The Studs Terkel Reader_My American Century

by Studs Terkel

  Way back, you spoke of the guys who built the pyramids, not the pharaohs, the unknowns. You put yourself in their category?

  Yes. I want my signature on ’em, too. Sometimes, out of pure meanness, when I make something, I put a little dent in it. I like to do something to make it really unique. Hit it with a hammer. I deliberately fuck it up to see if it’ll get by, just so I can say I did it. It could be anything. Let me put it this way: I think God invented the dodo bird so when we get up there we could tell Him, “Don’t you ever make mistakes?” and He’d say, “Sure, look.” [Laughs.] I’d like to make my imprint. My dodo bird. A mistake, mine. Let’s say the whole building is nothing but red bricks. I’d like to have just the black one or the white one or the purple one. Deliberately fuck up.

  This is gonna sound square, but my kid is my imprint. He’s my freedom. There’s a line in one of Hemingway’s books. I think it’s from For Whom the Bell Tolls. They’re behind the enemy lines, somewhere in Spain, and she’s pregnant. She wants to stay with him. He tells her no. He says, “if you die, I die,” knowing he’s gonna die. But if you go, I go. Know what I mean? The mystics call it the brass bowl. Continuum. You know what I mean? This is why I work. Every time I see a young guy walk by with a shirt and tie and dressed up real sharp, I’m lookin’ at my kid, you know? That’s it.

  DOLORES DANTE

  She has been a waitress in the same restaurant for twenty-three years. Many of its patrons are credit card carriers on an expense account—conventioneers, politicians, labor leaders, agency people. Her hours are from 5:00 P.M. to 2:00 A.M. six days a week. She arrives earlier “to get things ready the silverware, the butter. When people come in and ask for you, you would like to be in a position to handle them all, because that means more money for you.”

  I became a waitress because I needed money fast and you don’t get it in an office. My husband and I broke up and he left me with debts and three children. My baby was six months. The fast buck, your tips. The first ten-dollar bill that I got as a tip, a Viking guy gave to me. He was a very robust, terrific atheist. Made very good conversation for us, ’cause I am too.

  Everyone says all waitresses have broken homes. What they don’t realize is when people have broken homes they need to make money fast, and do this work. They don’t have broken homes because they’re waitresses.

  I have to be a waitress. How else can I learn about people? How else does the world come to me? I can’t go to everyone. So they have to come to me. Everyone wants to eat, everyone has hunger. And I serve them. If they’ve had a bad day, I nurse them, cajole them. Maybe with coffee I give them a little philosophy. They have cocktails, I give them political science.

  I’ll say things that bug me. If they manufacture soap, I say what I think about pollution. If it’s automobiles, I say what I think about them. If I pour water I’ll say, “Would you like your quota of mercury today?” If I serve cream, I say, “Here is your substitute. I think you’re drinking plastic.” I just can’t keep quiet. I have an opinion on every single subject there is. In the beginning it was theology, and my bosses didn’t like it. Now I am a political and my bosses don’t like it. I speak sotto voce. But if I get heated, then I don’t give a damn. I speak like an Italian speaks. I can’t be servile. I give service. There is a difference.

  I’m called by my first name. I like my name. I hate to be called Miss. Even when I serve a lady, a strange woman, I will not say madam. I hate ma’am. I always say milady. In the American language there is no word to address a woman, to indicate whether she’s married or unmarried. So I say milady. And sometimes I playfully say to the man milord.

  It would be very tiring if I had to say, “Would you like a cocktail?” and say that over and over. So I come out different for my own enjoyment. I would say, “What’s exciting at the bar that I can offer?” I can’t say, “Do you want coffee?” Maybe I’ll say, “Are you in the mood for coffee?” Or, “The coffee sounds exciting.” Just rephrase it enough to make it interesting for me. That would make them take an interest. It becomes theatrical and I feel like Mata Hari and it intoxicates me.

