Heads In Beds Part 12

"What time is it? Why are you calling me? Who is this?"

"I'd like to order the Szechuan chicken please? Excuse me? Is this Happy Family Palace?"

All day. All night. Just like that.

As early as my second year, I invented the "key bomb," and it became instant protocol. A move someone, perhaps a bellman, could request.

"Yo, Tommy," Trey would say to me, pulling me to the side of the desk, "key bomb this dude. He called the cabbie something racist. Something I hopefully never have to hear again."

"You got it, Trey-Trey."

When I cut the keys for a bomb, I do it a little differently. Any arriving guest should receive what's referred to as "initial keys," which are programmed to reset the door lock when they are first inserted, deactivating all previous keys. Guests seem to think these locks are supercomputers, connected to the system wirelessly, hence if they check out at the desk and realize they forgot something in the safe, they ask me if their keys will still work. I inform them they certainly will. Again, they point out that I just checked them out. But, man alive, they will still work until they auto-expire at a certain date and time (designated automatically at check-in and set for 3:00 p.m. the day they depart). Not until the keys expire or a new "initial key" enters the lock will their keys fail to work.

Therefore, dear guests, if you ever extend, even if the front desk forgets to inform you (which we will), then, YES, you need new keys. (You're welcome, my front desk people! I just told everyone all at once!) And NO they do not have your personal information on them, with credit card info, pa.s.sport number, and the ages of your children. Who started that rumor, I know not. Why the h.e.l.l would we put personal info on a disposable key card?

But back to the key bomb. If I wanted to, I could actually go ahead and never even program your keys, just hand you any old set and send you up to battle that red light over and over before dragging your bags back down to get new keys, keys that I could again refuse to program correctly, though it looks as if I did, since I ran them through the programmer but authorized them for the health club only. That might draw heat, though, which is why the key bomb is so gorgeous. What I do is cut one single "initial key," then start over and cut a second "initial key." Either one of them will work when you get to the room. Slide one in; you get green, and as long as you keep using the very first key you slipped in, all will be well. But chances are you'll pop in the second key at some point, and then then the first key you used will be considered, as far as the dumb-a.s.s lock is concerned, an old key and invalid. Without a doubt, at some point after that, you will be locked outside your room, jamming your first key into the slot, fighting that d.a.m.n red light, or maybe the yellow light (whatever the yellow light means, I don't know, but it won't get you in either). And that's the key bomb. Trace that back to me? Not a chance. Trace that back to the fact you told your nine-year-old daughter to shut her mouth while harshly ripping off her tiny backpack right in front of me at check-in? Never. the first key you used will be considered, as far as the dumb-a.s.s lock is concerned, an old key and invalid. Without a doubt, at some point after that, you will be locked outside your room, jamming your first key into the slot, fighting that d.a.m.n red light, or maybe the yellow light (whatever the yellow light means, I don't know, but it won't get you in either). And that's the key bomb. Trace that back to me? Not a chance. Trace that back to the fact you told your nine-year-old daughter to shut her mouth while harshly ripping off her tiny backpack right in front of me at check-in? Never.

I also happen to know the electronic curtains are not functioning in room 3217, and it gets loads of morning sun in there. Good luck sleeping in.

Recently, I called Perry, and he related a story told to him by a bellman friend at another property. Among all get-backs there is a king. And this might be it.

