Another Hyperbolic Memoir?

While purging my computer recently I ran across a word document I didn't even remember writing. It is the slim beginnings of a tale of humor, horror, innocence and idiocy. A working summer in Alaska when I was 21.
One day I hope to finish the tale. (all of which really is true) I'm posting it for mom who always so kindly encourages me in my writing.
Please don't read unless you have some spare time.. AND actually enjoy reading. I won't be offended if you don't read at all.

I'm including pictures of Illiamna, and the actual picture of myself I sent in to apply for the job.



RKL
An antique hand made ulu is hanging by my front door. Very out of place in Tucson, AZ and extremely UN-fung shui to boot. I didn’t buy it, and like most people, I didn’t know what it was when I received it. It serves as a reminder- in my middle age spinsterhood- that I was once earnestly sought after, if only by an aging alcoholic, but more importantly keeps in mind hard lessons learned in an other worldly environment.

At 21 I was looking to see the world and ended up in Illiamna, Alaska working at a “luxury fishing lodge” called RKL as a waitress/slave. Ten hour days six days a week for minimum wage, no tips, and the promise of “flying out” with the guests on my day off. (if there was room.)

There were 8 girls in the same predicament, all sharing one bathroom, sequestered in housing I fondly dubbed “the hovel, and working ridiculous hours under the rasping tutilage of the lodge owners chain smoking wife Earline. (NOT a country singer from the south, but I will get back to her)

All of the crew had signed contracts stating we would not fraternize with any of the guests (mostly millionaire types rotating in and out on a weekly basis) or the other crew members (12 strapping lad fishing guides mostly from the southern states, 2 dishwashers, 2 mechanics, 2 chefs, all males except the 8 serving girls) What exactly constituted fraternizing we were not sure, but as the weeks drew on we learned the definition of oh so many things. Management, whose ranking was well above the crew, rounded out the RKL cast with 3 pilots, the RKL owner Ray (a WW II pilot wearing out his 3rd wife Earline) and a husband wife team Kenny and Janet who were supposed to manage everyone else.

The term “luxury” was a bit of a stretch. Crew members made multiple “honey runs” a day, taking sewage from the lodge septic systems on a 10 mile drive to an above ground dumping area. Connected by wooden boardwalks, the hodge podge buildings constructed as needed over the years did not add to an aura of opulence. Crew living and eating areas, which guests never saw, can be described, at best, as livable, (not accounting for the constantly overflowing toilets due to delayed honey runs) Most of the areas frequented by guests, however, managed to keep a veneer of backwoods comfort with raw wood, leather and mounted fish as the décor de jour. This seemed to pacify the wealthy returning and new clientele who sought rustic fishing adventures in the bush followed by lavish gourmet dinners and drinks. (said drinks had to be flown in by the guest themselves and were not provided by the lodge)

Every scrap of food, other than fresh fish, was flown in and replenished weekly and stored in large larders, outdoor refrigerators and freezers. Janet, Earline and the chefs kept a close tab on the supplies should anything disappear (thorough inquisition, and due punishment would follow).

My first week (without rich guests) was spent cleaning, training and wondering why I had come. Earline, a hacking emphysema ridden Italian from New York, spent her days finding fault with most tasks done by “the girls”, as we were called. Yelling at top volume and slowly enunciating each word she began most rants with “Don’t yous know nothin about… (insert task…..making coffee, unwrapping crystal, mopping a floor, etc.)? This would then be followed by a demeaning lecture about how “everyone” knew that things should be done THIS way and if we couldn’t get it through our dumb heads then she’d have to fire us. (clearly Earline was abused as a child but I could not find sympathy in my heart at the time)

The reign of abuse and ridiculous work expectation that first week were enough to make anyone want to quit, but in fact we all felt quite stuck. We were in a “town” that could only be reached by plane, with the airport 7miles from RKL, and any access to phones was strictly monitored. The ongoing dialogue among the crew (when no management was within earshot) involved complex plots of desertion, or rampant rumors of huge bonus checks if we rode out the abuse for the season. My pride and an empty bank account also compelled me to stay. A decision I questioned for years afterward.

After the first week we were each assigned our jobs for the summer. Sadly I was assigned as a morning girl (something I have never been) while others became night girls or mid girls. One un-lucky soul became the shift girl and substituted for each girl on her day off. As a morning girl I worked with Judy Kaputee, real name Judith Kilsdonk Stedman (Kaputee was her lounge singer stage name) a 30 something 60s throwback who slept with her tarot cards and didn’t own underwear...ever. We worked with the morning cook Ray, a skinny Vietnam Vet missing a considerable number of teeth. Our job mainly involved waking guests and serving breakfast all under the watchful eye of Earline. (Those lucky night girls were watched by the less vigilant Janet)

The first week with guests proved a further trial-some induction into RKL reality. Earline -absolutely certain that the girls’ goal was to have rampant sex with the guests and/or the guides- took all precaution to prevent the “fraternization” we had all signed contracts we would not engage in. The swinging saloon doors from the kitchen to the dining area were constantly held slightly open after we went through to serve a guest, Earline’s fake nails and single eye visible in the crack. We knew she watched and listened to every move, but were never sure which action would bring out her hail of expletives.

I was once accused of purposely placing my breasts too close to a sitting customers head when pouring coffee, (a situation hard to avoid with large breasts). After answering guests questions I was always reprimanded for talking or smiling too much. I poured too slowly, walked to quickly (which draws attention to your bottom), stood too close or too far away, talked too quietly, too loudly, and on and on.

Physically Earline is best described as a woman who looked like a short man dressed in drag. In fact, between the deep voice, man hands, and the short blonde swirled hairdo (which looked like she stuck her head in the toilet every morning and flushed) I am now, years later, unsure she wasn’t a man in drag.

When not ensconced in monitoring our every movement Earline was embroiled in the weekly mending of her artificial nails, petting her precious dog, or sucking the life out of a camel while waiting for the dog to crap in his designated poop pen. (said pen was cleverly placed directly outside the dining room windows so guests could enjoy beautiful Lake Illiamna whilst simultaneously watching Earline and dog in their morning smoke/poop ritual.)


Aaaaaand..... Abrupt ending.... that's where I apparently stopped.