Heads In Beds Part 3

"GMs have two personas. Much in the way a president has two personas. He must be loved by the people, the voters, in this case the staff. But he must be feared by management, his cabinet. It's about kissing babies in public and cracking heads in private. So there it is. Terrance is waiting for you on 25. Go."

I'd never even seen the twenty-fifth floor. That was on club level, which began on 20 and continued to the top floor, each level requiring key access. In fact, since the levels were locked, I had to get out on 19 and walk the rest of the way up the stairs. I could have used the employee service elevators, but at that time I was some front-of-the-house "peac.o.c.k" strutting only through guest areas. Desk agents live in the front of the house. I was about to go deep into the heart.

Not every luxury hotel has a club level, but should you find yourself with the option and the money, the increase in rate can pay for itself. It's like flying first cla.s.s. Done properly, club level starts with the doorman. Upon identifying your last name, hopefully cleverly picking it off a luggage tag or, ideally, recognizing you from your last stay, he runs it against the club-level arrivals, a list he receives every morning, often kept taped inside his silly-a.s.s top hat. The doorman then discreetly alerts the valet dispatch, who calls the club level so they can prep. Often, when booking a club res, reservations will inquire about your favorite c.o.c.ktail, and when, upon your arrival, club receives the advance call from valet, they prepare your fancy drink and place it on a tray next to a hot oshibori oshibori towel. The doorman, bypa.s.sing that pedestrian and disgustingly open-to-the-public front desk, then pa.s.ses off the guests directly to the bellman, who whooshes them right up to the twentieth floor, where they are greeted at the opening of the elevator doors with the c.o.c.ktail and hot towel, then seated and checked in by a private concierge. towel. The doorman, bypa.s.sing that pedestrian and disgustingly open-to-the-public front desk, then pa.s.ses off the guests directly to the bellman, who whooshes them right up to the twentieth floor, where they are greeted at the opening of the elevator doors with the c.o.c.ktail and hot towel, then seated and checked in by a private concierge.

On average, a club lounge has five food presentations a day, from a simple but filling breakfast to hors d'oeuvres and appetizers throughout the day and ending with the evening dessert. And let's not forget the opulent crystal decanters filled with high-quality alcohol left out day and night, next to mixers on ice. First cla.s.s: you might have three hours to drink and eat back the extra money you spent. Club level: you can swallow your money back with three vodka tonics and one food presentation, then, over your next night stay, really begin to get value. Which is also why the best possible upgrade isn't always a suite or a view. It's as simple as getting your key juiced, sliding it in, and activating the club level. How do you light that light? How do you get that kind of upgrade? Well, dear guests, you'll have to wait for that one.

Terrance was on 25 berating a housekeeper about the cleanliness of her cart. As I approached, his eyes flicked over, he saw me but proceeded to act as if he had not and continued blowing hard about not storing trash bags on the top level of the cart and making sure the amenities were packed tight enough so they weren't rolling around in a big mess. Just glancing quickly at that cart gave me a glimpse into my new world, which, apparently, was now full of...amenities.

The amenities! Ah! From shower caps to shoehorns. All tightly packaged and incredibly stealable. Consider the unmanned housekeeping cart a smash-and-grab situation. Pack your bags full of almond b.u.t.ter hand cream and guava face soap with espresso chips! Take three of everything, and get the h.e.l.l out of the hallway. Even if you do get caught, just say you were out of shampoo or, even better, out of toilet paper toilet paper and thought you'd save the hotel the trouble by grabbing it for yourself. Think of it this way: these amenities are here for and thought you'd save the hotel the trouble by grabbing it for yourself. Think of it this way: these amenities are here for you; you; they are they are yours yours. We are in no position to dispute the claim that when you you wash wash your your hair, you prefer to dump fifteen bottles of lavender and poppy seed shampoo all over your scalp like some gooey shower freak. hair, you prefer to dump fifteen bottles of lavender and poppy seed shampoo all over your scalp like some gooey shower freak.

Eventually, Terrance stopped scolding the housekeeper and introduced me. "Nancy, this is the new turndown manager, Tommy. You will show him respect at all times. Clean up this d.a.m.n cart."

Nancy was the cutest little old lady: black, even darker than Terrance, and super-squat with puffy gray hair and a sweet smile. Despite Terrance's tirade, she smiled and squeezed my hand before starting to right all the overturned shampoo bottles.

One minute into my training and I already disliked my boss. I wasn't sure what kind of manager I was going to be, but I knew what kind of manager I was not not going to be. going to be.

Terrance walked me along the hallways, checking his clipboard for vacant suites. Despite the sheet confirming the room was vacant, he still knocked before slipping in his yellow master key and touring me through the unoccupied rooms.

"This job is very easy," he said, pounding the clipboard against his closed fist to accentuate "very" and "easy." "It's about attention to detail. You see this one hotel room? A hundred and fifty-five different quality points, check points, that make it a clean room. Baseboards, no dust. Hospital-cornered sheets, pulled tight as possible. Vacuumed, stain-free carpet. Streak-free mirrors and gla.s.ses. Tipped toilet paper. Here."

He handed me a standard checklist, and it went on and on and on with minute points in a small font, filling both sides of the paper.

"Nancy is one of the best. That's why she has these two top floors on club level. I give her a hard time because I give everyone a hard time. I'm going to give you you a hard time." a hard time."

"Great."

"You don't believe me?"

