Matecumbe (21 page)

The meeting room for the librarians, in an anteroom right off the main lobby of the hotel, was decorated with photos of old Carnegiefaçade libraries where Olga had worked, photos of a young Olga standing in front of old libraries, and photos of groups of librarians—some even older than Olga—with whom she had labored through the course of some forty-odd years.

Olga herself seemed overwhelmed by all the attention she was receiving from her co-workers. Petite, with short gray hair and eyeglasses that seemed too large for her face, Olga looked fit—and typecast—for the role of a cartoon-character librarian. The only missing prop would be a sign in her hand that said “Quiet Please.”

One of the rumors circulating among the Philadelphia-area librarians was that Melissa might eventually be chosen to replace Olga. Melissa knew that she had a realistic chance for this step upward in the librarian hierarchy, but she wasn’t campaigning actively for such a career promotion.

“If I get it, I get it,” was her philosophy. “True, it might mean more money and more prestige for me, but it would also mean more administrative work. I’m kind of happy as a reference librarian. Finding answers to other people’s questions is something that never gets boring.”

Throughout the course of the evening’s cocktail party and dinner, Melissa spent the better part of an hour or more talking with Jane Doherty, a long-time reference librarian who worked in a small South Philadelphia branch. And it was one of the stories Jane related that set the tone for the rest of Melissa’s week in Atlantic City.

“I thought for awhile that I might have to retire prematurely from my library,” Jane explained, “even though I really want to keep working for as long as I can. My husband, who was a Philadelphia city policeman, suffered a slight back injury and was forced into premature retirement a few years ago.

“After sitting around the house for only a month, though, the inactivity started to bother him, so we discussed the possibility that maybe I should retire, too, in order to keep him company. And I would have done it, just to make him happy, except that through a bit of luck, he stumbled into a full-time job that he just loves. He’s a security consultant now for a casino that’s just a few blocks away from here.”

“Security? What does he do exactly?”

“He says it’s just like the police work he did for most of his career. He supervises the guards on the casino floor, watches out for thieves and con men, and, occasionally, he arrests people.”

“How dangerous is this job?” Melissa continued, her inquisitiveness genuine.

“From what he tells me, it’s a lot easier than being a big-city cop. Basically, there are no street corner brawls or knife-wielding weirdos to worry about. And, so far, there have been no murders, no beatings, and no rapes on the casino floor.

“Most of the time he deals with purse snatchers, pickpockets, prostitutes, rich and poor types alike who deal in stolen goods, and counterfeiters.

“At least once a month someone tries to counterfeit those black chips that are used at the gambling tables. They’re the ones worth a hundred dollars apiece.”

“I don’t mean to get too personal,” Melissa again interjected, pursuing the matter further, “but tell me, Jane, since your husband is a retiree, wasn’t there a problem with his age? The reason I’m asking is that a friend of mine has been looking for police work in the Philadelphia area, and he’s gotten nowhere. He thinks it’s because he’s too old.”

“Oh, no. They were happy to have him—considering all of his experience. In fact, he tells me that most of the casinos have hired ex-policemen for the security positions—or for the armed guard jobs. And as far as our personal relationship goes, his new work has just been great for us.

“Really, it’s almost unbelievable, Melissa,” Jane concluded, “but for the first time since we were married, over thirty years ago, my husband has a certain pride in his job title. He likes being referred to as a ‘professional’—just like me. In the eyes of the world, he’s no longer just a cop. He’s been transformed—into a suit-and-tie-wearing consultant. For all those years when he was a cop, he probably felt inferior to me, but no more. I can’t believe how this new job has changed him. He’s lively, spirited, and seems to feel so good about himself.”

For the remainder of the retirement party that evening, Melissa was present in body but not in mind. Outwardly, she may have appeared to be conversing normally with those around her, but inwardly her thoughts were dominated by visions of Joe obtaining a security consultant’s position with the local casino industry, similar to the job that Jane’s husband enjoys so much.

“If Joe got a job here, we could buy a house in southern New Jersey,” she told herself, “halfway between Philly and Atlantic City. Getting a place in a location near where Uncle Steve lives would be perfect—about forty minutes drive time either way.”

The following morning, Melissa opted to pass up attending two library seminars for which she had enrolled. Instead, she managed to visit every casino on the Atlantic City boardwalk, picking up employment applications for Joe at each stop along the way.

As she walked from one casino’s personnel department to another, Melissa also found time to write a pocketful of notes that would be of value in Joe’s job search—such as the names of key employees to whom he could address his resumes.

In what amounted to a full day’s work, Melissa also spent several hours wandering through the gaming areas of each casino. Her purpose was to check out the doings of the security people on the floor and to try to get a feel for what it would be like for Joe to work in a gambling hall.

What startled her the most were the large numbers of women she saw.

“There seem to be just as many younger women sitting calmly at blackjack tables as there are older women frantically playing the slot machines,” she wondered, almost aloud. “I never realized that this fascination for casino gambling included women to such a great extent. I’m not sure where I’d fit, though. Maybe I’m too old for the tables and too young for the machines!”

And even though Joe had never told her whether or not he liked to gamble in casinos as opposed to racetracks, Melissa felt confident that he would enjoy working in a gambling atmosphere—what with his affinity for wagering on horses and dogs.

During her travels around town, Melissa saw a bevy of armed guards that were a noticeable presence in just about every casino.

“These places are sort of like banks,” she reasoned. “I imagine if there weren’t so many guards standing around, looking tough, a lot more people would get tempted by all that money floating around in the open.”

