Mr. Driscoll, Sylvia’s supervisor at The Belmont
A problem case,
that’s what she is.
Not a talented waitress.
I assign her to the side room
to serve our staff, not our guests.
She snubs her nose,
makes plea and fuss
that she needs tips
to make this gig worthwhile.
I listen, shake my head,
tell her she lacks qualifications,
lacks skills.
She huffs
out of my office
like a boiling teapot,
then proceeds to gallivant
until dawn every night,
always on the arm
of a different boy.
Proves me right.
Still, I pity her.
I’ve needed cash
a day or two in my life.
So I throw this pup
a bone, offer Sylvia
an extra thirty dollars a week
to change the bed linens.
Turns me down cold
as an icebox. Ungrateful,
these youngsters. Lazy.
Maybe she thought she’d flirt
her way into an apron
of dollars, shine the guests
her silver-dollar smile.
I offer work for compensation.
Guess she won some
girl’s magazine contest,
wrote a story.
Now I hear she’s sick,
sent home to recuperate.
Phone call says she’s not returning.
Can’t say I’m sorry to see her go.
The Belmont was a resort hotel in West Harwich-by-the-Sea, Massachusetts. Sylvia wrote about this waitressing job in her journals.