"I certainly do."

Pushing through an unmarked white door to the supply closet, he stopped and turned to face me. This was a man who hits the gym, grunts and screams as he benches 350, and then leaves more angry than he went in. He had one fat vein surging out of his white starched collar, and it ripped up his throat and pulsed in a rage, as if it were filled with hot sauce and pumped that burn right into his brain.

Coincidentally (if you can manage to a.s.similate this info as well), he was a man who also got pedicures. Three times a week.

"We gonna have a problem?"

"No, sir."

"Heard you started down there in valet parking. I checked up on you. And the boys liked you. But don't think you get a pa.s.s with me just because some valet parkers think you're cool for a white boy. Don't test me. And don't let this suit fool you. Now, if you work hard and pay attention to detail, we ain't gonna have problems."

We were going to have problems.

As we toured the hotel from top to bottom, club level to first floor, entering dirty room after dirty room, I saw empty shopping bags, cold curly fries soaked in ketchup on the floor by the bed, a used condom that didn't quite make it and hung sagging from the lip of the trash can, nasty dirty sheets, spilled bottles of beer leaking over the top of a minibar, a pile of b.l.o.o.d.y towels tucked shamefully behind a bathroom door, and all manner of garbage left by our upscale guests. As we pa.s.sed cart after cart, we saw housekeeper after housekeeper kneeling in the far corner of the bathroom, scrubbing behind behind the toilet, gathering cold food and garbage, polishing mirrors, rewrapping hair dryer cords, vacuuming, and performing every single action that falls under the word "cleaning." the toilet, gathering cold food and garbage, polishing mirrors, rewrapping hair dryer cords, vacuuming, and performing every single action that falls under the word "cleaning."

I was soon to witness unique methods employed by these housekeepers. To put on a pillowcase, they would throw a solid karate chop right down the middle of the pillow and then shove it in, folded like a bun. This method was preferred to the civilian method of tucking it under your chin and pulling up the pillowcase like a pair of pants because these ladies had no interest in letting fifty pillows a day come into direct contact with their faces. In addition, you know what cleans the h.e.l.l out of a mirror, and I'm talking no streaks no streaks? Windex? No. Furniture polish. Spray on a thick white base, rub it in, and you'll be face-to-face with a spotless mirror, streak-free. However, I am not recommending you take this tip and apply it in your own home. Though using furniture polish is quick and effective, over time it causes a waxy buildup that requires a deep scrub. So, ladies were treating mirrors like furniture all over the building, but certainly not in front of Terrance. Catching a lady with Pledge in the bathroom was a lecture-inducing event. So they kept this move behind closed doors along with another dirty secret I didn't uncover until much later: I walked in on ladies with Pledge in one hand and a minibar gla.s.s in the other. Certainly not all, but some of them were using furniture polish on the drinking gla.s.ses drinking gla.s.ses. Keeping those gla.s.ses clean "looking" was also part of the job. Do you see any dish soap on a housekeeping cart? Usually hot water and a face towel equals clean. But to be absolutely sure they won't be singled out for spotty gla.s.ses, they might spray furniture polish all over them. So the next time you put a little tap water into the minibar gla.s.s and wonder to yourself why it has a pleasant lemon aftertaste, that's because you just took a shot of Pledge. Honestly, furniture polish might be more more sanitary than simple hot water and a wipe down using the (hopefully untouched) hand towel from the previous guest. Either way, sorry about that. sanitary than simple hot water and a wipe down using the (hopefully untouched) hand towel from the previous guest. Either way, sorry about that.

Be it the good, the bad, or the unsanitary, it was a tremendous amount to take in. I felt overwhelmed but proud. It was this swelling pride that kept my smile almost ever present, despite feeling as if I were sinking fast.

The following morning the reality and sheer size of my new department really smacked me on the a.s.s. At 8:30 a.m. the housekeeping office, as large as a conference room, was packed with more than a hundred housekeepers yelling and laughing.

Besides the room attendants there are two other sub-positions within housekeeping. The hous.e.m.e.n: Usually one or two per floor whose job includes helping the ladies "strip" the rooms, meaning pull off and drag out the dirty sheets. They keep the hallways clean and vacuumed, restock the supply closets, a.s.sist the ladies with whatever they need, such as refilling their cleaning bottles and restocking their carts with amenities, and, finally, handle most of the room deliveries. If you've ever called for an extra pair of slippers or asked to have a rollaway placed in your room, then you've met a houseman. In fact, speaking of slippers, when the houseman delivers them, drop a few dollar bills on him, and go ahead and ask for another five or ten pairs. Witness how quickly they are delivered. Those posh, hotel-logo, plastic-wrapped slippers make great gifts for people you really don't give a s.h.i.t about! Like your co-workers! Once you've dropped some money on a houseman, anything his department has to offer is yours for the taking. Yours for the packing in the suitcase and using later. Ten bottles of the lotion you love, an extra pillow to jam in your carry-on and use on the plane, Q-tips and cotton b.a.l.l.s, travel lint rollers, a year's supply of nail files, and everything else in the housekeeping storage closets. If word gets out that every time a houseman knocks on your door he gets a few dollars, those men will deliver bootleg DVDs if you ask them. And they have them, too.

The final subgroup is the lobby attendants. They are responsible for, obviously, cleaning the lobby but also all public areas not located on a floor with guest rooms, such as the conference rooms and public restrooms. Heart-of-the-house attendants are within that subgroup as well, ensuring that the back offices and hallways, employee bathrooms, and employee cafeteria are kept up to standard.

