I Was a Towel Girl

At 7am the heavy glass doors of the Stratton Mountain Sports Center swing open and an angry gym bag heaving, boot stomping mob bursts through.


"What's the weather supposed to do today? Do you know? Why don't you know? When is the snow starting? Well, what does it say on the weather report right there on the wall behind you? Isn't that today's snow report? This is Vermont, isn't it? Where's the snow?"


I am wearing my white long sleeved LL Bean shirt neatly tucked into my khaki pants, and my Stratton issue red fleece pullover. A gold magnetized name tag is affixed to the left side of my chest.


My name is Amy, and I'm a front desk girl.


For the past few weeks I have been fed front desk girl duties in incremental doses. I have learned how to make hourly pool and hot tub checks, how to monitor the PH and something called ORP. If the PH level is higher than 8.0, it could result in someone's hair falling out. I learn how to fill the hot tub with a heavy white rubber hose. I hold the hose above my shoulders to drain it, like Atlas balancing the world. I stretch it alongside the bubbling hot tub to eke out each remaining droplet before coiling it and putting it back. I learn how to perform a strip test.


After pool and hot tub checks, I am to cast an appraising eye around the pool area, toss out empty paper cups, organize green, red and yellow kick boards into neat stacks, wipe spilled coffee from the round patio style glass table tops. I mop droplets of water from the green plastic chairs. I am to check for foreign objects at the bottom of the pool.


I am instructed to close all the lockers in the ladies locker room, empty the garbage, wipe the counters, inspect the steam room. A few years ago Maintenance discovered the pink boiled body of a man in the men's steam room.


"He was poached," Chuck from Maintenance reported.


I pick up used tissues, replace paper towel rolls, and remove wads of dripping towels. After I have worked a few days Laura says, "You're not wearing any rubber gloves? Think where those towels have been!"


"So, Mom, exactly what do you do at Stratton?" my daughter Katherine asks me.


"Oh, you know, things."


"What sort of things?" Katherine laughs. "You sound as though you mop out toilet bowls or something."


"Mom? Mom, you don't mop out toilet bowls, do you?"


My job requires good people skills and communicative ability.


"Hello, Stratton Sports Center, this is Amy. May I help you?"


"Yeah, what's the temperature of the pool?"


"84 degrees." I sing all my responses.


"Are you sure?"


"Pret-ty sure," I trill.


"Because yesterday it was 80."


"Well, I'm sure it will be fine today. Thank you for calling." I have adopted a cute little upswing at the end of each sentence.


"Hello, Stratton Sports Center, this is Amy. May I help you?"


"Yeah, how long is the pool?"


"Pret-ty long."


"How many laps does it take to swim a mile?"


"Quite a few."


"Good morning, would you like one towel or two?"


"I'm here for Nicholas," the burly dark-haired man snaps. His biceps are the size of basketballs.


"Are you here for a massage?"


"Look, uh...Amy," he says, leaning over the counter and peering at my magnetized name tag. "I know you're new, so I'll do this once and then we won't have to waste my time with any more chit chat."


"What's your name, sir?"


"Honey, I been coming here for five years. You want to know my name? You want to see my membership card? Here it is. What does it say? Never mind, I better read it to you, so there's no mistake."


Yeah, and you can go fuck yourself, I think.


I can retain no new information. I can't tell which little boxes in the massage schedule book mean hours, and which mean half hours. I am convinced everyone is stealing sneakers. I have begun to pocket the change left behind in the lockers, even though I know it is to be saved for Jack, whose job it is to sweep.


"What is it?" I shout, when I answer the phone.


My co-workers wait a few more days before they try to teach me how to use the cash register.


"Push enter," instructs my supervisor, Sonya. I am ringing up a customer, a loud nasal voiced individual from Massapequa, Long Island. He sports an enormous off white plastic cowboy hat, a fringed leather vest and an I phone.


"Now add the item," Sonya resumes. Sonya is 22 years old. I could be her mother.


"No, add the item!"


"Now push escape, good, now add again. Yes, again. Now close. Now escape. Got it?"


I nod my head. I push a key and the computerized cash register freezes. Sweat dribbles down my temple. I jab at keys, willing the cash drawer to pop open with its reassuring silver-toned bing.


"Is there a problem here, little lady?" the Massapequa Cowboy drawls. He holds his cell phone away from his mouth, takes up a pen and starts rat-tat-tatting it on the wooden counter, heaving loud exaggerated sighs of annoyance.


"No, no, no problem. It's nothing. I'm just new, trying to learn the ropes, but it might help if you would just stop tapping that goddamn pen!" I punch the keys and little blinking yellow lights flash Error! Error! Error!


"What's wrong?" Sonya asks. She moves in. Her brows are furrowed. Not a good sign.


Beyond speech, I wave my arms. I squawk.


"Oh, my God," the Massapequa Cowboy groans into his cell phone. "Where do they get these people?"


"I can do this if people would just keep quiet so I can think!" I tell Sonya.


"I'll do it," Sonya says calmly, icily.


"No, I've got it!" I wave her off.


"You need to stand over here," Sonya says. After prying my fingers from the counter, she presses my arms to my sides and propels me by my elbows to a corner by the dressing room.


"We need more towels," she says.


"But, I..."


Sonya places her index finger over her lips to indicate that not one more word is required. Not one.