Jem Crandall was making mistakes. He supposed his mistakes were standard, run-of-the-mill mistakes that any freshman on the job would make. What he couldn’t figure out was how to stop them from happening before he got fired. If he got fired, he might not be able to find another job. It was June already and the college students had arrived in force. If Jem couldn’t find another job, he would have to return to Virginia and work at his father’s bar, the Locked Tower, and deal with his nutty sister, Gwennie, and her bulimia. He wrote himself a note-soap on the bathroom mirror-No More Mistakes! When he shaved, it was tattooed across his forehead.
Jem’s first mistake was also the most embarrassing: Mrs. Worley. The Worleys were a heavy-set couple from Atlanta. He noticed them each morning hovering around the breakfast buffet while he tried to clear it. Once, mister followed Jem into the galley kitchen when Jem left with the platter of muffins. Mr. Worley selected the last two mixed-berry muffins, and Jem, who understood unreasonable hunger, said, “Yeah, those are my favorite, too.”
Several days later, when mister was paying his bill, Love said, “Jem, room ten is ready to be stripped. The Worleys are checking out.”
Jem licked his fingers clean of powdered sugar (he was allowed to eat the leftovers from breakfast), and said, “Okay, I’m going.”
Stripping the rooms was Jem’s least favorite part of the job. The chambermaids cracked jokes about “love stains” when they made the beds, and although Jem laughed at the term, it didn’t make him feel any better about having to gather the sheets up in his arms. And love stains weren’t as offensive as some of the things people left in the sheets. He’d seen blood, urine, used condoms, and food-globs of guacamole, a lobster claw. He was responsible for taking out the trash, and he tried not to look at what the guests threw away. One horrifying day, he found a Styrofoam head covered with a stringy brown toupee sitting on a dresser. He also collected the soiled towels, bathmat, and bathrobes from the bathroom. Another lovely task, but at least it was better than swabbing nests of hair out of the bottom of the shower.
Jem went to work on the Worleys’ room. The TV was on-ESPN SportsCenter-and Jem watched the highlights, waiting for a score on the Orioles’ game as he did his work. He threw the quilt and the blanket off the bed and stripped the sheets, trying not to think of the rotund Worleys rolling around in them. He removed the plastic bag from the trash can, twisted it and tied it. The TV announcer finally showed a clip of the Orioles’ game-and Jem thought of his father, who had a collection of Orioles memorabilia hanging behind the bar at the Tower.
Jem checked the closets for items left behind. He checked the drawers. He’d heard Vance whispering about some great thing he found in one of the rooms. Jem guessed it was lingerie, or a dirty magazine. These closets and drawers were empty, thank God.
Jem swung open the door to the bathroom and heard a loud gasp. Mrs. Worley was sitting on the toilet, reading the TV Guide. She looked at him with wide brown eyes, her mouth agape. All Jem could think at that moment was Please don’t stand up. But it was too late. Mrs. Worley stood, and Jem couldn’t help but look. His eyes were drawn to her lower half: her shorts drooping around her ankles, her stomach hanging like so much bread dough over her…
“Get…get!” Mrs. Worley stuttered. Her face was bright pink.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Jem said. “They said you were checking-” Mrs. Worley lunged, slammed the door in his face. A second later, he heard Mrs. Worley crying. Jem hurried out the door, leaving the trash and the pile of dirty sheets behind. He stumbled into the sunshine, feeling exposed and ashamed. He wanted to run for the safety of his rented room, lock the door, jump into his bed and hide under the covers. Instead, he sought refuge in the coolness of the laundry room, which had the soothing, clean smell of detergent. He stayed there for nearly half an hour, wondering if Mrs. Worley would report him. Jem buried his face in a pile of green fluffy towels and tried to think of other things, pleasant things-going to the Muse and drinking a cold beer, talking to a pretty girl in a sundress-but he couldn’t shake the image of Mrs. Worley, her thighs, white and dimpled like cottage cheese. It was far, far worse than even the Styrofoam head and toupee. Jem felt sick to his stomach. Then the phone rang in the laundry room. It was Mack.
When Jem walked into Mack’s office, he was still shaking. “Are they gone?” he asked.
Mack nodded, his face grim. “You’re lucky she wasn’t thinking sexual harassment, or attempted rape.”
The picture of Mrs. Worley standing up from the toilet presented itself again in Jem’s mind, as he feared it would for the rest of his life. “No way,” he said, “not in a million years.”
“A smart thing to do when you see a closed door is to knock,” Mack said. “Otherwise we leave ourselves open to those kinds of allegations. You don’t want that, do you?”
Jem shook his head. Mack’s face twisted, and then he burst out laughing. “You poor kid,” Mack said. “You should see yourself.”
“It was so embarrassing,” Jem said. He watched Mack laugh, and wished for some laughter from himself, a warm release, but none came. It was funny, in a way, wasn’t it? Jem waltzed into the bathroom with every intention of collecting the towels until-whammo! Mrs. Worley, front and center. Of course, Mack hadn’t heard Mrs. Worley scream, and he hadn’t heard her crying.
Mack sobered up and wiped his eyes. “I’m not angry,” he said. “But I am serious. Always knock before you strip the rooms. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” Jem said.
“You’ll have to write Mrs. Worley a note of apology. It was your mistake.”
Jem wondered what he could possibly say to Mrs. Worley-I’m sorry for the very awkward moment? I’m sorry to have barged in on you in the John? He almost smiled until he heard Mack use the word “mistake.” It was then the train of thought first materialized: getting fired, working at the Locked Tower, his sister, Gwennie.
“Okay,” Jem said. “I will.”
Three days later, a very famous man checked into room 6. The man was so famous that when Jem saw him at the front desk he had a hard time keeping a straight face. Why didn’t Mack warn them people like this were coming? Jem might have worn a cleaner shirt. But the Beach Club showed no one favoritism, and so Jem led this famous man, a major player, a mogul (for if anyone in the world could be called a mogul this man was it) to room 6, as though he were anyone else. Jem could only think of the man as Mr. G. This was what he was called in the media, the same way that Donald Trump was called “the Donald.” Mr. G had brought a briefcase, and a small black Samsonite suitcase. Jem took the Samsonite. It was so light that Jem wondered if it were empty. He walked just in front of Mr. G, reciting his spiel about the chambermaids, the ice machine, the Continental breakfast from eight-thirty to ten.
“I won’t be here for breakfast,” Mr. G said. “I’m only staying overnight. I have an extremely important meeting tomorrow in Washington.”
“Just overnight?” Jem said. “At least you have a nice day for it.” It was true: the sun was shining, the ocean a glorious blue. Jem walked along the boardwalk, then up the three steps to the deck of room 6, and paused for a minute, searching his pocket for the key. He couldn’t believe he was about to unlock a door for Mr. G.
Mr. G cleared his throat and Jem fumbled with the keys. Get the door open, you idiot! he thought. This is Mr. G! Jem opened the door. “Here you go,” he said. He waited until Mr. G stepped in and put down his briefcase. “My name is Jeremy Crandall. Just let me know if you need anything.”