Heart-of-the-house attendants have the worst job. Guests can be disgusting, but employees are animals. Our bathrooms and locker rooms can look like train station toilets. We had two dedicated heart-of-the-house attendants, and both of them suffered from physical problems. The first was Charlie, surging well over six feet, 220, and built out of iron. He'd been a star quarterback for LSU, on the fast track to run the New Orleans Saints' offense (so I was told discreetly in service elevators) until the night he'd driven his brother home to the Eighth Ward and the car was shot up by an AK-47, killing his brother, who was active in the drug game, and lodging several bullets into Charlie's limbs and one more into his skull, and all that before the car even crashed. He never played again. He had a scar down the right side of his skull as big as his smile, and he had a big big smile; he was as kindhearted and gentle as you can imagine. Everyone still treated him like a star quarterback, launching rolls of toilet paper back and forth with him in the back hallways when Terrance wasn't there to rip the roll out of midair and start a lecture on the cost of toilet paper and how it rolls off the dispenser funny once the cardboard tube has been compromised. smile; he was as kindhearted and gentle as you can imagine. Everyone still treated him like a star quarterback, launching rolls of toilet paper back and forth with him in the back hallways when Terrance wasn't there to rip the roll out of midair and start a lecture on the cost of toilet paper and how it rolls off the dispenser funny once the cardboard tube has been compromised.

The second heart-of-the-house attendant was Roy, one of only two white housekeeping employees. He had cerebral palsy, his body asymmetric, movements strained and loping, but he was 100 percent upstairs. Roy was hard to understand, but once you got the hang of his speech, he was sharp and said some funny, funny s.h.i.t. Terrance could never understand a word.

"How's it going there, Roy?"

"Be going better if I was banging your wife instead of cleaning these toilets."

Imagine that line is wet ink, smear your thumb over the whole of it, and then read it back. Most of us understood every syllable, though, and held our breaths.

"Well." Terrance clenched his neck muscles in frustration. "See you at the Christmas party?"

"You bet. Bring your wife," Roy said.

Roy had a tattoo of a pistol on his back with a bullet exploding out of the barrel.

Along with Roy, for a brief time, we had a second white employee, a housekeeper in fact. A little white wisp of a lady. An alcoholic. Too many bottles of gin from too many minibars from too many rooms on too many days. We sent her to the Employee a.s.sistance Program, and she came back clean. Clean and dead. Her face was like a white paper bag, her eyes dry. She stopped talking to anyone, cleaned rooms slowly and poorly. Then one day she bounced in, her face full and radiant, smiling and ready to work. They let her go that afternoon: she was drunk.

But before I knew anyone, that very first morning, I was horribly overwhelmed. The housekeepers gathered every day at 8:30 a.m. to receive their "boards," meaning their personal lists of rooms to be cleaned for the day. General instructions were given and small attempts to force down the company Kool-Aid, though you couldn't quite get the ladies to care at all about corporate mottoes. Every morning Terrance would jabber on and on about attention to detail while domestically abusing his clipboard, relentlessly informing the staff their jobs were "Very. Easy."

I said h.e.l.lo to Nancy, the little old lady on club level. She put her small hand on mine and told me not to be nervous about meeting all these new people. She said soon enough I'd learn everyone's name.

Soon enough was not soon enough. A staff of 150, all dressed in uniforms, often losing and switching name tags, perhaps deliberately, just to f.u.c.k with me.

"Is this room going to be done by three, Donna?"

"Donna? I'm Debra, listen to this new manager-"

"Oh, sorry. You're wearing Donna's name tag?"

"Rasis. You rasis rasis. You should be shamed of yourself shamed of yourself, Tommy. Just kidding, baby. And you know what, you can have this room now. I'm finished."

"Great. Thanks, Debra. A few Mardi Gras travel groups are already in the lobby waiting to check in."

Mardi Gras was a different experience inside the rooms. A couple of guests rented the suite with a claw-footed tub, built a fire below it, and tried to turn the porcelain tub into a deep fryer. Most of the tubs were successfully converted into gigantic coolers and filled with beer. Hous.e.m.e.n had no problem nipping a bottle or two and pounding them down in the storage closet. They also had no problem getting a beer from the minibar if nothing better was available.

