I live in a House of Wonders.  My building was built in 1907 as a rooming house, and since I moved in, I’ve discovered some amazing things in the basement, like this defunct boiler…

…this sticker from someone’s box of cherries…

…and this honest-to-goodness SAFE. 

And one day, on an exploration to the back of the gas meter room, I found this.

The Office Valet.

I knew at once I had found my trusty right-hand-man.  There, standing forgotten in a dark concrete corner, surrounded by old boards and dead bugs, was the Jeeves to my Wooster, the Bates to my Lord Grantham, the Kato to my Green Hornet.

I had found my personal assistant.

The Office Valet™ was manufactured by Vogel-Peterson, founded in 1925 as a specialist in coat racks and garment storage, and sold to another company in the late 1960s.  I learned that much from an article on officeinsight.com, but after that steamy cliff-hanger, I was required to “log in to continue reading”, and I’m just not much of a joiner when it comes to the Workplace Furniture community.

But a little more internet digging unearthed a 1965 brochure for the entire Office Valet line, and I think you will agree it is magnificent.

Now, obviously, the boiler, safe, and sticker are permanent residents of the basement.  And for a long while it didn’t occur to me to remove the Office Valet from its domicile either.  After all, it wasn’t technically mine (although based on my neighbors’ lack of initiative, I’d be surprised if any of them even knew it was there, let alone cared.)  But also, I didn’t really have an office.  I had a hand-me-down desk shoved against the wall in my rumpus room, but I couldn’t devote any additional space to office furniture, because I needed the room for rumpus-ing.  That’s just the sort of life I led.

Until March.

Covid did a number on my industry.  Plays were cancelled, film shoots shut down, teaching artists no longer required, and museums shuttered.  All at once, not having a day job went from being an accomplishment to being a liability.  Fortunately, there was still some voice-over work to be had, but not in recording studios.  If I wanted any work at all, I needed to be able to create broadcast quality digital content from my home. 

Now, a House of Wonders does not necessarily make a fabulous recording studio.  Mine is an old, creaky building, and it is the opposite of sound-proof.  A person whispering on the street below may as well be Ethel Merman screaming into a megaphone.  I was looking for something tall to hang a quilt over to make an ersatz sound booth, when I remembered The Office Valet. 

It was time to take him into service.

I’m fairly inexperienced in hiring domestic help.  Still, as an independent contractor myself, I know it’s best to have clear expectations set, so that both parties are in agreement.  I admit that when he is not serving as a sound booth, I don’t really know what a Valet does.  Therefore, I went to the obvious resource, the 1861 classic, “Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management” (officially titled “The Book of Household Management Comprising Information for the Mistress, Housekeeper, Cook, Kitchen-Maid, Butler, Footman, Coach, Valet, Upper and Under Housemaids, Lady’s Maid, Maid-of-all-Work, Laundry Maid, Nurse and Nurse Maid, Monthly, Sick, and Wet Nurses, etc. etc.: Also Sanitary, Medical, and Legal Memoranda: With a History of the Origin, Properties, and Uses of All Things Connected with Home Life and Comfort by Isabella Beeton.)

I wasn’t sure how much of her information would apply to an OFFICE Valet, but based on the title, I had to assume Mrs. Beeton would at least be thorough. 

“The Duties of the Valet” start on page one-thousand-forty-five, and there I found a useful list of responsibilities I could expect from my Office Valet.

• “The Valet is placed near the person of the master…”  I had already hauled him upstairs. Done!

• “…receives orders only from them…”  It’s quarantine and no one else has been in my home in four and half months.  Check!

• “…dresses them…” He’s got coat hooks, hat racks, and umbrella holes; we’ll call that close enough.

• “…accompanies them on all their journeys…”  Um, I’m going to take a pass on this one, since I had to unscrew all the rusty bolts and take him apart just so he could accompany me on my journey to the second floor, so I don’t think I’ll be taking him to the grocery store or anything.

• “…and is the confidant and agent of their most unguarded moments, of their most secret habits, and of course, subject to their commands and even to their caprices. (So the Valet has to do whatever I say, but he will know that I sometimes walk around my apartment naked, drinking hot sauce out of a tub, and singing the score to Brigadoon at the top of my lungs.  Got it.)

• A Valet is also supposed to possess “Quiet unobtrusive manners, a modest demeanor, good sense, good temper, and some self-denial.”  I mean, mine sat quietly and unobtrusively next to the gas meter for 50 years, so I think the self-denial is a given.

• “The Valet’s day commences by seeing that his master’s dressing room is in order; that the housemaid has swept and dusted it properly; that the fire is lighted and burns cheerfully; and he will do well to throw up the sash to admit fresh air, closing it, however, in time to recover the temperature which he knows his master prefers.”  Well, since he’s an OFFICE Valet, he can’t really be expected to see about the dressing room.  I’m the housemaid, so if it’s not swept and dusted, that’s on me.  I don’t have a fireplace so a fire burning cheerfully seems like a poor idea.  And there’s no AC, so the sashes are basically thrown up from May until September.  My Valet is going to have it so easy!!!

