Phones were ringing by the time Elvis crossed the lobby to punch in and knew he’d taken too long when his manager popped up behind him. It was busy already.

They both looked each other up and down.

Elvis started first, almost waiting to be spoken to before doing so, “Ah, sir…”

Nas smiled strangely, “Mr. Elvis, good to see you,” he was trained in gentleman manners even after his family fortune came crumbling, “Come to my office when you’re ready.”

The two men, put on a thin smile between the other, and nodded in agreement.

“Al-right, sir,” Elvis stepped aside and let Nas Aldridge cross the doorframe into his office before ducking towards the lockers.

The hallway felt shorter in the basement, and darker as he crossed the threshold towards the housekeeping department. He caught whiffs of laundry detergent once he stepped foot in front of his locker, situated right in front of the large, tumbling dryers and elderly ladies.

“El-bissssss!” He was called in by Mastra, the housekeeper that’s been at the hotel longer than her daughter’s been alive, by twice the years. “Lika nga!”

Elvis thought she was yelling all the time. His light complexion became obvious only when she held his hand and pulled him towards the damp room. He’d find it anywhere, Jollibee fried chicken and steamy white rice in large aluminum serving trays.

He was surrounded by a group of various shades of brown.

“There’s a new hire,” an older man, a banquet houseman who goes to the Philippines every six months, on the dot, to visit his grandchildren—whom he sends about seventy percent of his paycheck, like a tithing—without fail, said, booming behind everyone else there. Then nodded at the new hire, sitting in the back, not speaking to anyone but smiling as others passed her water, juice, a new spoon, more food.

Elvis can’t imagine the two-thousand dollar plane tickets just to sit in a humid veranda of a condo unit overlooking the city that’s been brought to life and left behind. That’s what Manong said he does when going. His coworkers would ask what he was up to, after a trip, and he’d answer, “Just paperwork.”

When urged to explain paperwork, he’d say it’s so he could go home.

On Elvis’ third day on the job, someone was retiring, the turning wheel of the hotel’s workforce, giving way for a newer generation. With banh mi in everyone’s locker to celebrate.

Later, he’d found out that they had a separate retirement party for Willy, that was his name, at a small izakaya that was open late, and Willy had to be scolded into the car by his wife and his kid, who was the designated driver, quietly facing forward as her father stumbled into the Tesla.

“Have some!” Mastra said, shoving a paper plate at him. He looked around and found the utensils at the corner of the room, near the admin computers and away from the corner where they kept detergent and stashed the communal cigarette box. Elvis was told to take one, as he pleases, and replace with a brand new box if he takes the last one.

He’d just eaten, with his girlfriend before his shift and after hers, at a small accounting firm in the financial district. The spot was in between her office and his hotel, and they’d kissed more than they ate. He felt full from it. Wished he was fuller.

But he knew declining an invitation to eat alongside Mastra is detrimental to his social weight in that hotel basement. And on the board where their schedules were posted every other week. He let the lady shove the plate on his chest.

He grabbed half a scoop of every item, the fried chicken’s wafting smell, greasy and nostalgic of his childhood in Tarlac when the first Jollibee franchise opened in his little town. Mastra followed behind him, scooping an overflowing ladle after he moves onto the next item.

“Salamat po,” he smiled at Mastra.

Behind her was the younger housekeeper, hired when she turned eighteen and never left, was from Utah, came with a bunch of missionaries, she said, before she turned six. Her parents were from Samoa, and she, from American-Samoa, ahead a day in time zones. Her eyes were direct, and she was taller than almost every woman on staff, so she was always seated.

Elvis looked at his watch, analogue still, and gave himself ten minutes to mingle before walking back to his locker. His plate felt heavy on his palms when he sat down between Mastra and Oliver, who was in the engineering staff and sometimes took shifts as a bellman when Manong was too sick to come into work. His arthritis was getting to him, he told everyone.

Elvis sat back when he’d realize that they were mid-conversation.

“Why didn’t he take the job?” They mentioned another front desk agent that got laid off, alongside another full time front desk agent, because “it is isn’t busy right now,” and citing the deepening pandemic, said it won’t get any better, and both the business and the employee would be better off to split ways.

“Eh,” Mastra leaned in closer, as if not seeing Elvis, “They said laid off but…” she trailed, looking up, shocked to see another co-worker between her and Oliver.

She continued and relayed, just loud enough for everyone to hear but soft enough to decidedly deny culpability if asked about the gossip, that his paperwork expired, and he’s looking for a free consult about the status. Elvis wanted to ask about which status but, instead, he kept his head bowed towards his plate—forgetting to take a bite.

He munched every time Mastra said anything juicy, and swallowed quickly when Oliver asked for his opinion. He couldn’t answer. Five-hundred thousand dollars was a lot to take from a corporation, whether it’s a large one or not, and whether the justification is that “they won’t notice,” it still didn’t sit well with Elvis. He just shook his head and before he could answer, Mastra spoke up about how everyone’s done something they regret before.

Carly, who walked in just seconds before and wasn’t apt to the conversation about the front desk, barged into the conversation, “What hotel is this?”

Elvis took a bite of his food, his mouth drying out and his eyes searched the room for water. Or lemonade, pineapple juice? He almost stood up when a scoff bounced him back to his seat.

When no one answered, Carly continued with an anecdote that involved an unfair labor issue between the state and its workers, and how it was resolved with quality talks and a peaceful agreement.

Manong, grabbing his second plate, shook his head. Elvis felt the divide between everyone and Carly, who’d finished her plate but didn’t understand the shunning was from an incident she’d maneuvered almost two months prior. An incident that almost left one of the bellmen without a job, and zero apology.

Elvis answered, itching from the tension.

Carly nodded.

He thought he finished his plate when a thick custard, a flan appeared on it—he looked around and didn’t see who put it on his plate. He took one big bite and decided to walk out of the buzzing laundry room, even if another dessert appeared on his plate by divine intervention.

Nas, everyone’s boss, peaked in before Carly could interject, “Anyone see Elvis?”

He stood up and slipped into the hallway, swaying from Nas at the door. Nas stepped into the room, and immediately was welcomed with a quieter whisper and no recollection of the previous conversation about the front desk agent.

Everyone had their uniforms on but it seemed no one’d put their work faces on until after Nas entered the laundry room, still meaning to be a part of the crew. A silent agreement was between everyone but him that he was not a part of them anymore once he’d gotten his own office at the top-floor of the hotel, not overlooking anything, as it was only the fifth floor amongst other hotels towering over it by double in storey. He had a lifetime membership to the potlucks, though, which was good enough.

And no one had it in them to uninvite him.

“Elvis, my office, ‘kay?” He looked up at Elvis, his lanky arms folding at the breast, the other one holding onto his plate.

He knew he agreed to come to his office before the laundry room, didn’t think it was necessary to answer a second time, and walked into the hallway to clock in, not knowing if he dreaded meeting Nas at his office, probably about a computer thing that definitely required an actual IT technician but “Elvis is young, and he studied tech, he’ll fix it”, or having to clean up the laundry room once everyone leaves for the night. What he thinks of as his unpaid night shift duties.

Nas cleared his throat from behind the laundry room’s industrial double door.

“Shh-shhyeah,” Elvis said under his breath, opening his locker and blinking, hoping he was home instead.