Minibars. Most people are appalled at the prices. But it comes down to this: that is the cost of convenience. You aren't at home, but you can pay handsomely to simulate the feeling. The high cost of convenience is one of hospitality's master hustles. However, you never have to pay for the items in the minibar. I am going to say that again and, to really drive it home, utilize some serious italics: you never have to pay for a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing inside that tiny little fridge of joy you never have to pay for a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing inside that tiny little fridge of joy. Why not? Minibar charges are, without question, the most disputed charges on any bill. That is because the process for applying those charges is horribly inexact. Why? Because it's done by people. The traditional minibar, before they invented the sensored variety, is checked (maybe) once a day by a slow-moving gentleman or lady pushing a cart full of snacks. Unlike a housekeepers' cart, often available for a smash and grab, you will never see a minibar cart without its attendant. You might never even see a minibar attendant. They are like mole people. They peer into the confusion of bottles and bags, looking for something that needs to be replaced, looking for something that is no longer there no longer there. They replace it and put a pen mark on their room chart. These marks are then, at some point in the lazy future, delivered to another fallible human who manually inputs them onto a guest account. Can everyone see the margin for error in this process? Because it's HUGE. Maybe the attendant failed to notice the cashews were consumed Monday but catches it on Tuesday, and the charge is applied to your your bill on Wednesday, even though you just checked in five minutes ago. Keystroke errors, delays in restocking, double stocking, and hundreds of other missteps make minibar charges the most voided item. Even before guests can manage to get through half of the "I never had these items" sentence, I have already removed the charges and am now simply waiting for them to wrap up their overly zealous denial so we can both move on with our lives. And this is why, essentially, you are able to eat and drink everything for free. bill on Wednesday, even though you just checked in five minutes ago. Keystroke errors, delays in restocking, double stocking, and hundreds of other missteps make minibar charges the most voided item. Even before guests can manage to get through half of the "I never had these items" sentence, I have already removed the charges and am now simply waiting for them to wrap up their overly zealous denial so we can both move on with our lives. And this is why, essentially, you are able to eat and drink everything for free.

Give it a go. Pound a whiskey and ginger ale, then shove a Toblerone down your throat. Upon checkout, or if you feel more comfortable avoiding confrontation like most Americans (G.o.d bless us for being so timid), you can call down from the room phone to the front desk and explain that you checked your bill on-screen and noticed the charges are incorrect. It's actually that simple. Don't provide a G.o.dd.a.m.n alibi or offer to produce medical doc.u.mentation proving your throat swells like a frog if you even touch an almond. Just say you never had it, and we will take it right off.

Never, ever will the hotel accuse you of lying. That is the absolute last stance hotel management wants to take. You think a respectable hotelier wants to go through your garbage looking for spent M&M's wrappers? If a front desk agent does take it upon him- or herself to insinuate you are lying, then you are staying in a bad hotel. Or at least you have come into contact with a bad desk agent who's getting his or her rocks off by treating you like garbage. We are the front desk: the minibar is not our fight. The hotel buys those items in crazy bulk and charges a crazy increase. And people pay it. But you don't have to be one of those people.

You could be one of these people: Here is the plan. Check in at the desk and make a strong request for a nonsmoking room, possibly mentioning allergies (but don't go overboard and annoy the agent, please). Refuse help from the bellman (that shouldn't be hard for your cheap a.s.s), and go up to your room unaccompanied. Immediately open the minibar and shove every G.o.dd.a.m.n item into your suitcase. Take it all all. Then smoke a cigarette on the bed and gaze out the window. Afterward, call down to the desk and complain about the heavy smoke smell in the room. Request to be moved. I mean, it smells like someone just smoked just smoked in here. The front desk will send a bellman up with your new keys, and-not that he has been informed, nor would he care-should he pop his head in, he too will smell the odor. Go to your new room, close the door, and get fat and salty and drunk on your suitcase of snacks. The hotel will never trace that minibar to you. Moving rooms in the system, when it's done the same day you check in, leaves almost no trace, no overnight confirmation that you actually ever occupied that suite. Certainly nothing that allows the hotel to track down those five minutes when you stole five hundred dollars' worth of individually wrapped snacks. The minibar attendant will check on the bar in your first room maybe today, probably tomorrow, and then just restock it, no questions asked. in here. The front desk will send a bellman up with your new keys, and-not that he has been informed, nor would he care-should he pop his head in, he too will smell the odor. Go to your new room, close the door, and get fat and salty and drunk on your suitcase of snacks. The hotel will never trace that minibar to you. Moving rooms in the system, when it's done the same day you check in, leaves almost no trace, no overnight confirmation that you actually ever occupied that suite. Certainly nothing that allows the hotel to track down those five minutes when you stole five hundred dollars' worth of individually wrapped snacks. The minibar attendant will check on the bar in your first room maybe today, probably tomorrow, and then just restock it, no questions asked.

Perhaps you think it would be strange for the attendant to find a completely empty bar? No. Certain guests (alcoholics, the parents of kids without in-room chaperones, and tour managers for famous metal bands from the 1980s that no longer have a famous 1980s metal band budget) are always asking to completely empty out the bar. Just get rid of it all. In fact, on a side note, when a huge company books a block of rooms (a business that provides items often found in minibars, such as a soda or beer company), they will sometimes demand that all compet.i.tors' brands be removed prior to the group's arrival. Minibar moles hate this: hate this: having to remove Coca-Cola products from seventy-five rooms just because Pepsi people want to live under the delusion that they run the market. having to remove Coca-Cola products from seventy-five rooms just because Pepsi people want to live under the delusion that they run the market.