Before the one hundred dollar bills were exchanged for betting chips, these large denominations flashed briefly almost everywhere. Quickly, the dealers would stuff this cash downward through openings in the tables. And, occasionally, some of the bills would require extra shoves before they disappeared, as if they were objecting to the downward destination, like so many fish trying unsuccessfully to swim upstream.

The volume of dollars amazed Melissa at first. She realized, however, that in a casino, the money, after awhile, seems to lose its real meaning.

“That’s why they use the chips,” a bystander explained to her. “When people lose their chips, it doesn’t seem as monumental or as traumatic as losing real money. Chips are like toys. The buying power in food, rent, or whatever just disappears when twenty-five American dollars become one tiny, green piece of plastic.”

For her remaining days in Atlantic City, Melissa struggled mentally, alternating her brain power between snatches of professional duty and ideas for Joe. She did present herself at several seminars and at a workshop that analyzed “The Techniques and Record-Keeping Methods For Dealing With Reference Questions Received Via Telephone.”

As soon as she returned to Philadelphia at the end of the week, Melissa wasted little time in getting straight back to her office in the library—for a bit of personal research.

During a three-hour, non-stop stretch, she dug into the guts of every casino management book and newspaper article she could find in order to ferret out kernels of information that would be helpful to Joe.

All told, she photocopied almost two dozen pages that Joe could use to brief himself on the ins-and-outs of how casinos are operated.

This, together with the piles of employment applications, the names of contacts in casino personnel departments, and the notes that she’d accumulated from her walking tour represented Melissa’s total stack of readables.

She was confident that these materials could serve their purpose. Her beloved Joe would now have a head start on any job shopping he might get into while touring the East Coast’s version of casino heaven.

“After all,” she told herself, while admiring her casino information collection, “when I take Uncle Steve’s advice and travel to Islamorada to claim my man, I might need more ammunition than my body and my smile.”

Although the pay wasn’t outstanding, the job itself was one that Mary Ann had fantasized about for years.

“Finally, someone is willing to take a chance and train me,” she voiced, excitedly, when describing her new position to Paul and the girls. “I’m going to be a Medical Assistant, a real Medical Assistant, working for three doctors. I’ll learn to do blood pressure tests, take venipunctures, EKGs, medical records, the whole works. And I get to wear a white uniform, too. I’ve never, ever, worn a uniform before.

“Do you realize that this will be the first time I’ve had a job that’s more than just a job? I might even be able to call myself a professional.”

Without a doubt, Mary Ann felt that her long years of experience in administering to the girls’ asthma problems had helped her to impress her employment interviewers.

“When we started talking about asthma drugs—the theophylline, the prednisone, the saline solutions—they could tell I was no dummy. I guess my interest in the medical field was what won them over.”

Mary Ann had about an hour’s drive to her new place of employment. The medical office, just south of Reading, was the farthest she’d ever had to travel to get to work.

“Since we’ve started seeing each other regularly,” she told Paul, “I’ve gotten into the routine of shaving my legs every other night. That habit will save me time now, because I’ll have to get up extra early every morning to get ready for my job.”

Mary Ann was glad she had a new car.

“I can avoid the problems I used to have when I was poor,” she reflected, thanking Paul once again for the Ford mini-wagon. “I’d often get car troubles and be late for work. Now, what with driving on the turnpike every day, the new car is really a blessing.

“I remember those long trips on the turnpike a few years ago, and how tough it was with my old car.”

“Every two weeks, I’d drive the girls to a psychologist in Adamstown. He specialized in working with asthmatics, helping them adjust to their childhood years—you know, with the limited physical activity. I was lucky I didn’t have any boys. I can’t imagine telling a boy he can’t play football or basketball.

“Really, I don’t know if those sessions helped the girls or not, but I’d do the whole thing over again for them, even though it wasn’t cheap. I guess I’m a mother first, with all else last.”

Once Mary Ann started working steadily, she got to spend less time with the girls.

It was during one of those daily commutes in her car that she glanced to her right and saw four pennies sitting on the front passenger’s seat.

“We put them there, Mommy,” Melissa informed, “for good luck on your long drives. You can pretend that the pennies are the four of us, sitting next to you, helping you watch the road.”

Paul, too, was concerned about the endless, tiring hours that Mary Ann spent commuting.

“I know you love your job,” he told her. “But I don’t like the fact that you’re coming home exhausted every night. Let’s do something daring, love, like moving out of Pottstown.”

“But Paul, what about your job? You’re not going to quit the bank, are you?”

“No. Not at all. And I’m not going to tell you to quit your job either. We’ll compromise. Let’s look for a house about halfway between where you work and where I work. Why should I be the one with just a five-minute commute every morning? I won’t mind a bit of extra travel. If we move, it would be like I was sharing the driving with you.

“I can’t think of a better way to start out a lifetime partnership.”

Melissa could never have done it without an overabundant store of confidence.

Deciding to surprise Joe by popping in unannounced in Islamorada appeared to be an unrealistic alternative when she first heard the suggestion from the lips of Uncle Steve.

But now that she possessed that heavy pile of job information on casino security positions, Melissa felt well fortified, and hence better able to embark on her journey for Joe’s heart. Also, she reasoned, living with Joe Carlton for the rest of her life was a goal well worth chasing.

“And even if he turns me down,” she reasoned, realistically, “it will be better for me to have found out right away. For the longer that a relationship goes on, the harder it is to forget.”