These days Tony earns $17,000 a year not including tips. But in his hey day, he made three times more than that from tips alone. He used those tips to pay for his travels up and down the Mexican border and all through Texas. Whenever he got tired of working somewhere, he'd look up his old buddy Joe and they'd just take off. The best time was when Joe showed up with that turquoise and white two-seater Metropolitan. They went down into Mexico and finally up to Mardi Gras before the money ran out. He loves to tell those stories, especially to the girls. Some figure he makes them up. But they don’t care. They're good stories. One tale starts in the dusty heat of Houston, Texas and takes Tony to the wet hills of Portland, Oregon. Not long after, he found himself in the lobby of The Mallory, charming his way into a job and a new life, the way he's always done, the way only a professional can. Ken Coonce, newly-hired bellman himself at the time, remembers The Mallory didn't even have an opening when Tony walked through the doors. But there was something about Tony that Ken liked, something that made him introduce Tony to the manager. A day later, Tony was belling at The Mallory. During the past 19 years, The Mallory has become so intertwined in his life, it's hard to say sometimes where one ends and the other begins. He met his wife there, a waitress named Lynette. He's watched his family grow up while working there, just as he's watched the families of Mallory customers grow up. He knows these people by name. Some send Christmas cards. Then there's the Mallory employees, a long-running troupe. There's Ken; Ellen, a rhinestone-wearing desk worker who's been there 20 years, too; Wanda, a stout, fiercely-efficient waitress who's been there 30 years. They all love Tony, can't say enough about him. On top of all that, he's even got himself a bigger part these days, Bell Captain, that puts him in charge of the other two bellman and the valet parking — 10 people in all. He's got no regrets. He knows his part. But every now and then people like the woman he showed a room to bring him down a little. Back at the lobby, she smiles at Tony and thanks him. That's it. Just a smile. Nothing else. In the break room, Tony slumps down, shakes out one of his Winston 100s. Time was he could expect a tip for showing a room. These days he's lucky to get nickels and dimes. It's not really the money, though, never has been. He doesn't need more than he's got, doesn't need three cars or two houses, just enough to pay the bills, buy a couple lottery tickets each week, go out with his buddy once in awhile after work, sit around, drink some beer, light up a cigarette, tell stories to whoever listens. And pretend for a little while longer that his act still works. Gary Thill (LNF 1998), former newspaper reporter and magazine editor, is now a freelance writer and editor living in Portland. He can be reached at gtwork@qwest.net.