  People imagine a waitress couldn’t possibly think or have any kind of aspiration other than to serve food. When somebody says to me, “You’re great, how come you’re just a waitress?” Just a waitress. I’d say, “Why, don’t you think you deserve to be served by me?” It’s implying that he’s not worthy, not that I’m not worthy. It makes me irate. I don’t feel lowly at all. I myself feel sure. I don’t want to change the job. I love it.

  Tips? I feel like Carmen. It’s like a gypsy holding out a tambourine and they throw the coin. [Laughs.] If you like people, you’re not thinking of the tips. I never count my money at night. I always wait till morning. If I thought about my tips I’d be uptight. I never look at a tip. You pick it up fast. I would do my bookkeeping in the morning. It would be very dull for me to know I was making so much and no more. I do like challenge. And it isn’t demeaning, not for me.

  There might be occasions when the customers might intend to make it demeaning—the man about town, the conventioneer. When the time comes to pay the check, he would do little things, “How much should I give you?” He might make an issue about it. I did say to one, “Don’t play God with me. Do what you want.” Then it really didn’t matter whether I got a tip or not. I would spit it out, my resentment—that he dares make me feel I’m operating only for a tip.

  He’d ask for his check. Maybe he’s going to sign it. He’d take a very long time and he’d make me stand there, “Let’s see now, what do you think I ought to give you?” He would not let go of that moment. And you knew it. You know he meant to demean you. He’s holding the change in his hand, or if he’d sign, he’d flourish the pen and wait. These are the times I really get angry. I’m not reticent. Something would come out. Then I really didn’t care. “Goddamn, keep your money!”

  There are conventioneers, who leave their lovely wives or their bad wives. They approach you and say, “Are there any hot spots?” “Where can I find girls?” It is, of course, first directed at you. I don’t mean that as a compliment, ‘cause all they’re looking for is females. They’re not looking for companionship or conversation. I am quite adept at understanding this. I think I’m interesting enough that someone may just want to talk to me. But I would philosophize that way. After all, what is left after you talk? The hours have gone by and I could be home resting or reading or studying guitar, which I do on occasion. I would say, “What are you going to offer me? Drinks?” And I’d point to the bar, “I have it all here.” He’d look blank and then I’d say, “A man? If I need a man, wouldn’t you think I’d have one of my own? Must I wait for you?’

  Life doesn’t frighten me any more. There are only two things that relegate us—the bathroom and the grave. Either I’m gonna have to go to the bathroom now or I’m gonna die now. I go to the bathroom.

  And I don’t have a high opinion of bosses. The more popular you are, the more the boss holds it over your head. You’re bringing them business, but he knows you’re getting good tips and you won’t leave. You have to worry not to overplay it, because the boss becomes resentful and he uses this as a club over your head.

  If you become too good a waitress, there’s jealousy. They don’t come in and say, “Where’s the boss?” They’ll ask for Dolores. It doesn’t make a hit. That makes it rough. Sometimes you say, Aw hell, why am I trying so hard? I did get an ulcer. Maybe the things I kept to myself were twisting me.

  It’s not the customers, never the customers. It’s injustice. My dad came from Italy and I think of his broken English—injoost. He hated injustice. If you hate injustice for the world, you hate more than anything injustice toward you. Loyalty is never appreciated, particularly if you’re the type who doesn’t like small talk and are not the type who makes reports on your fellow worker. The boss wants to find out what is going on surreptitiously. In our society today you have informers everywhere. They’ve informed on cooks, on coworkers. “O
h, someone wasted this.” They would say I’m talking to all the customers. “I saw her carry such-and-such out. See if she wrote that on her check.” “The salad looked like it was a double salad.” I don’t give anything away. I just give myself. Informers will manufacture things in order to make their job worthwhile. They’re not sure of themselves as workers. There’s always someone who wants your station, who would be pretender to the crown. In life there is always someone who wants somebody’s job.

  I’d get intoxicated with giving service. People would ask for me and I didn’t have enough tables. Some of the girls are standing and don’t have customers. There is resentment. I feel self-conscious. I feel a sense of guilt. It cramps my style. I would like to say to the customer, “Go to so-and-so.” But you can’t do that, because you feel a sense of loyalty. So you would rush, get to your customers quickly. Some don’t care to drink and still they wait for you. That’s a compliment.

