Up in the Mountains
Bernadette Miller
It was a lovely Adirondacks resort. The large dining room’s French doors overlooked Schwanga Lake with its piers and sailboats cradled amidst mountains. Chandeliers lit damask walls and candled tables, the room bathed with soft classical music. On the columned porch, guests could socialize on chaise lounges or rest nearby in their luxurious cottages. Farther down the paved road was the staff dormitory. Because they had obtained their jobs through an employment agency, the college students had never met the owner, Mr. Hargrave.
When pony-tailed Maxine, a psychology major, arrived by bus on Memorial Day, she hurried with the others to the dining room.
Middle-aged Mr. Hargrave was surprisingly handsome with deep blue eyes, craggy features, and graying sideburns. Lining the students against a wall near the entrance, he distributed white uniforms with black aprons, and then laid down the rules.
“Now listen you little snot noses, this ain’t no Goddamn vacation! You wanna get through college, you’re gonna work your asses off, understand?” He paced back and forth before the students staring, open-mouthed. “I’m expecting a convention in a few weeks,” he growled, “and after that Hollywood big shots, and I don’t want no shit from my staff! Any kid poor enough to work in the mountains is an animal, and that’s how I’ll treat you. But you work hard, you’ll make god money. Okay, get the table setups started. Dismissed!”
Intimidated, the girls spread lavender tablecloths and laid out gilded silverware, while the boys cleaned the windows and vacuumed the plush lavender carpet. They sneeringly referred to Mr. Hargrave as Mr. Simon Legree.
The next day, balancing a heavy tray on one shoulder, Maxine filled orders for the forty guests at her station. She felt confident she’d earn enough for the coming semesters. “Don’t worry, we’ll manage here,” she told Joanie, who’d approached from the next station after lunch. “There’ll be wealthy guests all summer.”
“It won’t be easy,” Joanie said. Pretty, with curly auburn hair and green eyes, Joanie glanced about to spot Hargrave, and smiled at Hank, a cute busboy.
After dinner, Maxine rest her tables and propped the folded tray stand against the walnut cabinet shiny from the chamois rag. Anticipating a deserved rest, she headed for the oak doors.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Hargrave called out, emerging from the kitchen.
“I’ve...finished, so I’m going back to the dorm,” Maxine said timidly, pausing.
“Oh, no, you’re not! Nobody leaves until everbody’s finished!”
She hesitated.
“If you don’t like the rules, you can hop a bus back to town.”
“No...I’ll follow the rules.” She retreated to her station and in frustration watched the others. If Fran worked any slower, she’d move backwards! Petite Fran smiled shyly as Maxine hurried over to fill a sugar bowl. Then Joanie helped another student to fold napkins. By helping each other, they finished by ten. They’d worked since seven that morning.
“All right, line up against the wall!” Hargrave barked like a drill sergeant. C’mon, no slumping. I want this staff to look sharp!”
Maxine forced herself to stand erect, deeply resenting Hargrave. What right did he have to make them work until they dropped? He was a sadist!
“This is an expensive resort, so we give the guests our best,” he grumbled, and inspected the students, straightening a collar, tugging at a sleeve. “You brats will stand straight at your station until you’re needed, and nobody leaves until the dining room’s spotless. Got that?”
They nodded wearily.
“Dismissed!”
After work they discussed Hargrave and where they might have fun. Some busboys had old cars, so they drove the girls to charming Roanberry’s Inn, several miles away. The spacious rooming house had been converted into a home away from home: porch rocking chairs, a cozy living room with thickly padded furniture, bar and TV. Guests made their own sandwiches in the kitchen.
Although Maxine rarely drank, she enjoyed the wooziness that eased her dread of Hargrave.
Hank, seated beside Joanie, said, “How can he operate a motel efficiently if he destroys his staff?” Frowning, he smoothed his blond crewcut. “We’ve got to leave.”
“Where can we go now?” Joanie said, clutching her second drink. “The resorts have already hired their help.”
The others nodded glumly, and rested chins in hands, thinking.
“We won’t last the summer,” Fran said finally, gazing with glazed eyes at the bar mirror.
“We must find a way out,” Maxine said.
