Student writing: Marco

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Marco’s hands are cracked and worn. When he smiles his face wrinkles up all over, but that doesn’t happen very often. His hair is gray like cloudy days. His nose is crooked; it arches up and then comes back down, rounded on the end. He wears top-of-the-line shiny black shoes. Every morning before he opens the door and heads to work, he sits on the edge of his bed with a soft jersey cloth in one hand and his size eleven, black leather oxfords in the other. He buffs away, shines and shines until all he can see are his round black eyes in the toe of the shoe. His maroon suit jacket is trimmed with gold.

Three round gold buttons line up down the front, and two on the bottom of each arm; Marco never unbuttons those though. He says that that would be disrespecting the uniform. In the mornings, after he’s eaten his breakfast of oats in milk and a little box of Dole raisins, he opens his hallway closet and takes out the only article of clothing hanging there. He puts his long black bellman’s cloak around his shoulders and buttons it down the middle. From around the hanger Marco pulls a gray woolen scarf. Although Marco’s had it for years and years it’s not frayed or worn. His scarf smells like cigar smoke and Old Spice cologne, just like Marco.

I don’t know exactly what was so special about that day, whether something in the air was funny, or because Marco had tied his shoes too tight. Either way, when Marco stepped outside, stretching his white gloves over his brown hands, he smiled. It was cool that day. The air was fresh on his face, the bitter air burned his lips, and when he breathed the air got all puffy and white. He started off down the street. His hands were by his sides and his head was propped and up. He looked out in front of him. Proud.

It’s about five and a half blocks to the hotel where Marco works. Every day he walks for fourteen and a half minutes; he gets there exactly thirty seconds before seven o’clock. On the corner of Eighth Avenue and West 14th St., about a block away from the hotel; as he was passing a hot dog vendor opening up his umbrella for the day, two tall boys stepped out in front of him. Their hair was long and greased back. Shiny and black, matching haircuts which formed a point, like a little thorn out the backs of their necks. The boys looked about eighteen. Their popped collars, black leather jackets, and their strong jaws made them look like men, but something in their eyes spoke out about their boyishness. They pushed Marco into an alley; they tore his gray woolen scarf off. The words that dripped from their mouths were words of hate. They stung more than the bitter air itself. Those boys punched him in the round part of his stomach. Marco doubled over and coughed blood. They kicked him hard. His black coat was torn at the bottom, and those white gloves, they had a streak of black soot across them. The boys spit on him, they called him names and made fun of how proud he was. They walked away as they laughed from deep down in their hearts.

Marco stood up slowly. He wiped a trickle of blood off the side of his mouth with the backside of his hand. He crawled slowly over to where his gray scarf rested carelessly over a cardboard box and wrapped it tight around his neck. He brushed off the scuff marks on his black leather shoes the best that he could, turned his white gloves inside out and put them over his brown skin, over the drying red blood. Marco walked out of the alley, he looked forward. His mouth pointed down in the corners, and his eyes showed no emotion. They were black like the black leather shoes.

Marco opened the door to the grand hotel that he works in; it’s forty-three stories high. People come from all around the world to stay there. Marco says that it’s alright to be proud about working there because people are proud about staying there. Marco walked in through the big revolving doors and passed the concierge on his left.

“Marco, late again?” the concierge asked, “Third time this week.”