  There is plenty of tension. If the cook isn’t good, you fight to see that the customers get what you know they like. You have to use diplomacy with cooks, who are always dangerous. [Laughs.] They’re madmen. [Laughs.] You have to be their friend. They better like you. And your bartender better like you too, because he may do something to the drink. If your bartender doesn’t like you, your cook doesn’t like you, your boss doesn’t like you, the other girls don’t like you, you’re in trouble.

  And there will be customers who are hypochondriacs, who feel they can’t eat, and I coax them. Then I hope I can get it just the right way from the cook. I may mix the salad myself, just the way they want it.

  Maybe there’s a party of ten. Big shots, and they’d say, “Dolores, I have special clients, do your best tonight.” You just hope you have the right cook behind the broiler. You really want to pleasure your guests. He’s selling something, he wants things right, too. You’re giving your all. How does the steak look? If you cut his steak, you look at it surreptitiously. How’s it going?”

  Carrying dishes is a problem. We do have accidents. I spilled a tray once with steaks for seven on it. It was a big, gigantic T-bone, all sliced. But when that tray fell, I went with it, and never made a sound, dish and all [softly] never made a sound. It took about an hour and a half to cook that steak. How would I explain this thing? That steak was salvaged. [Laughs.]

  Some don’t care. When the plate is down you can hear the sound. I try not to have that sound. I want my hands to be right when I serve. I pick up a glass, I want it to be just right. I get to be almost Oriental in the serving. I like it to look nice all the way. To be a waitress, it’s an art. I feel like a ballerina, too. I have to go between those tables, between those chairs...Maybe that’s the reason I always stayed slim. It is a certain way I can go through a chair no one else can do. I do it with an air. If I drop a fork, there is a certain way I pick it up. I know they can see how delicately I do it. I’m on stage.

  I tell everyone I’m a waitress and I’m proud. If a nurse gives service, I say, “You’re a professional.” Whatever you do, be professional. I always compliment people.

  I like to have my station looking nice. I like to see there’s enough ash trays when they’re having their coffee and cigarettes. I don’t like ash trays so loaded that people are not enjoying the moment. It offends me. I don’t do it because I think that’s gonna make a better tip. It offends me as a person.

  People say, “No one does good work any more.” I don’t believe it. You know who’s saying that? The man at the top, who says the people beneath him are not doing a good job. He’s the one who always said, “You’re nothing.” The housewife who has all the money, she believed housework was demeaning, ’cause she hired someone else to do it. If it weren’t so demeaning, why didn’t she do it? So anyone who did her housework was a person to be demeaned. The maid who did all the housework said, “Well, hell, if this is the way you feel about it, I won’t do your housework. You tell me I’m no good, I’m nobody. Well, maybe I’ll go out and be somebody.” They’re only mad because they can’t find someone to do it now. The fault is not in the people who did the—quote—lowly work.

  Just a waitress. At the end of the night I feel drained. I think a lot of waitresses become alcoholics because of that. In most cases, a waiter or a waitress doesn’t eat. They handle food, they don’t have time. You’ll pick at something in the kitchen, maybe a piece of bread. You’ll have a cracker, a litle bit of soup. You go back and take a teaspoonful of something. Then maybe sit down afterwards and have a drink, maybe three, four, five. And bartenders, too, most of them are alcoholics. They’d go out in a group. There are after-hour places. You’ve got to go release your tension. So they go out before they go to bed. Some of them stay out all night.

  It’s tiring, it’s nerve-racking. We don’t ever sit down. We’re on stage and the bosses are watching. If you get the wrong shoes and you get the wrong stitch in that shoe, that does bother you. Your feet hurt, your body aches. If you come out in anger at things that were done to you, it would only make you feel cheapened. Really I’ve been keeping it to myself. But of late, I’m beginning to spew it out. It’s almost as though I sensed my body and soul had had quite enough.