"So this ma'f.u.c.ker has fourteen bags. Takes me three G.o.dd.a.m.n trips, up and down, up and down. I'm feeling lovely about it, I mean, this dude's one of the greatest athletes who ever lived, not to mention he's up in that movie money. Dude is getting paid paid, and here I am poised to pocket some trickle down. So I lay his last bag on the carpet, actually wipe some sweat from my forehead, and this dude gives me a handshake, nothing in it, just a friendly ma'f.u.c.kin' handshake and a smile. A Walt Disney zip-a-dee-doo-dah smile, and I almost lost my s.h.i.t. He closed the door on me. I'd heard he was famous for being cheap, but I didn't believe it, especially not with the work I put in. So, d.a.m.n, it's not like I could miss him coming out of the lobby, and it's not like I didn't know he'd be doing his thing live at the Superdome for the next four hours. So I strolled back up to his room, unlocked the door, and went into his bathroom. He'd unpacked, laid all his luggage out, and I was gonna do a couple laps with his toothbrush in my a.s.s...until it hit me. Boom. I mean, the man has his own cologne, and he actually wears wears it. So I unscrew the top, pour out a bit of the bottle into the sink, and fill it back up. With my own p.i.s.s. The color was a perfect match. Gave the bottle a little shaky-shake, squirted a few clouds to get it going. And then I walked on out. Felt pretty good about it too when I saw him pimp through the lobby that night on his way to some party, looking sharp and smelling like bellman p.i.s.s. Professional athletes, my man. They are some cheap-a.s.s ma'f.u.c.kers." it. So I unscrew the top, pour out a bit of the bottle into the sink, and fill it back up. With my own p.i.s.s. The color was a perfect match. Gave the bottle a little shaky-shake, squirted a few clouds to get it going. And then I walked on out. Felt pretty good about it too when I saw him pimp through the lobby that night on his way to some party, looking sharp and smelling like bellman p.i.s.s. Professional athletes, my man. They are some cheap-a.s.s ma'f.u.c.kers."

Tread lightly, and beware of any employees not wearing name tags. They are up to something and don't wish to be identified.

With this kind of history, it's easy to see how the floodwaters of irritation that I hoped would recede in New Orleans were quickly back to storm surge. I received immediate doc.u.mentation for abusing the call-outs, which I deserved, but in addition kept getting bombarded by mean guests.

Tremblay had also implemented a wonderful new policy. In the hotel game, a gift of wine or liquor to your favorite employee is a cherished tradition. I mean, you bring a bottle to a dinner party. You hand over an expensive one on a birthday. And you give one to the front desk agent who always upgrades you and never even hints hints he knows how often you cheat on your wife. Or maybe we remembered you from your honeymoon three years ago and immediately went to work making it your second honeymoon. That deserves a bottle of white, eh? But hotels do have a general rule: you cannot take liquor out of the building that is also he knows how often you cheat on your wife. Or maybe we remembered you from your honeymoon three years ago and immediately went to work making it your second honeymoon. That deserves a bottle of white, eh? But hotels do have a general rule: you cannot take liquor out of the building that is also sold sold in the building. That would make it just too easy to, you know, lift an errant bottle from the back room and then parade it to a manager, convincingly grateful about the bottle the couple in 912 left you. That makes the gift of hard liquor difficult for a hotel worker to get out of the building and into his or her liver. If I get a bottle of Jack Daniel's, let's say, I will put it in a bag that I wrap up in a sweater that I put in another bag, that I then cover with dirty black dress socks, all of which I then put in a backpack. I'll try to fly past security as if my crosstown bus stops running in five minutes. Even if they do stop me to peek in my bag, which they are supposed to do every time, they aren't going to dig through my work socks. They will tilt their head back and say, "Get out of here. And wash those socks." in the building. That would make it just too easy to, you know, lift an errant bottle from the back room and then parade it to a manager, convincingly grateful about the bottle the couple in 912 left you. That makes the gift of hard liquor difficult for a hotel worker to get out of the building and into his or her liver. If I get a bottle of Jack Daniel's, let's say, I will put it in a bag that I wrap up in a sweater that I put in another bag, that I then cover with dirty black dress socks, all of which I then put in a backpack. I'll try to fly past security as if my crosstown bus stops running in five minutes. Even if they do stop me to peek in my bag, which they are supposed to do every time, they aren't going to dig through my work socks. They will tilt their head back and say, "Get out of here. And wash those socks."

"That's the plan, boss."

