But once he steps out into the lobby, his appearance changes, as if the job of hauling bags, carting irons, checking rooms, tidying the lobby, coordinating the maids, welcoming customers and looking the part gave him strength, or youth, or both. Under the chandeliers, his smile is bright and friendly. Against the backdrop of hooded monk chairs and elegant end tables, his slicked-back hair is stylish. Mingling with casually-dressed customers, his suit is professional looking, almost dashing. Under the weight of other people's baggage, he seems to straighten up just a bit. When a chime calls Tony out of his closet, he's all smiles, only too happy to show a room to the woman at the counter. "How are you today?" he says as they enter the elevator. "Just fine and you ... " she says, not caring. "No complaints. Did you want to see a single today or a suite?" "A single is fine." “Right this way. This is our single, right here," he says sliding his card into the lock and swinging the door open to room 517. "There's a nice view of downtown Portland through them windows at night." The woman just nods. Like the lobby, the ceiling here is high, but no chandelier hangs from it. The wood furniture is curved elegantly, but it looks too big for the room, more cramped than cozy. When opened, the door to the entertainment center blocks entrance to the bathroom. The windows are streaked with dirt. The nicest touch in the room, which the woman doesn't notice, is a sewing kit on the table. It's a miniature pillow bordered with white lace. Right in the middle there's an embroidered green “M” with 13 stickpins arranged in a pyramid just above it. The pincushion is from the Mallory's golden age, maybe sixty years ago, a generation before Tony began his life as a bellman. He started right after high school at The Central in his hometown of Port Arthur, Texas, a Texaco Oil town right on the Gulf of Mexico. From there, the rest of his life was a string of hotels — The Cortez, The Menger, The Paso Del Norte, The Flagship, The Cosmopolitan and finally The Mallory, in Portland, Oregon — all in different towns with different memories. Like meeting Lon Chaney, Jr., or Betty, one of the quickie divorcees who set a record with three in one year, or the old black couple none of the other bellman figured was worth their time. When Tony helped them out to their car, the old man winked at him and gave him a $10 tip with instructions to tell the others not to judge people on their appearance. It turned out the man had been a bellhop himself for nearly 35 years. Back then, most people appreciated friendly service, or at least pretended to. But today, the woman Tony is helping doesn’t even seem to notice he’s there. Sometimes Tony doesn't understand people anymore. He knows his part, but they don't. It used to be that everyone knew. If you wanted good service, you treated your bellman well. Tony still believes that credo even if few of his customers do. And there's not much he won't do for a customer and the promise of a tip.