What about sensored minibars, that brilliant invention designed to eliminate the human factor? Certainly, the great minibar caper described above should not be attempted with a sensored minibar. All of those charges would immediately fly onto your bill and follow your account when you moved rooms. But, speaking as someone who personally lived personally lived through the transformation from a human system to the world of sensors, I was ready for the "I never even touched the minibar..." complaints to dwindle, hopefully, to zero. They did not. I barely noticed a change. Sensors come with their own problems. Random electronic malfunctions are just the beginning. They are weight sensored and on a brief timer; therefore, if you simply take an item out to examine it, you might get charged, unless you replace it within the thirty-second time limit (or Indiana-Jones-it with a "bag of sand"; in this case pour the, I'm just a.s.suming, through the transformation from a human system to the world of sensors, I was ready for the "I never even touched the minibar..." complaints to dwindle, hopefully, to zero. They did not. I barely noticed a change. Sensors come with their own problems. Random electronic malfunctions are just the beginning. They are weight sensored and on a brief timer; therefore, if you simply take an item out to examine it, you might get charged, unless you replace it within the thirty-second time limit (or Indiana-Jones-it with a "bag of sand"; in this case pour the, I'm just a.s.suming, booze booze into a minibar gla.s.s-or right into your mouth!-and then quickly submerge it into an ice bucket that you've prefilled with water-or tea if you're Indiana-Jonesing whiskey-then screw back the cap and replace it with dramatic showmanship, carefully, slowly, with hands shaky and wet, sweat bubbling on your forehead, racing to get it done before the thirty-second time limit triggers). But don't press it down too hard, or it'll trigger. And don't put anything, like a sandwich, on top, or it'll trigger. And don't take the items out to store your own items, or it'll trigger. And don't move any items around, or it'll trigger. It will always f.u.c.king trigger, and that is why, should you ever wake up in terror with a mess of tiny empty bottles by the bedside phone, pistachio sh.e.l.ls all over the pillow, and your mouth smeared with Hershey's, never fear. Forgive yourself. Just tell the front desk you "never even touched the minibar," and we will whisk away the charges. Or say you stored your own items and it must have charged you. Or say you took a few items out to look at them and it must have charged you. Get it? into a minibar gla.s.s-or right into your mouth!-and then quickly submerge it into an ice bucket that you've prefilled with water-or tea if you're Indiana-Jonesing whiskey-then screw back the cap and replace it with dramatic showmanship, carefully, slowly, with hands shaky and wet, sweat bubbling on your forehead, racing to get it done before the thirty-second time limit triggers). But don't press it down too hard, or it'll trigger. And don't put anything, like a sandwich, on top, or it'll trigger. And don't take the items out to store your own items, or it'll trigger. And don't move any items around, or it'll trigger. It will always f.u.c.king trigger, and that is why, should you ever wake up in terror with a mess of tiny empty bottles by the bedside phone, pistachio sh.e.l.ls all over the pillow, and your mouth smeared with Hershey's, never fear. Forgive yourself. Just tell the front desk you "never even touched the minibar," and we will whisk away the charges. Or say you stored your own items and it must have charged you. Or say you took a few items out to look at them and it must have charged you. Get it? Say anything Say anything, anything at all, and we will make it go away.

Need one more reason the charges could be incorrect? As I said before, hous.e.m.e.n steal from the minibar. Even minibar attendants might steal from your minibar, for Christ's sake. We aren't going to accuse you of anything, because we all have access to your snacks. We all have master keys. Any room, anywhere, anytime. We let ourselves in when you are gone. We let ourselves in even when you are there. I walked in on guests having s.e.x, guests who must have heard me knock, guests who seemed to climax at my embarra.s.sment. I saw deliberate robe slips from men and women, young and old. I found bondage gear still attached to a towel holder that had been ripped out of the wall, the prisoner escaped, I suppose, wandering the hallways in a ball gag. (Joking about that last part; in fact, I discovered most people with these proclivities were quite adult, almost professional about them, and had no interest in making a large scene or offending anyone.) Housekeepers deal with the brunt of these s.e.xual hara.s.sment situations. The first week a new housekeeping employee will approach a door, give three loud knocks, throw a throaty "housekeeping department," followed by another powerful hammering on the door, before slowly pushing her way in, face and body protectively shielded by the heavy door, until there is no question the room is vacant and she can confidently whisk herself inside. Six months later, after she has performed the same preliminary announcement on over fifty doors a day, it becomes something more like, "House-" at this point a light knock occurs in conjunction with a less throaty "keeping," the master key is already slipped in the lock, the light clicks green, and BOOM the door is already opening, and the lady is entering back first, pulling her cart through the doorframe.

"OH MY G.o.d!! CHRIST, DON'T YOU KNOCK?! OH, G.o.d!"

"Sorry, ma'am. Sorry. I'll come back in an hour."

Is she really that sorry? Probably not. That housekeeper might have twelve more rooms to clean before she can go home to her family. And though, as a hotel guest, she has every right, that woman taking a luxurious bath followed by a twenty-minute session of staring at herself naked in the mirror is directly slowing down the housekeeper's working day. Off the room attendant goes to blast through another door with minimal warning, attempting to get some work done.

The next time, pulling the cart in, she might be confident the room is vacant, due to a lack of screaming. However, spray bottle already in hand, she turns to face an older gentleman who didn't feel the need to either shout out a warning OR secure the robe properly. There are now three ent.i.ties in the room: the housekeeper, the man, and the man's p.e.n.i.s. Two of these ent.i.ties are rather pleased with the current situation.

Some guests are dying to be walked in on. Some guests are terrified of being walked in on. But every one of these guests, fundamentally different in every way, lurks there, hidden behind a locked door, doing G.o.d knows what. And every door a housekeeper unlocks leads her into the world of the unknown.