But a bottle of wine shouldn't require a Shawshank Redemption Shawshank Redemption type of operation. With so many wine varieties the possibility of matching a brand sold at a hotel is very low. Not to mention sommeliers like to order and uncork five-hundred-dollar vintage bottles, not the nasty cylinder of Yellow Tail a guest left me. With a wine bottle, we show it to our immediate manager, and he or she will get us a "red tag" signed by the director of security. You could haul a fifty-inch flat screen out through security as long as it's red tagged. type of operation. With so many wine varieties the possibility of matching a brand sold at a hotel is very low. Not to mention sommeliers like to order and uncork five-hundred-dollar vintage bottles, not the nasty cylinder of Yellow Tail a guest left me. With a wine bottle, we show it to our immediate manager, and he or she will get us a "red tag" signed by the director of security. You could haul a fifty-inch flat screen out through security as long as it's red tagged.

Apparently, though no official memo had surfaced, the policies had changed at the Bellevue. And I found out because Kayla was in the back office. Crying Crying. This girl cries for no one. She is more liable to rip out hair and cut a b.i.t.c.h. But there she was, leaning against the schedule posted in the luggage storage room, crying hard. Her hands weren't even covering her face, just hanging limp at her sides, letting me see the full extent of the damage, the crushed-up cheeks and mascara and total sadness.

"Baby, oh, what's wrong? Kayla?"

"This place, Tommy. It's cursed. Sometimes, when I'm in the bas.e.m.e.nt changing, I get this death feeling, like they built this hotel on an Indian burial ground."

Al flew by dragging a purple carry-on and said, "I commute here from a town called Ma.s.sapequa. This whole d.a.m.n country is built on an Indian burial ground."

"Good point, Wolf," I said to his back as he flew out the door to the lobby. "But, Kayla, what did they do to you, girl? They write you up?"

"Well, I also got written up, yeah. But they do that every week now. It's not that. No, they stole from me."

"An employee?"

"That's what I thought at first, but no. You know the Howells, that old white couple? Well, they never give me anything anything. But I help them all the time all the time, and the wife really likes me. I mentioned about how my husband and I were having problems, you know? Since the last baby? I just mentioned it quickly to Mrs. Howell. She said there is no situation a good bottle of wine won't improve, and nothing two good bottles won't cure."

"That was cute."

"Yeah, so she brings me two bottles of wine yesterday, and I don't know, but they looked like expensive bottles. I couldn't take them home after work, because I was going to the gym because my a.s.s is getting fat. So I put my name ALL over them and left them in the manager's office. I told my husband, for some reason, what Mrs. Howell said, and he took the day off work to stay home and cook all day. All four kids are in the Bronx with their grandma and he's cooking for me and I'm bringing the wine and we were supposed to eat and drink the bottles and then f.u.c.k. And maybe make a s.e.x tape like we do on Valentine's Day."

"That sounds nice."

"I know." Now she started crying again. "But when I came in today, the wine was gone, and they told me the policy had changed and we can't take any more liquor out of the hotel. I even had the handwritten note from Mrs. Howell that talks about the wine, and still they wouldn't give it to me."

Something dropped in me at this point. She was really shooting out tears and still not hiding it with her hands. I hugged her, and that made her cry harder at first but then less hard. When she pulled back, I had mascara all over my white work shirt, but I didn't f.u.c.king care. I had some serious hatred spinning around in my throat.

Why doesn't she just buy another two bottles of wine? Her husband, a bellman at the DoubleTree, broke his arm a year ago. You can't sling suitcases with one arm. The doctor even told him that due to the nerve damage, since it was crushed (long story), he might never be able to do heavy lifting again. For six months he couldn't find work and then finally pulled a gig as an elevator operator, up and down all day in a building's delivery elevator, and the pay was garbage. And they have four kids. And they are now almost four months behind on bills. And that wine was special. The kindness of it, the thoughtfulness with those words of encouragement, would've given those bottles a power no other bottles could have. Why doesn't she just buy another two good bottles of wine? Open your eyes.