Back at the dormitory, they wearily set the alarm for six o’clock and fell into bed.
Two weeks later, refilling salt shakers, Maxine noticed Fran staring at the wall, not moving. Maxine caught Joanie’s eye, and they walked over to Fran, joined by Hank. Hargrave had disappeared from the dining room.
“Fran, come on, you can’t just stand there,” Maxine whispered. “We’ll help you.” She stuffed dirty tablecloths into a laundry bag.
Fran shook her head. “I’m so tired, I can’t stand.”
“Who isn’t?” Joanie said, wiping the cabinet. “Roanberry’s the only thing that gets me through the day.”
“Hargrave has serious emotional problems,” Maxine said. “He needs professional help.”
Hank sighed. “I’ve been driving around, looking for another job for us, but so far, nothing.”
“Keep looking,” Maxine said, and the others nodded.
As usual, they returned from Roanberry’s past one o’clock and again fell into bed. The next morning, Maxine slumped against the wall while Hargrave inspected his staff lined up like soldiers. “Listen, you little bastards, don’t lean against the Goddamn walls! If you got some sleep instead of whoring at Roanberry’s, you’d be fit to work. Hey, Malvino, what the hell are you doing?”
Fran had sunk into a nearby lavender chair. She looked at Hargrave, then, rising wearily, stood at attention with the others.
“Now, listen up good, you brats! Like I told you, this ain’t no picnic. We still have July and August, and I want you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning. I’ll work you day and night if I hafta! Important celebrities are coming to see their kids at Bingham’s Camp, and I don’t want no snot from my staff. Got that?”
They nodded.
“Dismissed!”
Maxine managed to gulp juice and corn flakes before the breakfast crowds entered.
“Maxine,” said slender, gray-haired Mrs. Courtland in her shrill voice, “I asked for cream of wheat, and you brought me Wheatina. I do wish you’d be more alert and give me what I asked for.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Maxine said, and rushed into the kitchen. Rich old biddie, she thought. They hassle you with no concern about your feelings. Holding the bowl on a doilied plate, she glanced through the French doors at the lake’s blue water rippling against a pier. Last summer, Lake William had been beautiful, too, but despite the nice hotel manager and guests, a bank loan paid for tuition. Daddy bought class supplies, apologizing that his small grocery didn’t earn that much; she’d have to work her way through college. Still, she shouldn’t complain. Many students came from poorer families, some on welfare. Biting her lip, she hurried to serve Mrs. Courtland her cereal.
“Finally!” Mrs. Courtland said, smoothing her brocaded designer jacket. She smiled at her frail, balding husband. “Did you enjoy the fruit cocktail, dear?”
“Would you like anything else, ma’am?” Maxine said, bending over her, the tiny black apron tugging at her slim hips.
Mrs. Courtland waved her hand, as if Maxine were a robot. “That’ll be all.” She turned toward her husband.
Maxine almost dropped the coffee carafe, thinking about Hargrave. Freud, Jung, and Adler could have spent their entire careers analyzing him! He was blindly irrational, probably a manic-depressive. She must escape from that nut.
Exhausted by lunch, she rushed to fill orders and flushed when Mrs. Courtland complained bitterly after finishing her soup, “Where’s my Chicken Cordon Bleu?” What are they doing in the kitchen?”
Maxine forced a polite, “Ma’am, it takes time to prepare. I’ll try to speed it up.” Anxious to get good tips for school, she ran to the kitchen and almost knocked down Hargrave, who tottered for a moment and caught himself in time.
“Watch where you’re going, stupid!” he whispered, and then turned, smiling, toward a guest.
At dinnertime, as the convention attendees filled the dining room, Maxine doubted she’d last the evening. The meal, with speeches and entertainment, would run past midnight. By nine, feeling dizzy, she visited the ladies room with its pink floral wallpaper and lighted mirrors. Fran Malvino lay sprawled on the plush pink carpet, an arm flung over a wicker wastebasket.
“Oh, my God--Fran!” she shrieked and dashed outside for Joanie who helped lug poor Fran into the cool night air and onto a chaise lounge. Maxine untied Fran’s apron. Fran’s eyes remained closed.
