Spitting off tall buildings - By Dan Fante Page 0,3

and parts of ten or fifteen beat-up old tuxedos. Lupo told me that when she was a girl first starting out as a vaudeville usher, Georgie Jessel had once changed his clothes in this very clammy, shitty, cold basement.

The black pants and jackets hung worn and shapeless like the abandoned uniforms of a defeated platoon of head waiters. Mrs. Lupo stayed outside the door while I tried on pants and tux jacket pieces until I was finally able to merge a combination that came close to my size.

When I opened the door of the dressing area, she looked me up and down, sucked at her teeth, then announced, ‘That’ll do. You’re responsible for the cleaning. That and the shirt laundering come out of your pocket. Personal expenses.’

Then she walked over to the clothes rack, grabbed the first two available beat-up tux shirts and passed them to me. ‘These’ll be yours. There’s a Chinese on the corner of Seventh Avenue. They charge a dollar a shirt. Don’t get the heavy starch, get light starch only.’

Then she snatched off a frayed, dirty, clip-on bow tie that swung from the triangle of a wire hanger with half a dozen others and tossed it to me. ‘You need this too,’ she said, looking me up and down again. ‘That’s it,’ she declared to herself. ‘You’re done. Let’s go. Change back into your street clothes. I’ll wait.’

I did. But when I came out carrying the usher’s uniform over my arm I hadn’t tried on the shirts. I held one up. ‘I can tell that these sleeves are too long,’ I said. ‘They won’t fit.’

Her eyes shone with haughty amusement. ‘We’re not auditioning here, Dante. We do the best we can. You wear the jacket over the shirt, right? Roll the sleeves up if you have to. Remember, I said heavy starch destroys the cotton. No heavy starch.’

‘You saying it twice has created a permanent impression.’

She didn’t like my remark. She made a squinty face that caused a whole section of her brittle wrinkles to roll and fold quickly, then even out. ‘And don’t wear any one shirt more than three shifts maximum. Understand?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Smelling like a dock worker or having a shoddy appearance is grounds at my theater. And don’t be late anymore. Being late after the first time is also grounds.’

‘Got it.’

‘And not doing what your supervisor tells you is grounds too. Immediate grounds. Your supervisor is Eddy, my nephew.’

‘You’re not my supervisor?’

‘Congregating with other employees and talking to women customers, except to answer questions, is out. You a sissy?’

‘No.’

‘This is a movie house in Greenwich Village, not a discotheque for my employees to hobnob with chippies and the local hippie weirdos. This is a place of business. You smoke?’

‘Yes.’

‘You smoke on your own time. Smoking downstairs in the alcove outside the bathroom or sneaking in back of the curtains by the inside exit doors and having a cigarette is also grounds. Eddy knows. Smoke on your break only. Smoke outside only. Understand?’

I exhaled heavily. ‘I believe I do.’

‘Don’t be smart. Yes or no is the answer.’

‘Okay, yes.’

‘So you’re up to speed so far?’

‘Twelve thousand percent.’

She went on. ‘Stay away from the projection booth upstairs. The night man is union. He’s a dope smoker and a drunk but there’s nothing we can do until we catch him. His contract states that he’s entitled to lock the booth door but he’s not fooling me. I won’t tolerate juicers or pot heads.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘I mind my own business.’

‘You start tomorrow, Dante. Your work schedule will be four to twelve with Mondays off. Ask for my nephew Eddy, the Assistant Manager. He’ll train you.’

‘What was today?’

‘Today was your interview.’

‘I thought today was my first day. Does that mean I’m not getting paid for today?’

‘Today was not your first day. You’re not working today. Eddy is off. Tomorrow is your first day. Today is Monday. Tomorrow is Tuesday.’

‘I was told by Miss Herrera at Olson’s to report for work today. Monday. Four p.m. I know the days of the week. Yesterday was Sunday, today is Monday.’

‘I just said that you have Mondays off.’

‘So what I was told by Herrera at Olson’s was bunk. No matter that my pay checks come from her.’

I’d pissed Mrs. Lupo off. She began gesturing. Her spiderweb wrinkles flexed and relaxed then tightened again. ‘Hand those here, please,’ she snapped, grabbing at the clothes.

I gave her the uniform, the shirts and the bow tie.

‘I haven’t got time for this,’ she said. Then she dumped the