Before I know it, I'm on the way up to the GM's office. I was furious and shaking in the elevator, watching the numbers rise and thanking G.o.d there were no guests in there to look at me and ask me things. I found him standing in the hallway with none other than the director of security. Perfect. Our fat eggplant of a GM looked like an inner Russian doll next to the gigantic director of security, who was unaffectionately known as Lurch. Our old DOS, before the takeover, had been about five feet four inches and an ex-cop (as basically all DOSs are). But we all loved him. As Italian as possible, loud and always accusing me of being high on c.o.ke, though I was pretty sure he knew that I, above everyone, never touched it. I used to call him "Cop Show" because everything he talked about, even if it was just the mac and cheese in the cafeteria, sounded as if he was on CSI CSI or some s.h.i.t. After they fired him, they brought in Lurch, who looked like two "Cop Shows" stacked on top of each other, wrapped in a crazy suit coat as big as a wind sail. No one liked this guy. He wasn't a born-and-raised New Yorker, which is a bad start for any NYC DOS. I looked way up at his pale head next to our squat f.u.c.kup of a GM and waited for one of them to open his mouth so I could cut him off. or some s.h.i.t. After they fired him, they brought in Lurch, who looked like two "Cop Shows" stacked on top of each other, wrapped in a crazy suit coat as big as a wind sail. No one liked this guy. He wasn't a born-and-raised New Yorker, which is a bad start for any NYC DOS. I looked way up at his pale head next to our squat f.u.c.kup of a GM and waited for one of them to open his mouth so I could cut him off.

"Is ther-"

"Why have the liquor policies changed? Since when can we not remove wine from the hotel?"

"Four months ago. Haven't you noticed? I guess you don't get a lot of gifts."

"None that you can drink, Mr. Tremblay." What a p.r.i.c.k. But I probably shouldn't have said that. It's always best for a hustler to keep quiet. Real hustlers are never, ever flashy. ("Let them tell it, you was just another guy in the crowd." -T.I.) "Well, Kayla is currently crying on company time because she left two bottles in the manager's office and now they are gone. Care to tell me where they are?"

"You can no longer take liquor out of the hotel," Lurch said, like some big gigantic gorilla a.s.shole.

"We covered that. My question is this: Where are the bottles now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well," and here my emotions were burning neon bright, "have they been placed on our restaurant menu? Are you now turning a profit on gifts given to your employees? Or, and perhaps this is it, did one of you take those bottles home and drink them? Did one of you confiscate a gift, a gift accompanied by a corroborating corroborating note"-Cop Show would have note"-Cop Show would have loved loved to hear me drop that word-"a gift given to a front desk agent with ten years of service, given for no reason other than she utilized exceptional service to create customer loyalty...did one of you take those bottles to your own house and drink them? to hear me drop that word-"a gift given to a front desk agent with ten years of service, given for no reason other than she utilized exceptional service to create customer loyalty...did one of you take those bottles to your own house and drink them? Which one of you drank Kayla's wine? Which one of you drank Kayla's wine?"

Man alive, I was b.a.l.l.s-out ape s.h.i.t.

Tremblay was giving me a burning stare. Say what you want, here is a man who doesn't have much fear in him. The whole hotel hated him, even the managers who kissed his a.s.s in the staff meetings. Did being universally hated behind his back bother him? No, not really.

He began to speak and very slowly, "Well, Thomas, all bottles of wine and liquor are now disposed of in the loading dock."

"Excuse me? You are throwing out full bottles of wine?"

"No, security a.s.sures me they are uncorked and poured down the drain in the loading dock."

"You are going to look me in the eye and tell me that this guy," I said, pointing a thumb at Lurch, who was so tall it looked like a normal thumbs-up, "is uncorking bottles of wine and pouring them down the drain?"

"Yes, Thomas. That is exactly the policy." And then he smiled at me. One of those smiles that, like a magnet, can somehow cause a beer bottle to smash into it.

Here was my GM, looking me right in the eye, lying to my face, and then smiling about it.

