Miss Lamp. Christopher Ewart
dill pickles down from the top shelf and onto the wooden cutting board. The Cook’s stubby little fingers twist away the lid, dive into the brine and flick about for a keeper. His stubby little fingers find a shiny, well-textured specimen of deepest green. He holds it under the heat lamp, dripping shiny brine from his stubby thumb and forefinger, seeking approval from Room Service Boy.
With hands clasped together and a nod of chin to chest, Room Service Boy admires The Cook’s dirt-free nails. The garlic in the brine keeps them clean. The Cook cleans a thin knife on his apron, eyeing the moist pickle on the cutting board.
Chop chop. Chop.
He places four symmetrical, aromatic pickle quarters on the blue plate, employing great care not to disturb the garnish of cantaloupe. Under the lava glow of the heat lamp, the pickle lets out a sizzle.
‘Yeah. I bet she does,’ says The Cook.
Room Service Boy straightens his cuffs again, noticing the shine of the heat lamp on the wet kitchen floor. He should mop it up for safety. ‘Does what?’
‘Wants a pickle.’
‘A what?’
‘A pi-ckle.’
The Cook unties his apron as Room Service Boy removes a plastic tray from the stack, examining it for cleanliness. He folds a clean yellow linen napkin in the shape of a triangle and places a large soup spoon in the middle of it. He pulls enough cuff to grasp blue plate, saucer and bowl away from the gnaw of the heat lamp. The food for Room 32 appears on the tray without a spilled drop or shaken crumb. Three seconds. Room Service Boy takes pride in his efficiency.
The Cook folds his greasy apron over his arm. ‘Get it?’ he says.
‘Get what?’
With a strange gesticulation of hips, The Cook hovers those stubby little fingers around his fat white T-shirt belly and his belt. These two articles of clothing don’t quite meet up over the bounty of coarse black curls hiding his belly button. In a circular motion of hands, with pelvic thrusts for emphasis, he says, ‘The pickle. The pickle. The pi-ckle.’ A bead of sweat runs down his forehead, right through a fence of hairnet.
‘Oh,’ Room Service Boy replies, placing the tray on the cutlery table beside the juice fridge. Quickly. One small carton of Tropicana Orange-Peach. One bendy straw, and a single plastic daisy in a single plastic daisy holder. The modest card reads FOR OUR VALUED GUEST. He never knew The Cook could dance so well.
Past the swing of the kitchen door, Room Service Boy finds a comfortable stride clear across the lobby to the elevator that works best. Balancing the tray in one arm, he tries not to smell the food too much, as it would diminish its value. The elevator goes ding.
‘The Cook sure likes pickles,’ he says to Front Desk Man.
‘Thirty-two. Thirty-two!’ Front Desk Man shouts.
During the twenty-three seconds it takes to arrive at the third floor, Room Service Boy ponders the value of a guest. Every day, card after card disappears from the stack on the cutlery table with the wobbly leg, beside the noisy, noisy juice fridge leaking water all over the kitchen floor. Unsafe. He should mop it up for safety. Staring at the card on the tray, he sees no candy beside it, and no wrapper that reads COURTESY MINT, because the mint is in his mouth.
The third floor dings clearer than the others. He sniffs at his armpits, catches a glance of his purple dickie bow tie, slightly askew, and prides himself on his fresh breath. ‘Very important face to face,’ he remarks.
Usually, he gets from the elevator door to Room 32 in eighteen generous steps. He might be able to do it in seventeen today. He is on stride. Solving the enigma of being helped out with a can of soup lessens the desire to bite his lip. Minty.
Banana Tray Hair’s reference to him as Soup Boy over the entire public-address system of Safeway gives him an efficient idea. With one leg significantly longer than the other, and the special shoes she wears, Banana Tray Hair improves Room Service Boy’s sixth possibility of being helped out of Safeway with a can of soup:
6. Banana Tray Hair delivers the soup to Room 32 without spilling it – in fewer than seventeen steps.
§
Smiles Are Always Free.
Miss Lamp in Room 32 receives a crisp knock at the door.
‘Room service, ma’am. Room service?’
Miss Lamp doesn’t enjoy waiting for her dinner on the edge of her bed.
Room Service Boy forgot to fix his cuff after picking up such absurdly hot stoneware. Pi-ckles have entered his mind seven times since the dance show in the kitchen.
Miss Lamp rises in her flannel pyjamas patterned with many Mounties on horseback or standing in salute. She shakes her hair in the mirror on the wall, giving it necessary tousle. The door clicks open and hushes on the carpet.
‘Campbell’s Tomato Soup and grilled cheese with a pickle, ma’am.’ Room Service Boy grins with chalky teeth, fresh breath and a spotty face.
Miss Lamp’s winking eye twitches once or twice.
‘How was your flight, ma’am?’ Room Service Boy wants to collect Air Miles.
Miss Lamp clears her throat. ‘Did you make this soup with moomoo? Because it has to be made with moomoo.’
‘Moomoo … ? Ma’am? Do you mean – ’
‘Moomoo!’ She says it more clearly. ‘What kind of moomoo did you use? Skim moomoo? Two-percent moomoo? Homo moomoo? What kind? You didn’t use powdered moomoo, did you?’ She examines the soup for lumps. ‘I can’t eat Campbell’s Tomato Soup with any old kind of moomoo.’
Thoroughly confused, he replies, ‘I didn’t make the soup, ma’am, The Cook did, and I’m absolutely sure he made this exact bowl of soup with no less than one part milk, um, moomoo, because it gives the soup its calcium factor, pinkish hue and nice creamy taste. In fact, I would guess the soup is made with whole moomoo, and it may be getting cold.’ He stares down at the soup, steam dwindling above his cuffs.
‘All right then.’ Miss Lamp, with thoughtfully messy hair, flannel Mountie pyjamas and glasses for reading, continues. ‘I can’t have any old kind of moomoo, you know. That skim moomoo stuff is blue. Put it on the table over there, beside the chair. I think the chair is broken, by the way.’
She turns her attention to the food. ‘Is the grilled cheese cut to corners? Yes. And the pickle? Good. And a bendy straw for my juice? You did use old cheddar, right?’
‘Sure did, ma’am, old cheddar. Cracker Barrel. Dairy section. Aisle 8, ma’am.’
Miss Lamp hovers over her food with a sharp nose, a rabbit sniffing at a carrot that’s too clean. ‘Good. This will do fine.’
Room Service Boy counts fibres in the berber.
‘Yes, looks quite delicious. It will do just fine.’
Miss Lamp wonders if she repeats herself.
Head down, Room Service Boy fixes his cuffs, then turns his eyes up to Miss Lamp. She removes thin glasses with green rims from her silver glasses case. Her thin glasses rest slightly above her nose as she sits on the rough wooden chair. Flannel Mounties offer slight protection from slivers. Room Service Boy reaches out his hand, turning an open palm. Head down.
‘No, no, this will be more than adequate. Thank you, and please tell the front desk I wish not to be disturbed. I do have a lot of reading to do.’
Miss Lamp shakes her sandy-brown hair in the mirror and picks up the spoon from its resting place. She unfolds the yellow napkin on her lap. The spoon breaks the thin film of milk, tomato, cracked black peppercorns and fresh parsley.
Room Service