Our Thanksgiving drive landed us for a few days in a motel near my mother’s house. In the parking lot each morning the sun had a sharp wintery glare, the air was chilly, and jet trails criss-crossed the big blue sky. Next door, a four-story wood-frame building was under construction. At the top, stepping from beam to beam, a well-wrapped and hooded construction worker went about his business high up in the breeze. On the ground, my spouse and I walked into the motel office for hot coffee.
Across from the front desk was the dismal free breakfast room where each day somebody managed to burn the edges of the fake scrambled eggs. But not this morning. Another guest, whose name turned out to be Glen, looked over the strap blocking the doorway and saw no food had been set out. The burnt eggs were advertised to commence twenty minutes earlier, at 7:00 am. Glen turned to ask if there would be breakfast that day. The woman at the desk apologized, said the morning crew was supposed to come in at 6:00, but nobody had arrived. She said she hoped they’d come soon because she was having an asthma attack and would have to call an ambulance shortly. Once she mentioned asthma, I heard more clearly the rasp in her voice and saw her tentative and fragile movement behind the desk. Glen asked her name. Nicole raised what looked like a little misting device toward her mouth.
She was the only employee overnight. Nicole said she was afraid to call an ambulance because they'd take her away on a gurney, leaving the motel unstaffed. Judging by her emphasis on not leaving the motel, I was guessing she'd be fired for that. Glen, who had some first aid training, confirmed the urgency of the situation, and later I looked it up. Ten Americans or so die each day from asthma. For a good number of minutes the three of us stood in the lobby encouraging Nicole to call the ambulance, and she delayed, weighing her options. Medical care or job, medical care or job . . . . She did not look or sound strong.
Over the years, I’ve known a handful of people who chose to work as night clerks. If I remember correctly, the work was usually an awkward solution to something difficult they needed to juggle in their lives. It was a job they couldn’t easily afford to quit. So there you go. Maybe she couldn’t risk losing her job, couldn’t afford to get fired for locking up the office and heading off to save her own life. She managed to get a colleague on the phone who promised to arrive in ten minutes, and with this assurance she called for an ambulance. When two shiny red emergency vehicles pulled into the lot, I stepped out into the sun. She’s over here, I waved, inside the tidy motel office, in the shadow of capitalism. About that time another worker arrived and slipped through the lobby into a back room. The paramedics renewed Nicole’s confidence, and we left her in their capable hands.
A day or two later, when we stopped to pick up some morning coffee, she was back on duty. There was no sign of any lingering effects — she sounded lively and buoyant there behind the desk. All seemed well, I thought, except for the burdens she likely carried inside her. It was not just the asthma threatening her life and a workplace quietly uncongenial to her health and safety. She seemed under the shadow of an economic threat, which we know diminishes a person’s chances for decent health care. Proud of our country, we might say that she was free to choose that morning to call an ambulance or not, but is it really freedom if neither choice is a good one?
Music: "Wrong Foot Forward" by Flook