Where have you gone, Chuck Daniels? Little Tommy Jacobs turns his lonely eyes to you.

Because what the f.u.c.k do you do with that? What would you you do? do?

I walked away. I went back to the first floor, and looking up into the lobby at a line of guests, all expecting exceptional service, I logged in.

I typed in my pa.s.sword, pressed enter, and said, "Can I a.s.sist the next guest?"

So here is the following day in my life. But not just any day, a day that ends with me completely losing my s.h.i.t in the manager's office.

I woke up hungover, out all night with a few doormen doing the pa.s.se New York club scene. Meatpacking District and all that. After the confrontation with upper management, I wanted to get lit get lit, and if you want to get lit get lit, you cannot beat partying with doormen. They have cash for days, huge knots thick with twenties, and usually they grew up with the club owner (or if not that, the bartender, or at least least the guy working the door). the guy working the door).

What's good for a hangover? I'll tell you what's not not good: getting absolutely bombarded by checkouts. And we've got the usual complaints. I removed at least five hundred dollars in minibar charges throughout the morning, trying to ignore the guest's twenty-minute headache-inducing explanation about how she put her sister's organic wheat bars on top of the cashews so that they would be cold when she came back from getting fitted for her wedding dress in SoHo, and so why were they charged for the cashews? They never good: getting absolutely bombarded by checkouts. And we've got the usual complaints. I removed at least five hundred dollars in minibar charges throughout the morning, trying to ignore the guest's twenty-minute headache-inducing explanation about how she put her sister's organic wheat bars on top of the cashews so that they would be cold when she came back from getting fitted for her wedding dress in SoHo, and so why were they charged for the cashews? They never ate ate the cashews. They never the cashews. They never touched touched the cashews. I'd removed the charges long before she started going on about wheat bars, much less the non sequitur wedding info, even attempting to cut her off to the cashews. I'd removed the charges long before she started going on about wheat bars, much less the non sequitur wedding info, even attempting to cut her off to a.s.sure a.s.sure her the charges have her the charges have already already been removed, but even that won't often stop an intricate and useless story from growing more intricate and more useless. been removed, but even that won't often stop an intricate and useless story from growing more intricate and more useless.

Then an unpleasant old man interrupted me while I was in the middle of a guest checkout.

"h.e.l.lo, sir, EXCUSE ME sir, EXCUSE ME, I want a card for my free breakfast."

I apologized to the guest he was interrupting and told the interrupter I'd be with him in a moment.

"Breakfast ends in ten minutes, and I want my card."

The guest before me, who had waited patiently in line, tilted his head and gave me a nod with a half smile, one of those expressions that say: "Go ahead and help this jerk, and also, dude, sorry your job sucks."

"Okay, sir, were you given breakfast certificates upon check-in?"

"Yes. My rate comes with breakfast. You can look it up if that's what you're insinuating insinuating."

"Sir, I am not insinuating anything. However, were you not given enough certificates at check-in?"

"Look, they are up in my room, and I won't go get them. Breakfast ends in ten minutes. You are wasting my time."

In the drawer next to me, buried beneath a pile of loose staples, is a stack of breakfast certificates. The policy is, however, that we cannot hand out extra cards. He could have his daughter sitting in the lounge, who lives on the Upper East Side and is not actually staying at the hotel, hence shouldn't get a certificate. Therefore getting this extra cert from me could cost the hotel $35. But was I worried about the hotel losing money? Was I trying to follow procedures like a good little boy?

Not really. I was training an a.s.shole that being an a.s.shole only jams up your life. Showing fiscal responsibility and adhering to company policy: that was just the spoonful of sugar.

"I am sorry, sir. You will have to retrieve the original certificates from your room. However, I will alert the lounge to your situation, tell them you are on your way, and make certain they wait before breaking down the buffet."

The old man gave a look to my waiting customer, trying to get him to witness and verify the terrible service I was giving. My guest pursed his lips and shook his head at the old man, who walked away, probably a.s.suming that reaction actually confirmed I was a bad employee.