Any room, anywhere, anytime. In certain ways I learned more about the true nature of hotels while holding the housekeeping manager position than any other. When I had access to these rooms, these short scenes and snapshots into people's lives, I came to see the hotel for all its uses: guests propose, get married, impregnate each other, turn forty, get divorced, snort heroin, murder, and die in hotel rooms (sometimes in that order). They receive news of a loved one's death from a blinking red light. They sign a fax that begins production on a factory in China. They receive a FedEx box containing everything left of their marriage. A man comes from Tulsa to be a full-on cross-dresser for a week in New Orleans so the rest of his life can remain intact at home. A woman leaves her room at the Marriott checked in and empty, paid for by her company as a travel expense, books a room at our hotel to tryst with the man she should should have married, spending three days in love and ordering room service before paying our bill in cash and returning to the Marriott to check out of her never-used room and fly home to the husband she no longer has s.e.x with (who, while she was out of town, booked a room at the Days Inn by the airport to snort fat rails of c.o.ke, order gay p.o.r.n, and hire male escorts). Aliases and pseudonyms, clandestine visitors, drug addicts on a professional drug binge, writers, runaways, recent divorcees using the room as a central cry hub, alcoholics, gamblers, and wh.o.r.es. And families on vacation! Newlyweds banging the day away! Any given room, behind any given door, someone else's life was on fire. Not the life lived at home, not the cable-and-bed-by-9:00-p.m. life, waiting around to die. The hotel life: boundless, foreign, debaucherous, freshly laundered, exploratory, scantily clad, imaginative, frightening, expensive, and have married, spending three days in love and ordering room service before paying our bill in cash and returning to the Marriott to check out of her never-used room and fly home to the husband she no longer has s.e.x with (who, while she was out of town, booked a room at the Days Inn by the airport to snort fat rails of c.o.ke, order gay p.o.r.n, and hire male escorts). Aliases and pseudonyms, clandestine visitors, drug addicts on a professional drug binge, writers, runaways, recent divorcees using the room as a central cry hub, alcoholics, gamblers, and wh.o.r.es. And families on vacation! Newlyweds banging the day away! Any given room, behind any given door, someone else's life was on fire. Not the life lived at home, not the cable-and-bed-by-9:00-p.m. life, waiting around to die. The hotel life: boundless, foreign, debaucherous, freshly laundered, exploratory, scantily clad, imaginative, frightening, expensive, and brand f.u.c.king new brand f.u.c.king new. I wandered the hallways every day like a guard keeper in the house of reinvention. Whatever these people were getting into, whatever their lives had become, I made sure that if they vacated the room for an hour's time, they had clean sheets to do it on, new soap to scrub it off with, fresh towels to wipe it down, a clean robe to cover it up, and a fresh pillow to sleep it off on.

Sometimes, when I was wandering the halls, it was too quiet. There is no question my time as housekeeping manager saddled me with one new s.e.xual fetish (at least). I would hear soft moanings, m.u.f.fled s.e.x sounds seeping through the walls, and then pause, listening intently because, honestly, it turned me on. It had never surfaced before, but apparently I am always game to hear a couple smashing it out on the other side of a door or wall. Sadly, every single time I heard a sigh or moan from a hotel room it was always, always always just someone listening to the d.a.m.n television: "Ooooh, oh, oh, ooooooooh." At this point, excited, I'd freeze and focus my attention just in time to hear "And now back to Afghanistan." just someone listening to the d.a.m.n television: "Ooooh, oh, oh, ooooooooh." At this point, excited, I'd freeze and focus my attention just in time to hear "And now back to Afghanistan."

Other times, if the hallways were like ghost towns, doors wedged open by abandoned carts, not a houseman to be found, chances were the New Orleans Saints were playing. I'd start hitting the larger suites until I found the one room filled with twenty-five employees, some standing on the d.a.m.n bed, watching the Saints lose. Terrance would have suspended every single one of them. But me? I let the Saints finish the drive (in a punt) and then escorted them all out, making the last three to leave touch up the suite. Maybe it made me a weak manager, but I never felt disciplinary action was the best corrective. Not so long as the rooms were getting cleaned to standard. I walked in on hous.e.m.e.n and housekeepers banging each other and would break up f.u.c.k scenes like breaking up a fight: "All right, you two, separate. Jesus. Debra, nylons up. Finish this room quickly, please. The VP of Best Buy and her children are waiting in the lobby for it."

Perhaps I should have suspended or fired them, too. However, when I asked for something, a favor, it got handled. Terrance could ask them to bring up a cotton ball after their shift, and they'd refuse. I could ask them to strip the sheets out of thirty more rooms, and they'd do it quickly so we could all go get drinks together after work.

It was like a big-a.s.s family.

I showed up at the morning meetings and, every day, got to say h.e.l.lo to my friends. Most of the time, however, I worked the turndown shift. Turndown, or second service, is important to any true luxury property. That extra visit by the attendant while guests are out having dinner really underlines the luxury experience: they return to find the lights dimmed, radio on low, bed refreshed and cracked geometrically, of course with the G.o.dd.a.m.n pillow chocolates in place (in my apartment I kept three stolen boxes of turndown chocolate for my own, you know, personal use), and finally, masterfully, a fresh rose at the foot of the bed* (*fresh rose only available for VIP guests). I was responsible for personally visiting the VIP suites every evening to ensure second service had been done properly, that all the boxes were checked. Knocking on door after door after door. The first month I knocked until every single knuckle on both hands was rose red and sore as h.e.l.l, even my poor pinkie knuckles. After a month I learned to knock with a pen or my key card.

