Merle.
My skills at the Dewey Decimal system are definitely lacking. I have suffered so many library late fees that I probably have paid Merle's salary for the past two years, and my clumsiness always betrays me in the rudest of ways in the middle of the quiet rooms. But I have been a discerning reader for all of my literate life.
I needed to sign my name in the ledger in front of a security guard in order to get onto the elevator. There was another woman screening anyone who spilled onto the 9th floor lobby of the Harold Washington Library. She let me in to see Merle with a keycard. I didn't need to ask Merle any questions: she discussed her job with utmost pleasure for all of the 45 minutes we spent together. She hasn't read every book in the Chicago Public Library, but in order to decide which books land on the shelves, Merle puts on her best poker face and analyzes every book review she (and her clerks) can get her hands on. She critiques every publisher's catalogue, she combs through each publicity blurb.
When she finds under-publicized gems from obscure presses, Merle smiles with understated exhilaration. How she uncovers these hidden jewels in the midst of hundreds of thousands of books published each year, I know not. Diamonds in the rough tend to surface only in my wake; needles in haystacks prick me like I'm a pressurized blister. I sat across from her, imagining what would happen to a stack of papers that high if it were my desk. I had to sit on my hands just to keep myself from succumbing to the desire to fold gum in each corner.
Even though Merle decides which books are ordered for all branches of the library, those are only a portion of the books on the shelves. Because Merle makes sure all of the Clancy-Steele-Grishams are stocked, as well as the Britannica-Websters-McNallys, branch librarians are free to adjust the collection to the specific demographic of the surrounding neighborhood.
Merle confessed that she has an amazing record for book choosing.
She also told me that her job was “the best in the world.”
I remember the first book I read. It was small, purple, square, and I think it had to do with a sheep. But the first book I read that I actually enjoyed was about a girl with a ribbon around her neck. One day her man untied the ribbon, and her head fell off. I can't keep up with bestsellers lists, let alone predict them. And I don't think Chicago wants me picking out books with people's heads falling off.
Phyllis.
I've tried all the tricks: newspaper, coffee filters, etc., but whenever I attempt to clean a mirror I just make more smudges. I can't even enter a hotel bathroom without taking every mini-bar of soap and shoe shine kit, even though I don't shine my shoes. But, thanks to my military-influenced upbringing, I can fold a hospital corner like no one else.
Besides what I saw in Mission: Impossible, I had no idea what to expect of the Drake Hotel. We sat at a window overlooking Lake Michigan and discussed her responsibilities: Phyllis now reports to the lobby. She used to clean rooms after people left, but she explained that “the lobby is [her] hobby.” She's too social to work away from guests. Phyllis moves with ease, acknowledging each cluster of patrons with a friendly comment, slipping furtive punch lines to passing co-workers. I didn't even have to ask her opinion of her job, as her contentment is evident. She keeps the Drake's lobby like she keeps her own living room. A woman came up to her once, showing a skirt that had ripped all the way up the side. Phyllis took her into a private room and kindly stitched it up for her herself. I thought of the times I might enjoy mingling with guests, but then I thought of the times when I would want to take a seat myself in one of those big plushy chairs and let someone else clean the mirrors.
The Drake is the seat of international traffic. From highly recognized state officials to dateless prom attendants, the hotel welcomes all guests through lobby reporters like Phyllis. In the evenings, when the candles are lit in the lobby bar and a harpist is plucking Chopin, Phyllis slides into the Powder Room. A dim lounge lined with mirrors, it seemed to beg you to stay and chat. With hundreds of employees, the Drake constantly hosts events that continue to feed its reputation. If I worked there, I would give their reputation two months tops before it would take a plunge steeper than the side of the Sears Tower. Don't underestimate the power of one domino. (Or check this site, but don't say we didn't warn you. NSFW.)
John.
My stomach flips inside out when I think of what gravity would do to me from that high up. I can't even walk by the second story railing at the mall without getting nauseous. I know I said I could multi-task on my resume. I was exaggerating. But I do like working by myself.
I tried to play it cool by the edge. I held the camera and told him what to do in quick bursts, so that he couldn't detect the shaking in my voice. John and I met after he finished a day of working; he took me up to one of the highest balconies so that I could enjoy the view. John is a “journeyman window cleaner” for Service One, Inc. He climbs on rigs and swings from skyscrapers like Spiderman, except he also happens to be cleaning glass — and a lot of it. At night, even though he may close his eyes to go to sleep, he still sees windows. When he first accepted the job, “[he] had no clue on what [he] was in for.” As a kid, John remembers climbing his cousin's pine tree, sitting at the top and swaying in the breeze. Now, when he drives into the city (despite his family's teasing eyerolls), he proudly points out which spires he's dusted along the city's skyline.
Service One places its employees all around the city. Only extremely competent workers are allowed to work alone; John's boss told me that he's one of the best in the industry. Even though they are trained excessively, John confessed that tragedies do occur. The ropes can hold hundreds of pounds, but if they catch something sharp, they snap in a wink. Somehow I know that just as I would start to trust the rig, the thing would send me spiraling into the Kennedy. If I were to pursue this occupation there would be a new sign on the roadside: Keep your window wipers wiping.
Before this little escapade, I didn't even know these jobs existed. Now I know of even more jobs that are already taken. I can't fly from skyscrapers fearlessly polishing enormous panes of glass, I can't offer warm salutations to venerable global citizens, I can't select which published words will become available to the Chicago public, I can't coordinate the delivery of cold plates of sushi with hot plates of Peruvian beef. Fine. Victor, Merle, Phyllis, and John have their jobs.
I haven't even logged onto monster.com in three weeks.
Who needs a paycheck when there's unemployment?
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