"Sorry about the delay, Mr. Peterson. Thank you for your patience."

"Hey, not to worry. You're doing a great job."

Something special happens to guests when they see another guest act like a child. If I'm at the desk getting loudly reamed, screamed at, and abused, that is the only time I can guarantee that the next guest I help, the very next guest, the one who saw the scene from an outsider's perspective, will treat me with dignity and extreme patience. If a guest sees another person publicly humiliate himself about something minor (and believe me, it's all minor), when his turn comes, I could tell him he is staying in the bas.e.m.e.nt rat room for fifteen hundred dollars a night, and he would say, "Hey, not to worry." Maybe even lean in and add a concerned, "Have a nice day, okay?"

But the guest after that? The one who failed to witness the public reaming? Watch out.

About an hour later the old man is back, again standing to the side of my line, trying to skip past everyone waiting. Just one errant second of eye contact from me was all he needed before he stepped up and pushed a breakfast certificate right in my face right in my face. I am talking close to my face close to my face, so close my release of an irritated breath rattled the card. Or maybe the card was rattling because this old man was now livid livid and his hand was shaking in anger. and his hand was shaking in anger.

"You tell me where on this card it says my room number. You tell me where on this card there is a bar code or number or anything that makes it not just a piece of paper that you could have just handed me. You tell me why you couldn't give me another one and made me walk all the way back upstairs."

Honestly, I wasn't even bothered by this. I've been rocking this desk so long I don't even pay attention when people are yelling at me. In truth, I look at their faces, distorted in anger, and think about other things other things. ("I don't get mad, I just get money." -Young Jeezy.) Though I especially didn't like that he was still holding that d.a.m.n card up against my face as if I were a dog that chewed up his slipper. I'm not paid to be abused. I'm not paid to relinquish my personal s.p.a.ce.

Also, I had four people waiting in line, and it was my job to process them through the system. That's all I wanted to do, just get them checked into their rooms so they could begin their New York experience. But first I had to get this card out of my face and this old man off my a.s.s.

This, dear guests, is what management is for for.

"Sir, I understand you are unhappy, but I was simply following the policies set forth by management. I understand that you disagree with these policies, and the best possible course might be to express your concerns directly to management. Would you like to speak to a manager?"

You read that verbiage verbiage?! I'm like a politician! There has got to be a better job for me somewhere, talking some official garbage like that.

"You're G.o.dd.a.m.n right I want a manager...Thomas."

We all know what that means, including my name at the end. Not my concern, though. There were now seven people in line, and number five was the tour manager for Kings of Leon, a really nice guy. But he'll definitely want the four VIP pre-reged keys for his group immediately so he can deliver them to the band, who are hiding in the tour bus so they don't get fan-f.u.c.ked in the lobby. Number six is the CEO of 7-Eleven, who is also a really great guy and far too busy to wait. Number seven is just a normal guest, but she deserves efficient service like everyone else.

Sara, our newest manager, responded quickly to my phone call and took the old man (and his precious certificate) to the far corner of the lobby.

A few hours later some Jersey mafioso is fondling his roll of cash, rubbing his thumb over an amazing collection of hundos, asking if there is something special I can do for him. After my day, after my week, I could use a brick, maybe treat myself to a nice lunch and avoid the shiny, greasy meal they were serving in the employee cafeteria. I unblocked a VIP suite, held for a famous actor, who I think is a bit overrated anyway, one who thinks every role and every day is Halloween. I leaned in and whispered, giving this dude and his bankroll the full performance, authorizing a hundred-dollar-a-night upgrade for four nights, not to mention leaving the actor unblocked and room-less. As I pa.s.sed him the keys, calling the Gray Wolf over to grab his luggage, he slipped the money roll back into his pocket and put out his empty hand to shake. No question about it, I could tell from the way he held out his hand that it was empty. G.o.dd.a.m.n it. I should have seen it coming: he was fondling the money too much, too obvious. I got played. I told him if he needed anything at all to ask for Terrance (when you give a fake name, it's important to avoid names of employees currently working at the property and and that it be a name of someone from your past whom you hate) then walked off, leaving his hand floating over the desk, unshaken, and he knew exactly why. that it be a name of someone from your past whom you hate) then walked off, leaving his hand floating over the desk, unshaken, and he knew exactly why.

