HOTEL SERVICE

Evening Post, Volume CXX, Issue 137, 6 December 1935, Page 3

HOTEL SERVICE

AS CtIYEX IA t A3IEKICA

"SORTA HOMEY"

Intimidation of the alien starts as soon asUie puts foot off the boat in New York, writes Paul Arming in the "Cape Times." The immigration officer, well supplied with chewing gum and any amount of spare time, makes the first move. Having glanced through the blue sheet on which the hardy Armenian, South African, Lat-vian,-or Englishman has declared his freedom from polygamy, permanent crippling, mental deficiency, and moral turpitude, and has stated that he is not "in favour of the assassination of United States Government officials"; having satisfied himself that the alien is worth robbing; and having glanced with some distaste at the fine old foreign features, he stamps the passport with a cautious note that America will extend a welcome for sixty days only. The game of hunting the baggage is then played, and the usual forfeits paid-to a gentleman who is more interested in Cape triangulars than in Customs dues. The look he has given at the alien underwear would make the least sensitive wop determined to buy a complete set of B.D.V.'s and American shirts immediately. The more serious affair of intimidation by taxi begins. Manhattan looked superb yet unreal in approach. In the squalid cobbled streets near the docks, under the shadow of a thousand leering skyscrapers, huddled up in the back of a taxicab without springs but with super-efficient brakes, the surroundings take on a sinister aspect. ENDLESS JOURNEY. It is growing dark; the cab jerks forward on the wrong side of the road: the driver understands no word of what the alien fondly imagines to be English; lie looks like a thug, and grunts like a thug. There is no end to the journey.

On the wall of the cab is pasted the photograph of an obvious criminal; beneath it lies a certificate issued by the police to advise that the above, X. Z. Eisencowitz, is permitted to drive a taxicab for one month only. The photograph begins to bear a faint resemblance to the driver. There are several new scars down the right cheek, a black eye unshown in the photograph, but the stubbly growth on the chin is the same, the squint, the broken nose, and the cauliflower ear —these are identical.

Undoubtedly this to Comrade Eisencowitz, allowed out on ticket of leave for a month. Visions of sand-bagging and robbery in the Bowery begin to loom. The car, travelling at a steady forty-five, crashes into the rear end of an inoffensive and stationary milk cart. A fine flow of rich Central European lewdness fills the air.

I An uninterested crowd gathers, a blue-shirted cop strikes Eisencowitz playfully in the stomach, asks a few pertinent questions about the private life of the milk dealer, and tells us to get to hell out of here. We get. Almost immediately Eighth Avenue appears, the hotel is reached, and the thug recovers his appreciation of a natural English accent when a miserable British shilling slips' in among the quarters and dimes of the fare. "SORTA HOMEY." Intimidation is over. Peace is declared the moment the alien steps into his hotel. Hospitality exudes over him in an atmosphere of which the keynote is "personal service." Welcome is written On the mat, the walls, and the ceiling. He registers at the reception desk, no words pass between the clerk and the bell hop, except the number of the room, he is led quickly to the elevator (lift to you), and the lift boy says, "Welcome to New York, Mr. Aiming; we hope your stay with us will be pleasant. At your service."

The whole thing is too absurdly swiif. The alien's correct name has been conveyed to the liftboy by some method of wireless message similar to the hilltop telegraphy of darkest Africa or the "grape-vine"' telegraph of the Southern negroes. However it is done, the guest receives a fine feeling of importance and well-being. On the wall of the elevator is today's message for employees—"Nothing succeeds like success", keep rising."

The door of the bedroom is hollow. It is a servidor. Dirty clothes put into this space at night will next morning be discovered, still in the servidor, but now clean, ironed, and packed in a cardboard box. Each shirt in a cellophane bag, each collar in an. envelope, each pair of socks tied up with a card which bears a picture of the old cottage (with roses round the door) in one corner, and the following 'words in print: " 'SORTA' HOMEY. WE'VE TURNED YOUR SOCKS INSIDE OUT AND PULLED IN THE TOES JUST LIKE MOTHER USED TO DO. ■ YOU WILL FIND THEM EASIER TO PUT ON."

In the bathroom (2000 bedrooms, 2000 bathrooms) there is a tap for running iced water and lour different scented soaps. Under the bed there are two spittoons. Above the bed is a radio loud-speaker all ready to be switched on to any one of four stations. On the dressing table is an urgent appeal to use the Hospitality Bureau—

"We can tell you anything, any time." In the top drawer of the dressing table is a "Gideon Bible" with a note on the first page to the effect that Gideons are Christian Commercial Travellers l\vho have banded together to supply a copy of the Bible to every hotel bedroom in the United States. On the second page is written, somewhat cryptically, "Gideon was a man willing to do exactly what God wanted him to do, irrespective of his own judgment as to plans or results." "GOOD ATMOSPHERE." In the streets below a thousand motor horns, police car sirens, sidewalk radios, and the screech of a million New- York voices float up in a veritable onslaught of decibels; even Mayor La Guardia is powerless to dim this noise. Down in the bar negro waiters are busy taking orders and shaking cocktails; a gong rings, they group together, and "Were you there when they crucified our Lord" rings beautifuHy through the cool, air-con-ditioned atmosphere. Then "I got a robe," lovely, still, and full over the heads of the drinking crowd ("That's good atmosphere, said the manager to me, winking slyly.)

Next morning, according to plan, the bedside telephone rings and a chatty young thing says "Good morning, Mr. Arming, I hope you had a pleasant night; it is a quarter of eight and the temperature on the sidewalk outside is 72 degrees; at your service." With breakfast an envelope, personally addressed; inside a card reading "In appreciation . . . and may your visit with us be exceedingly happy and comfortable. The Management."

"That afternoon another note — "Checking out? Why not stay in this comfortable room tonight? Then travel swiftly by aeroplane tomorrow. Call transportation desk for your reservation." And about a week after the final departure, a brief not sent right across the continent —"We enjoyed your stay with us, we hope you enjoyed it, too. May we hope you will come to us again." At Your Service!