothes.
Somehow, she managed to get up at the crack of dawn the next day—and the day after, and the day after that; she arrived at the Eleanor Roosevelt School in the dismal Dockside district at eight A.M.; she trudged through the grueling round of sports, crafts, and games until the buses collected the howling Indians at two. The gang had told her it was good she was entering the work world gradually, with a thirty-hour week. Maxie shuddered to think what forty hours a week of recreation would do to her.
One benefit of her new job was that the ex-deb was too tired to do anything when she got home. Gone was her desire for gay evenings out; she barely missed the amorous interludes she and Pamela had shared. Any alert moments before her collapse into heavy slumber were spent poring over books borrowed from Netta’s room—Games for All Ages, Stories from Folklore, and The Disturbed Child—in an effort to arm herself with enough time-filling activities to keep her wild Indians from committing mayhem.
She’d hoped Mrs. Olssen, head of the whole Summer Recreation Program, might offer some guidance during one of her weekly visits. But when introduced to Maxie, she’d only reminded the new employee to include a weekly “enrichment activity” before disappearing into the kitchen with Mrs. Atkins, the cook, leaving Maxie wondering what an enrichment activity was.