I took a lunch break, starting the countdown timer on my smart phone to make it back exactly on time. The managers were still tracking employees with the security cameras to crack down on extended lunches. In order to take a break, you had to call the manager's office so the manager could queue up the video monitors on the computer screen (a new feature they had installed that could be accessed from any computer, anywhere. In fact, rumor was Tremblay would watch it from home, spying, and call in various infractions).

Work Environment of the Year Award goes to...Hotel 1984.

After lunch I almost felt better until some seventeen-year-old trust-fund toddler in a pink polo started treating me like his pool cleaner. I had just gotten back, I looked up, and in seconds this kid was going at me hard. Apparently, reservations promised him a room with two king beds. He, or his mother, booked through Expedia and then called Expedia directly to confirm his seventeen-year-old special requests.

Outside agencies know absolutely nothing about specific properties. In fact, even if it's a large chain, it will have "central reservations," which is some remote desk in India or Canada, and the agents there generate reservations for more than five hundred properties, five hundred buildings they will never, ever see. Certainly the system lists the features, bed types, views, and other property-specific info, but it is fallible. If you truly want to know what you booked and what that means, you have to call the property itself. You have to call me at the desk, and I will tell you exactly what you're getting. In fact, especially if it's an extended stay or an important reservation, having a contact at the hotel proper is invaluable. You can even prearrange a hustle and upgrade with a simple question like, "Will you be there the day I check in? I really would like to personally thank you for taking care of me." That is code for, or should be code for, I will give you money if you stay on top of my reservation and hook me up. I've met and started long-term relationships with clients that stemmed from preemptive phone calls such as this.

But now, this kid, who confirmed his details with Expedia, a company thrice removed from us, is screaming at me, demanding to have what was promised. He wants his two king beds. We don't have rooms with two king beds, they don't exist they don't exist, and I just wasn't strong enough to let this kid's att.i.tude slide. Another day I might have been able to pull this one off without getting involved. But that day I slipped into "teach a lesson" mode. As I relayed the information, apologizing that Expedia misinformed him about our property and reiterating that we simply don't have that type of bed layout and can we perhaps talk about other forms of accommodation because I a.s.sure you we can find something that will satisfy blah blah blah bulls.h.i.t, he cuts me off again, slapping his soft, never-worked-a-day-in-his-life hand down on the desk to silence me. Like a crazy person, he once again demands I provide him with two king beds. I looked at his mother at this point, pleading. She determinedly avoided my look.

I then proceeded to politely, oh so sarcastically, offer to build build him a room big enough for his two king beds, if he wants to wait two months. I looked again at his mother, and, let me just say this now, she herself lived in fear of her own child. Her expression was indecipherable, but in her eyes I'm sort of sure she was apologizing to me for her son's att.i.tude. But then this terrible teenager turned on his mother, giving her a look of control and hatred. The mother split open her face to ask for a manager. The kid crossed his arms in victory and stared at where my name tag should be. I knew what kind of day it was going to be after I chewed up that old man's slippers: it's like that sometimes, the job has a temperature, a feeling in the air, a discernible evilness. Today, sensing an evil wind was blowing, I took my name tag off immediately after dealing with that old man. him a room big enough for his two king beds, if he wants to wait two months. I looked again at his mother, and, let me just say this now, she herself lived in fear of her own child. Her expression was indecipherable, but in her eyes I'm sort of sure she was apologizing to me for her son's att.i.tude. But then this terrible teenager turned on his mother, giving her a look of control and hatred. The mother split open her face to ask for a manager. The kid crossed his arms in victory and stared at where my name tag should be. I knew what kind of day it was going to be after I chewed up that old man's slippers: it's like that sometimes, the job has a temperature, a feeling in the air, a discernible evilness. Today, sensing an evil wind was blowing, I took my name tag off immediately after dealing with that old man.

