First, Miss Mescalero caught my eye, then she caught my heart, and finally she became my friend. This is the story.
I was sitting in a casino hotel on an Apache reservation, engrossed in hundreds of pages of Charles Camosy’s fascinating book. Resisting the throwaway cultureOf course, some people enter such environments to take a gamble. I’m gambling in my comfort zone, which is why I’m reading Camosy’s book. Despite the title, his book isn’t about recycling; it’s about the consumer values that dictate how we discard each other in small, important decisions. Camosy bets instead on a culture of hospitality and encounters.
And yet here I am, in my hotel room, meeting no one in particular. I occasionally grab a bite to eat in the coffee shop downstairs. This is the writer’s thing: creating solitude in the midst of a crowd. This is how I go through life, hovering above it all and hiding beneath it all. Frankly, this is how I like it.
One evening, on my way back to my room, I met Miss Mescalero. Her title was inscribed on a tall, elaborate headdress, so there was no way to miss her. A young Apache woman, about 18, dressed from head to foot in a vibrant blue outfit, she stood in the hotel lobby, greeting everyone who passed by. She welcomed me, too.
I passed by, nodding absentmindedly, lost in thought. I wondered how someone became a Miss Something. She had vanished from my mind. I might as well have said that I had abandoned her.
The next morning, sitting in the coffee shop, I caught another glimpse of Miss Mescalero, this time in a sunflower yellow gown, yellow boots, and a gold headdress. I watched her pace up and down the lobby, greeting people. She was completely ignored.
I was heartbroken to remember that I had ignored her last night. I had seen her not as a person, but just as a hurdle to be overcome.
Disposable culture bothered me, and as Miss Mescalero traversed her vast territory, I imagined spending my day as a receptionist, on my feet, surrounded by strangers, in a decidedly commercial environment, wearing those boots.
As the crowd thinned, Miss M. leaned over the banister, gazing blankly at the atrium below, like a princess without an audience. She looked lonely and empty. I rose to my feet, determined to cross the distance between us and see her.
“You better have comfortable boots,” I said, “because you’re going to have to stand in them for hours!”
Ms. M. smiled in surprise and delight. “Yes, they’re comfortable,” she assured me. “And it’s an honor.”
As I walked away, I thought about what an honor it was to be named Miss Mescalero, to work at a luxury hotel, to even have a job. I decided that the next time I saw her, I would stop thinking about her and actually talk to her.
That afternoon I went out of my room and found Miss Mescalero in the crowd in the lobby. Her high headgear was not inconspicuous. “Miss Mescalero!” I called, and she brightened at my approach.
“I’ve been looking for you all day,” she confessed, and her sincerity made me blush.
“You’re easier to find,” I admitted. “I was just wondering, if you get the title, do you get a room full of these clothes?”
“My grandma sews them for me,” she said with a happy voice. “I could do it myself, but I don’t have the patience.”
Suddenly, my image of this woman changed. I had to imagine a devoted grandmother. And then I imagined a young woman who could sew, even though I can barely button my coat.
Will I receive a scholarship if I am appointed?
“I wish that were the case,” she replied sadly.
“Are you still going to go to school?”
This cheered her up. “Oh, but I’m already in school! I’m studying to be an occupational therapist, and also a nurse. I want to be more than one thing. I have so many dreams!”
When I left her this time, my mind was in turmoil. The cut-out princess I’d first ignored in the lobby had swelled before my eyes into a fascinating, three-dimensional figure. My experience at the hotel, and even my reason for being there, was illuminated. It wasn’t just Miss Mescalero who had transformed into a new creature; I had, too.
On Friday night, I had a dinner engagement that required me to dress more formally. The casino was unusually busy, and navigating the sea of people in my long dress and unfamiliar shoes felt risky. I was pushed down and stumbled, and when I put my arms out to break my fall, someone caught me and pulled me up.
It was Miss Mescalero who gave me a warm embrace. After my near accident, it felt good to be wrapped in those young, strong arms.
“I was looking for you,” she said again, “you’re the only one I remember.”
Hundreds of people were passing through the lobby. Her simple words pierced my heart and shattered it. “You’re the only one I remember.” She greeted a thousand people, all different faces and purposes, on a weekend like this. She sprinted from one place to the next, welcoming as many as she could, as fast as she could.
“Mr. Mescalero,” I asked hesitantly, “you greet everyone who comes in here. How many of them greet you back?”
“A little,” she answered quickly, and then slowly, “not much.” She took a deep breath and looked away. “No, not much.”
The next morning was my last. After checking out, I spent an hour in the coffee shop. I couldn’t leave without seeing my friend. I watched the crowds stream into the lobby. Finally, I saw her leaning over the banister, gazing disinterestedly at the atrium below.
“Miss Mescalero!” I cried. She turned and smiled. She was wearing a confetti-spattered headdress, a confetti-colored gown, and yellow boots.
“This is the best dress,” I said, and she nodded.
“Yes,” she said.
“Can we take a picture together?” I asked, feeling a little embarrassed. She accepted. I then gave her my business card and told her I was leaving. “Write me a letter and I’ll send you a photo. Write me a letter. I’d love to hear the rest of your story. It’s a really great story.”
“Yes,” she nodded solemnly, “my story is great.”
Then, as I was pushing my bags out to the car, a realization dawned on me and a wave of joy flooded me: She was the only one I remembered.