I also had celebrity interactions that, if you can believe it, I'd prefer not not to have had. Most of which (at least in the pages of this book) I won't go into (get me drunk = another story). But I will mention a certain cinematic director, lodged on the club level for a few nights, known for his rather dark, gothic tendencies. His name, though recognizable in context, is still rather common, so, when reviewing the VIP list, I figured it to have had. Most of which (at least in the pages of this book) I won't go into (get me drunk = another story). But I will mention a certain cinematic director, lodged on the club level for a few nights, known for his rather dark, gothic tendencies. His name, though recognizable in context, is still rather common, so, when reviewing the VIP list, I figured it might might be him but wasn't certain. I couldn't care less either way, but it was my job to knock on his door, hopefully finding the room vacant so I could slip in and check all the boxes on my list, most importantly ensuring the attendant had laid the VIP rose. I knocked, and, as commonly happens, the guest was there, at which point I simply inquired if he'd received turndown and if everything was satisfactory. be him but wasn't certain. I couldn't care less either way, but it was my job to knock on his door, hopefully finding the room vacant so I could slip in and check all the boxes on my list, most importantly ensuring the attendant had laid the VIP rose. I knocked, and, as commonly happens, the guest was there, at which point I simply inquired if he'd received turndown and if everything was satisfactory.

Turns out it actually was that director. He stared back at me blankly. Then he put on an arrogant, frankly derogatory smile and said, "Oh. Oh, I see. Yes, okay okay, everything is fine fine," and then closed the door in my face, taking that arrogant smirk along with him. I stood still a moment more, marking the room off my list, confused. What kind of reaction was that? Was that arrogant smirk directed at me? Then I figured it out. He a.s.sumed I was a fan, a fan who had devised some excuse to knock on his door just to meet him. I was just doing my job job (as I had been for the last twelve hours straight, on my feet, my knuckles bruised), and this arrogant p.r.i.c.k thought meeting him was my dream come true. (as I had been for the last twelve hours straight, on my feet, my knuckles bruised), and this arrogant p.r.i.c.k thought meeting him was my dream come true.

He can suck it. His movies are for dysfunctional trust-fund babies who turn fifteen and go goth. And now I've never seen another.

He wasn't the last celebrity who got all of his work removed from my Netflix queue. Another actor, famous during my teen years, spent a full month in the penthouse while filming a movie in the New Orleans area. Well, this actor calls up late one evening and asks for five more potpourri bowls. That's fine. The man digs the scent. However, the large silver potpourri bowls in the penthouse, about the size of a wok, are only in the top-floor luxury suites, and we didn't keep spares. So, since he was a VIP in the penthouse, I first removed the two big bowls from the unoccupied luxury suites. Then, in a move I might have seriously regretted, I knocked on the occupied occupied suites, far too late in the evening, and, finding the guests out for the night, stole the d.a.m.n things from the occupied rooms too. In truth, I did it for him. He'd been in some teen movies that meant suites, far too late in the evening, and, finding the guests out for the night, stole the d.a.m.n things from the occupied rooms too. In truth, I did it for him. He'd been in some teen movies that meant a lot a lot to to a lot a lot of people, me included. So I did it for him. I showed up with the five bowls, and when he cracked the door to take them inside and I tried to pa.s.s over the fresh bags of potpourri, he pushed the bags back at me and said he just wanted the silver bowls. Said he wanted to eat cereal out of them. of people, me included. So I did it for him. I showed up with the five bowls, and when he cracked the door to take them inside and I tried to pa.s.s over the fresh bags of potpourri, he pushed the bags back at me and said he just wanted the silver bowls. Said he wanted to eat cereal out of them.

Those G.o.dd.a.m.n bowls will hold a full box full box of cereal. And why'd he need five? What was that about? of cereal. And why'd he need five? What was that about?

I found out the following day: dude had problems. While running through the penthouse, making sure it had been cleaned to standard, I saw bags bags of pills, gallon Ziploc bags marked with every day of the week, enough pills in the Monday bag to actually of pills, gallon Ziploc bags marked with every day of the week, enough pills in the Monday bag to actually fill you up fill you up. The man was traveling with his "nutritionist" and eating bags of pills (on top of full boxes of cereal apparently, or maybe he filled the big bowls with pills, soaked them in soy milk, and, with spoon in hand, went at them like a maniac). This "nutritionist" (clearly I mean those quotes) actually called down to the concierge on his behalf, requesting that an acupuncturist, a voodoo doctor, and a chiropractor all be sent ASAP to the penthouse. Freak show.

But beyond compelling me to steal those bowls from occupied suites, he wasn't bothering anyone. At least not until the movie production extended and we had to inform him that, though he certainly could extend his reservation with us, the penthouse had already been booked for a night in the future and he would have to vacate for that single evening. First he refused. So we made it as clear to him as possible that yes, motherf.u.c.ker, it was reserved over a year ago and you you are moving. Finally comprehending that information, he demanded to be moved to a suite with a view of the Mississippi. There was another issue. All those suites were occupied for that night as well. Trying to solve his own problem, he informed us that his "nutritionist" would be moved to a lesser suite and he would occupy her river-view suite for the evening. That made it two rooms that were now moving. Then we realized when he said are moving. Finally comprehending that information, he demanded to be moved to a suite with a view of the Mississippi. There was another issue. All those suites were occupied for that night as well. Trying to solve his own problem, he informed us that his "nutritionist" would be moved to a lesser suite and he would occupy her river-view suite for the evening. That made it two rooms that were now moving. Then we realized when he said he would move he would move, he meant that we would move him we would move him, and not simply send up a bellman with a few carts. I had to gather a group of ten housekeepers to roll up there and move all his unpacked luggage. As I walked the crew of housekeepers down the hall, out he came, wearing a black baseball cap pulled over his eyes, basically creeping along the wall, past the army of ladies who were prepared to drag his underwear and oversized pill bags to the adjacent room, and he didn't even make eye contact, didn't even thank anyone, just hugged the wall with the hat over his eyes like a freak, as if we'd bother him for an autograph. a.s.shole. I'm still mad about it.