I informed them that I would absolutely call a manager and said I was sorry I couldn't a.s.sist them. It didn't even matter that I wasn't wearing a name tag, because every time I alter or touch a reservation, my personal log-in code embeds itself in the system. In this case, like a blood trail.

Sara, like a bloodhound, happened to be approaching the desk at that very moment. I made the introductions and moved on to help the next guest, who was abreast of the whole situation and already had that facial expression I cherish: "Hey, you were in the right on that one and your job sucks, and I promise I I won't give you a hard time." won't give you a hard time."

Two hours later, I clocked out with a long sigh, slipped my ID card back into my wallet, and almost smashed into Sara. She'd only been here for two months; two months and she'd made negative-twenty friends.

There are all types of managers out there. I remember once, back in New Orleans, I found myself walking out of the building with Trish, my first FOM, the one who saw my potential in valet and invited me to the front desk. It had been a long day for both of us, and we were headed to the Alibi to drink a bit with the crew. That's how you want things to be in a hotel: everyone drinking together at the bar, planning trips to go bowling, meeting up at Jazz Fest. If you look forward to hanging out with your co-workers outside the job, then performance inside the job will be stellar. It also has the side effect of everyone everyone banging banging everyone everyone, but, you know, that builds morale in a way too, so might as well let us go at each other.

It was a warm August night, the heat close to our faces, the roaches scurrying happily from trash piles to vomit, people strolling slowly toward Bourbon Street with sweating drinks, the live music perfect for the evening, all the harsh edges of the sound mellowed and smooth. Maybe because we had walked there together, maybe that's why, but near the end of the night we met up at the edge of the bar to order our "last" drink and stayed together talking. She told me about my potential, but not in a bulls.h.i.t way. She mentioned my drive and dedication, pointing out only two flaws I needed to watch out for: One: I made too many jokes.Two: I had a slight problem with authority.

Ha, ha, ha. No s.h.i.t No s.h.i.t.

She then gave me a chunk of advice. "You'll be a manager soon, Tommy. Everyone likes you and believes in you. But before that happens, take the time to a.n.a.lyze the managers you have now. Pay attention to the way they treat you and the rest of the staff. Are they too friendly? Not friendly enough? Are they enforcers? Company drones? Too lenient or never, ever lenient? Just keep your eye on them, watch how their att.i.tudes either cause or eliminate problems, and then, when you get to be a manager, you can pick and choose the type of manager you want to be, the type of manager your employees will think you are. Start thinking about that now, and you'll be successful."

This new manager at the Bellevue, Sara, was an enforcer. The hotel hired her away from Trump International two months ago, and recently I had the opportunity to do some recon. Julie and I, in our meandering yet loving way, were back together. She threw herself another fancy birthday party, this time at another fancy hotel. Knowing she'd want me in attendance, she booked at the Trump, and I went with her to oversee the check-in process, make sure everything went smoothly. Then we planned to rough up the bed before her friends arrived. (We ended up roughing up the bathroom. Anyone seen the Trump bathrooms? So much marble and gold it's like banging in Versailles! I swear I heard trumpets and s.h.i.t!) Sara had been with us for only one week at that time, and so far she was all smiles, waiting to get the lay of the land, much as a new sergeant dropped into the middle of Vietnam might want to hang back a bit before loading the rifle and starting to fire at the trees.

In between dropping tens on every front desk agent who looked my way (which got us the larger, f.u.c.k-worthy bathroom, wine, and, most conveniently, a late checkout), I asked about Sara, what kind of manager she was.

"Oh, she's wonderful! We were devastated to lose her!"

What the h.e.l.l was this this nonsense? Had I not mentioned I was a front desk agent? nonsense? Had I not mentioned I was a front desk agent?