“Is she okay?” Joanie asked, feeling Fran’s forehead.
“Exhaustion,” Maxine said. “I think she needs a doctor.”
Hargrave came running onto the porch. “What the hell’s going on out here?”
“Fran passed out!” Maxine exclaimed.
He glanced at the inert form and shrugged. “I’ll take care of it. Get back to your station. I got a convention to feed!”
They didn’t move, but stood staring at him.
“Did you hear me? Get the hell back to your station!”
Despite the late hour, Hank afterwards drove them to Roanberry’s, where they discussed a possible solution.
“But how can we get even with Hargrave for poor Fran being hospitalized?” Joanie said.
Maxine thought for awhile and suggested a plan of revenge that would swing into action the night the celebrities arrived.
Filled with hope, the students beamed.
During the following week Maxine waited impatiently until the white limos finally crowded outside the cottages. At dinnertime, Hargrave planted himself at the oak doors to act the sickening sycophant, practically bowing to the floor as Hollywood stars, directors, and producers arrived, wearing gowns and tuxedoes and chatting among themselves.
“Mr. Van Buren, how nice to see you!” Hargrave gushed with perfect diction. “Oh, and this is your beautiful co-star, Miss Reilly. Wonderful, wonderful meeting you! My father was an actor--of course, I hardly saw him before his fatal heart attack, but my colonel grandfather more than compensated for my discipline.” He paused, as if embarrassed, then shrugged it off with an overly sweet smile. “Well, let’s not waste time on trivialities. Please, won’t you allow me to escort you to your table?”
The menu had been extended to include more meat choices, plus lobster, extra desserts, and complimentary champagne. Shuttling between her tables and the kitchen, Maxine eagerly anticipated the pleasure of their revenge. She smiled at Joanie returning to her station with smoked salmon appetizers. Joanie nervously eyed Maxine who held up two fingers indicating, “soon.”
Hargrave circulated about the room, snarling at the students, “Hurry up with that damned soup; don’t keep them waiting!” Then he smiled at guests and inquired about their health to display his geniality.
Mrs. Courtland was especially annoying, complaining about every dish, but nothing could dampen Maxine’s spirits as she flew between the kitchen and her station. The other students, also rushing with their trays, kept glancing at Maxine, waiting for her signal.
Finally, it was time for the main course. As agreed upon, Maxine left the kitchen and stood at her station, noting each waitress’s nod to signify that her main course orders had been given to the chef. At the last nod, Maxine suddenly waved her arm above her head as though swatting a fly, although flies didn’t dare buzz inside the posh Lake Schwanga Motel.
As rehearsed, every waitress set down her tray and began leaving in tandem, followed by all the busboys.
Hargrave, who’d been chatting with guests near Maxine’s station, happened to look up, and to his horror saw his staff disappearing. He grabbed Maxine’s arm. “Where the hell are you going?” he said, his face flushing beefy red.
“We’re quitting,” she said, emboldened by the revenge. She wrenched herself from his grasp.
“Are you crazy?” He glanced at guests observing him curiously and dropped his voice to a whisper. “You can’t quit now. I got a roomful of hungry people here.”
“Too bad,” Maxine said, scowling, and turned to the others behind her. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
“You snot noses!” Hargrave shouted, ignoring the sudden astonishment engulfing the room. “I’ll get even with you for this!” He ran to the kitchen for a butcher knife and pursued the students now fleeing past the dormitory and toward the busboys’ cars parked outside the dorm, crammed with their suitcases packed the previous evening.
The guests, screaming in panic at Hargrave waving the butcher knife, stampeded outside.
He raced toward his staff’s departing cars, yelling, “It’s right in the middle of the Goddamn meal! You can’t do this to me, you sons of bitches. Come back or you’ll never work in the mountains again!”
As Hank turned onto the highway and toward the new Caravelle Hotel where they’d gotten jobs, Joanie and Maxine peered through the rear window and burst into laughter at seeing Hargrave, pausing in a state of near apoplexy, still waving his butcher knife, while the celebrities’ limos swerved to avoid him on the road and shot off in opposite directions with their prominent guests.
Mr. Hargrave’s tyranny of college students was over.
