A GENTLEMAN'S GENTLEMAN

                            Tales From the Front
                        Copyright 1992 by Dave Laird

Whenever fallen cultural heroes are discussed in the Otis Hotel  in Spokane,
many of the old-timers gently raise their voices in praise of Billy Rose who
worked for nearly twenty years at the Greyhound Bus Depot, across the
street. Although he has been gone from their midst for nearly a decade, now,
the rheumy-eyed old men, who cluster in the overstuffed chairs in the front
lobby of the rundown old hotel, seem to have a peculiar soft spot in their
hearts for Billy, who was the men's restroom attendant at the once-bustling
depot.

Not many people remember him. Very few of the hard-drinking  regulars who
depended upon him each morning to put their lives back in order knew his
name. The only picture that anyone typically recalls of Billy was that he
was an old black man who, tottering on overrun wingtip shoes with no laces,
sometimes dressed in a faded tuxedo with tails and white tie for a gag.

Most of all, everyone remembers how full of life and energy he  always
seemed. When Billy Rose was on the job in the men's room, nary a man walked
through the door but what he was treated to a cheery "good morning,
guv'nor". He was always busy doing something. There always was an unwrinkled
copy of the daily paper tucked under one arm, in case someone wanted to read
while nature took its course. There were fresh rolls of toilet paper in case
anyone ran out, and suits to be brushed or pressed. He was impeccably
discreet, yet he was somehow always there when you needed him. He always
seemed to know how to find things, too. Whether a gentleman wanted a quiet
sleeping room or a girl for the night, he kept an endless little black book
in his head and could be counted upon by anyone as the best source of
information in town.

Nobody seems to know where Billy Rose came from, much less how he  came to
be in Spokane, Washington, of all places. He simply appeared one night at
the Otis Hotel, just before it, and the neighborhood fell on hard times, and
moved into its social pool without creating even the tiniest of ripples.

Of course, the no discussion of the life of Billy Rose would be  complete
without relating the time in the 50's when the Klu Klux Klan rode into town
on a custom-made bus which stopped for lunch at the Bus Station. While the
members of the Klan were still upstairs in the coffee shop, Leroy Forney,
the Bus Station manager, tried vainly to talk Billy Rose into taking the
afternoon off. He was just trying to avoid trouble, but Billy would have no
part of it.

Billy just obliquely nodded his head, saying, "Yessir, ah  understands sir,"
over and over as Leroy pleaded with him to go.

When his boss had finally given up in frustration and gone back  up to his
office overlooking the yard full of in-transit buses, Billy went back to
folding towels as if nothing had happened.

The members of the Klan were no different than anyone else. After  a hefty
meal of homemade biscuits and chicken gravy, a specialty in those days, each
of them paid a visit to the men's room. It was going to be a long ride back
to Georgia on the bus. Forney had no cause for concern. Billy treated each
southern gentleman like royalty, deferentially offering each of them every
assistance.

Why, one of the Klansmen even tipped Billy a ten dollar bill,  which was a
lot of money in those days. Billy had pressed his slacks for him while he
was in the john, answering natures call and reading the sports pages.

Visitors to the Greyhound Bus Station are forewarned that things  are much
different now. The men's room no longer has an attendant, nor are there
freshly-pressed hand towels available. If a traveling gentleman wants to
read the sports pages while otherwise occupied, there are a line of
newspaper machines outside, on the sidewalk, from which to choose. Some
nameless, faceless individual, a janitor no doubt, comes through during the
night and replenishes the toilet paper, which means late- afternoon visitors
to the men's room would be well advised to come prepared.

As the afternoon casts dusty shadows across the lobby of the Otis  Hotel,
the silence drips softly, yet palpably, as one by one, the old men in the
lobby disperse. Across the street, a vagabond Greyhound Bus roars away,
while another arrives and disperses its passengers onto the tarmac and the
shadows grow longer.