• Next we get to the morning routine: “It is now his duty to place the body-linen before the fire, and to lay the clothes intended to be worn, carefully brushed and folded, on the back of his master’s chair.”   I assume that body-linen means underwear, so that would be lovely in January, but it is 88 degrees outside, and I don’t need my undies any toastier, so we’ll revisit this one in the winter. 

• “All articles of the toilet should be in their places, the razors properly set and stropped, and hot water ready for use.”  During quarantine I’ve gotten REAL casual about shaving, so no need for setting and stropping.  But let’s take a moment to discuss the hot water.

My poor Valet, very frankly, needed a bath.  No judgement here; I probably did too.  But I’d only been sitting in my own despair since March, whereas the Office Valet had likely been doing it since Nixon was in office.  So the Valet and I did a Freaky-Friday role reversal, and I gave him a much needed bath.

Here is the bath water.  (This is the second bucket.  There was a LOT of dirt.)

Bath attended to (albeit his and not mine) I took a look at the rest of the expected duties.  Mrs. Beeton says he might also help choose my clothes if I am indifferent to my appearance, cut my hair as needed, attend my moustache if that appendage is encouraged (it is not), wipe the inside of my hat with a clean handkerchief, tidy up after I leave a room, convey notes and messages to my friends, deal with tradesmen, polish my boots, clean my collars, and at the end of the day “have the study comfortably arranged, with the fire lighted and candles prepared, dressing-gown and slippers in their place and aired, and everything ready that is required for the master’s comfort.”

Can’t lie, that last part sounds pretty great.  But I’m not real good at asking for or taking help.  So instead, I followed up his bath by making his workplace a little more pleasant. 

I started by turning the desk away from the wall.  That made space for the Valet, but the desk was of the box-store particle- and cardboard variety, and when I pulled it out, it became evident why I’d had it there in the first place. 

So I figured I’d just take the cardboard off the back.  Except then it looked like this.

But with a couple of new baskets, some dollar store wrapping paper, wood grain tape and a hearty dollop of Mod Podge and audacity, it now looks like this! 

I’m not the office-y sort, (I’m the rumpus-y sort) but it reminds me a little of the office Doris Day designs for Tony Randall in Pillow Talk, with Katherine Hepburn’s Desk Set philodendrons thrown in for good measure.  I like it.

I even have my daily to-do list on a vintage Optum Magnavox chalkboard rescued from the Science Museum’s trash.  I think you will agree it’s the perfect Maid-of-all-Work for my Office Valet, and I hope they will be terrific friends.

But why so much time and effort on the office?  Well…can I tell you a secret?  Are you, like my Office Valet, ready to be the confidant and agent of my most unguarded moments? 

The real reason is that after months of depression and anxiety and ratty pajamas and tubs of hot sauce, I’ve started to accept that my acting career is going to be on hiatus for a lot longer than any of us would have hoped.  It’s true that I’ve had the odd voice gig and commercial shoot, but live theatre has always been my bread and butter and it may realistically be years before I’m in a show again.  Unlike the Office Valet, I cannot sit by the gas-meter for decades waiting for my career to come back.   My unemployment is going to run out, and so I have to do something else, and one of the only non-theatre something elses I know how to do is write.

I mostly write plays, actually, which doesn’t help.  But I also write this.  This silly blog.  Folks have been suggesting for years that I could expand it into something for-profit, and although it’s really, really hard, I am trying to believe that I could.  I moved the desk because I’m trying to take myself more seriously, and I thought maybe I’d feel more like a Real Writer if I had a Real Office, and if I wasn’t always facing a wall.  Literally AND figuratively. 

I’m super self-conscious about all of this.  I mean, it’s not like an acting career is steady and reliable, but this feels like the equivalent of trying to make a mid-life career change to Professional Bassoonist.  It feels unrealistic.  It feels dumb.  It feels impossible that my silly ramblings on things like vintage office furniture and domestic compendiums would be interesting to anyone but myself.  It feels ridiculous, nonsensical, and capricious. 

BUT… I do have an Office Valet now, and as Mrs. Beeton says, it is his job to be “subject to my caprices.”  So he’s got my back…and my sweater and my umbrella.

And if you’re reading this, I also have you.  I mean, you wouldn’t have gotten this far if you didn’t like my silly ramblings, right?  So…can I ask you a favor?  I put together a survey (with jokes) to help me find my way forward with this.  Would you take 5 minutes to click on this link and give me your input? (I mean, look how serious I am! Surverys! And Links!) I’d ask the Office Valet, but he doesn’t have hands (or frankly, very strong opinions) so I’m asking you instead.

And in return, I promise never to ask you to attend to my moustache.