On Working At Mount Morris Baths

I frequently past the now-defunct Mount Morris Baths in Harlem. When I do, it's usually because I am on my way to do some grocery shopping at Pathmark three blocks farther down 125th Street.

I worked at Mount Morris for two and a half years, first as a towel attendant, then as a cashier. So whenever I pass what was once the bathhouse (now vacant for ten years), the customers (mostly black gay men), the coworkers, and the experiences, good and bad, instantly come to mind.

Of the two jobs I held there, the cashier one was undoubtedly the most dangerous and nerve-wracking, because the cashier's booth (often referred to as the office) offered no protection from criminals. Subway booth clerks have more protection than we did. Only plywood separated us from the customers. Since we handled money and kept customers's wallets and other valuables in various index card file drawers, there was no protection from a bullet. There was a closed-circuit monitor that let us see who was coming down the outside stairs and what was happening in the two TV lounges. But there  was no panic button to press or phone system in the office to use in case of trouble. The only phone available was a few feet away, outside the office, in a coin-operated phone booth. Not very convenient if one needed to summon help.

The nerve-wracking part of the job included being on the lookout for phony bills a customer would knowingly or unknowingly hand us, checking people in and out, notifying patrons to renew their time when they stayed past 8 hours ( or 12 hours on the weekend), refunding money lost in one of the vending machines, distributing condoms and lube, etc. At the end of the shift, I had to tally the money received from customers and deposit it in a drop box behind me for later pickup by Walter, the owner of the bathhouse. As you can see, the job required me to be on my toes at all times.

Despite these headaches and the rundown condition of the bathhouse, I still miss Mount Morris and its interesting, sometimes, bizarre cast of characters fit for a TV sit-com.