THE MILNER

One summer between semesters at UT I was walking downtown on a torrid day when I stepped into the Milner to buy a coke from the machine. I was without destination so I stood near the front desk and spoke with the janitor who had worked at the elementary school that I had attended. I noticed that a young Anglo, a few years older than myself, was standing behind the desk and listening intently to my conversation. I could see a similar looking Anglo woman sitting at the switchboard. They were both peering at me. "Are you from here?" he asked. "Born and raised in Brownsville." "Your English is perfect. You have no accent." "It's not uncommon for a United States citizen educated in the public schools to speak normal English. Where are you from?" "My wife and I are from Ohio," he answered as his eyes darted to the woman at the switchboard who grimaced. "We arrived a few months ago to manage the hotel. It's been an eye-opener for us." "What do you mean?" "We weren't prepared for the cultural difference. I hope I didn't insult you by mentioning your English. That wasn't my intention, but there are few people in Brownsville who speak English, especially downtown. I don't know what my wife and I expected, but we're in shock. We feel like we're in Mexico, not the United States." For someone like myself I saw the night-and-day difference between the two countries by merely crossing the river, but for someone from the outside, the two worlds merged in a brown mass with no distinguishing characteristics. Everyone spoke Spanish and everyone was brown. "With the exception of our permanent residents, most our customers are from Mexico. They speak no English and we speak no Spanish. We could use someone who was bilingual to work swing when the majority of our customers register for the night. What are you doing?" "I'm on vacation. I'm studying at UT." "What's your major?" "I'm majoring in English literature with a minor in Spanish." "Are you working?" "My father has a farmer's market and I help him. Why?" "I need someone with whom I can communicate. In the next few months I can learn enough Spanish, but in the meantime my wife and I are struggling to book customers and give instructions to the employees." His wife nodded. Their time would be short on the border. I was intrigued by the offer. I could help my father who only needed me on a parttime basis and I could make a little money of my own, which my father would appreciate. And hanging out downtown for the summer fascinated me. "How much are you paying?" "I pay minimum wage, but I can give you a free room with a hot stove and a small refrigerator." "What's my schedule?" "I need you on swing and I can use you everyday. You tell me when you need a day-off and I'll relieve you. I can pay you time-and-a-half for all hours over 40." "When do I start?" "Today if you can." "You mean in two hours?" "Sure, if you can. If not, tomorrow." I glanced at his wife. She lowered her head. The Milner was a shabby place with few air-conditioned rooms. I had a room on the top floor, which was the fourth, with no air-conditioning. As a hometowner, I made sure that my room faced the Gulf so I could open the windows and benefit from the southeastern breezes. Growing up I had spent many sweaty nights when the most we could hope for was a window unit running on cheap electricity freezing one room and sending wafts of cool air to the others. The hotel was dilapidated. The top two floors, the third and the fourth, were abandoned, which had allowed me to pick the room I desired. The nice rooms, relatively speaking, were on the ground floor. Customers didn't have to worry about getting stuck on the elevator. The permanent residents, about a half-dozen men, inhabited the second floor and took the stairs. If they weren't wandering downtown, they would gather in front of the lack-and-white television in the dark lobby that added credence to the Milner's seedy reputation. From the rugs to the couches, everything was threadbare. The old men sat watching their programs under a thick cloud of smoke, cigarettes they rolled and shared among themselves like joints. For most of them it was alcohol that was their great enemy. The majority were binge drinkers. "I haven't seen Fred the last two days?" I'd question a retirees because I feared that any one of them might be found dead and putrefying in his room. "He's been drinking," the regular would reply. I knew the implications of that statement. Isabel, within hours, would tell me that she wasn't cleaning Fred's room because it reeked of vomit, urine and excrement. It wasn't my job either, so I would inform the manager who would call the police. Fred would sit in the drunk tank overnight and returned contrite to a room that the manager had cleaned himself because he was dependent on every client. "Feeling better?" I would remark to Fred upon his return. He'd shrug his shoulders. "That was the last time. I'm glad Brownsville has nice police." "I kept the Heralds if you want to read them." He'd take the newspapers as a reintroduction to the sober world that he would inhabit for weeks or months before falling again. But these codgers had been exiled to a no-exit existence and I wasn't begrudging them their futile bouts with fate. By early evening they would be sitting in their predetermined spots around the television where they might remain until midnight. One of them would rise to readjust the rabbit ears, but the biggest source of entertainment were the customers who straggled into the hotel. They varied from the chiveras, ladies from the Mexican interior who came to the border to buy and then resell in their hometowns, to the shrimpers who after 40 days and nights at sea were ready to blow their earnings in four days. During those first heady days onshore they paid for the booze and babes, but these gifts didn't come without a bill. The shrimpers, broke and hungover, would sidle up to the frontdesk and ask for credit to stay a few more days and a few dollars to help them quell the shakes. "I'll be receiving upfront money before I shrimp again and I'll pay for the room," they would plead. But I would deny them, having learned that I never wanted to be indebted to them. I once felt guilty about abusing the generosity of a shrimper and accompanied him to his room to share a bag of paint because he didn't have any money for alcohol and couldn't stand getting high alone. The old men would turn their heads in unison to scrutinize the prostitutes who worked downtown. They would wink at the guys as they escorted their gentlemen to rooms that didn't look any better than they did.