  It builds and builds and builds in your guts. Near crying. I can think about it... [She cries softly.] ’Cause you’re tired. When the night is done, you’re tired. You’ve had so much, there’s so much going...You had to get it done. The dread that something wouldn’t be right, because you want to please. You hope everyone is satisfied. The night’s done, you’ve done your act. The curtains close.

  The next morning is pleasant again. I take out my budget book, write down how much I made, what my bills are. I’m managing. I won’t give up this job as long as I’m able to do it. I feel out of contact if I just sit at home. At work they all consider me a kook. [Laughs.] That’s okay. No matter where I’d be, I would make a rough road for me. It’s just me, and I can’t keep still. It hurts, and what hurts has to come out.

  POSTSCRIPT

  “After sixteen years—that was seven years ago—I took a trip to Hawaii and the Caribbean for two weeks. Went with a lover. The kids saw it—they’re all married now. [Laughs.] One of my daughters said, “Act your age.” I said, “Honey, if I were acting my age, I wouldn’t be walking. My bones would ache. You don’t want to hear about my arthritis. Aren’t you glad I’m happy.”

  ROBERTO ACUNA

  I walked out of the fields two years ago. I saw the need to change the California feudal system, to change the lives of farm workers, to make these huge corporations feel they’re not above anybody. I am thirty-four years old and I try to organize for the United Farm Workers of America.

  His hands are calloused and each of his thumbnails is singularly cut. “If you’re picking lettuce, the thumbnails fall off ’cause they’re banged on the box. Your hands get swollen. You can’t slow down because the foreman sees you’re so many boxes behind and you’d better get on. But people would help each other. If you’re feeling bad that day, somebody who’s feeling pretty good would help. Any people that are suffering have to stick together, whether they like it or not, whether they are black, brown, or pink.”

  According to Mom, I was born on a cotton sack out in the fields, ‘cause she had no money to go to the hospital. When I was a child, we used to migrate from California to Arizona and back and forth. The things I saw shaped my life. I remember when we used to go out and pick carrots and onions, the whole family. We tried to scratch a livin’ out of the ground. I saw my parents cry out in despair, even though we had the whole family working. At the time, they were paying sixty-two and a half cents an hour. The average income must have been fifteen hundred dollars, maybe two thousand.59

  This was supplemented by child labor. During those years, the growers used to have a Pick-Your-Harvest Week. They would get all the migrant kids out of school and have ‘em out there pickin’ the crops at peak harvest time. A child was off that week and when he went back to school he got a little gold star. They would make
it seem like something civic to do.

  We’d pick everything: lettuce, carrots, onions, cucumbers, cauliflower, broccoli, tomatoes—all the salads you could make out of vegetables, we picked ’em. Citrus fruits watermelons—you name it. We’d be in Salinas about four months. From there we’d go down into the Imperial Valley. From there we’d go to picking citrus. It was like a cycle. We’d follow the seasons.

  After my dad died, my mom would come home and she’d go into her tent and I would go into ours. We’d roughhouse and everything and then we’d go into the tent where Mom was sleeping and I’d see her crying. When I asked her why she was crying she never gave me an answer. All she said was things would get better. She retired a beaten old lady with a lot of dignity. That day she thought would be better never came for her.

  One time, my mom was in bad need of money, so she got a part-time evening job in a restaurant. I’d be helping her. All the growers would come in and they’d be laughing, making nasty remarks, and make passes at her. I used to go out there and kick ‘em and my mom told me to leave ’em alone, she could handle ’em. But they would embarrass her and she would cry.

  My mom was a very proud woman. She brought us up without any help from nobody. She kept the family strong. They say that a family that prays together stays together. I say that a family that works together stays together—because of the suffering. My mom couldn’t speak English too good. Or much Spanish, for that matter. She wasn’t educated. But she knew some prayers and she used to make us say them. That’s another thing, when I see the many things in this world and this country, I could tear the churches apart. I never saw a priest out in the fields trying to help people. Maybe in these later years they’re doing it. But it’s always the church taking from the people.