And I don't think his movies are funny anymore. Not even the cla.s.sic teen movies.

Anyway. How about a good celebrity story? I'm already feeling warmer inside. And this man is a star: Mr. H. I would like to start by saying that his first interaction with the staff involved calling down politely politely to the concierge desk with a single request. What did he ask for? An acupuncturist? A voodoo doctor? Big Ziploc bags? No. Scrabble. He wondered if someone could pick up a Scrabble set. And someone did. And he dropped a hundred-dollar bill on the desk in payment. That's already enough to love the man, but there is more. to the concierge desk with a single request. What did he ask for? An acupuncturist? A voodoo doctor? Big Ziploc bags? No. Scrabble. He wondered if someone could pick up a Scrabble set. And someone did. And he dropped a hundred-dollar bill on the desk in payment. That's already enough to love the man, but there is more.

As is often the case with the hospitality business, the company I was working for was a management company. In fact, that business model stretches all the way back to the origins of hostelries. There were even some innkeepers who paid the building owner a flat yearly fee to run a property, and any profits exceeding the fee and operational overhead went right into the innkeeper's old-school rough-sewn pockets. Sort of like paying rent on a barber chair, then all the tips and cut money goes right to the barber. But if the barber cuts hair like s.h.i.t and no customers sit down anymore, he still owes the rent. These days, owners, those who own the building itself, will enter into business with a hospitality company that manages the operations. In this specific case, our owner built himself a residential palace on the top floor: personal movie screening room, grand piano, fantastic, opulent. He was prepared for everything but the weather. You can only stay inside your palace for so long before you have to venture out into a sweltering Louisiana August afternoon. And no amount of wealth can keep that New Orleans sweat from pouring down the back of your neck and soaking your expensive clothes. So he threw together a mansion for himself in Boca, moved out, and let the hotel start renting out his residential palace.

That was where Mr. H. was staying. I ran into Nancy, the lady in charge of cleaning all of our luxury club-level suites, and asked her if she'd gotten around to the owner's apartment yet.

"Oh. Well, the man in there so nice, Mr. Tommy. So nice."

"Who? Mr. H.?"

"Whoever. Listen at this. I go in there to get it out the way early, being the biggest suite and everything. I start to cleaning, and this man comes out to say h.e.l.lo. First he offers me some food. I say no, and he asks me how long it usually takes to clean up the place. I told him little over an hour maybe. Guess what he made me do?"

"Mr. H.?"

"He made me sit right down for an hour. Wouldn't let me clean, just made me put my b.u.t.t down and rest rest. Gave me all kinds of food, and fruit too, but you know I don't eat no fruit."

"So he wanted you to relax instead of clean? That's f.u.c.king amazing!"

"For about a half hour he played on the piano for me, too. That was nice."

"Mr. H. played piano for you?"

"Whoever. He a nice man. Said to go on and skip his room this whole week."

"You've never seen any any of his movies? Come on, Nancy!! Mr. H. is the s.h.i.t!! Unbelievable!!" of his movies? Come on, Nancy!! Mr. H. is the s.h.i.t!! Unbelievable!!"

"You best calm yourself, Mr. Tommy. Getting all worked up. Listen...you gonna tell Terrance he refused service for the week? My points won't add up, and you know he'd toss me off my floors to make it up."

"Of course not. If Mr. H. wants you to take it easy, I do too. Don't mention it to anyone else, though, okay?"

"Mr. Tommy, you sweet. Now get on, I got rooms to clean."

I never told Terrance. In the housekeeping department rooms are worth points, and every housekeeper must clean a total number of points to keep the workload fair. Points are raised or lowered based on the size and difficulty of the room. The owner's penthouse was equal to more than half her board, so getting a week pa.s.s on that room ensured Nancy a nice, easy time of it.

These women fight hard for their regular set of rooms, which are referred to as "sections." Some of the more time-consuming portions of upkeep, such as dusting the baseboards and polishing the silver, need not be done daily, so keeping a steady section, keeping the same set of rooms, was a major concern. New hires would never get a solid section but rove around and pick up the uncovered rooms from ladies on vacation or ladies who had called in sick that day, bringing on the inevitable complaints that whatever b.i.t.c.h cleaned their section while they were out sick did a s.h.i.t job.

But doling out boards wasn't the biggest problem. Try doing the schedule for a staff of 150, most of whom have children with appointments, husbands with court dates, and all of whom want every holiday off. On top of that, I was responsible for purchasing: ordering all the supplies necessary to operate a hotel, from souvenir hotel pens to face towels to Kleenex to trash bags to Band-Aids to cleaning supplies to the big pink bags of liquid soap for the lobby bathrooms. All of these items were lined up on an intense ten-page Excel spreadsheet. I would cross-reference current storeroom supply with the speed at which each item was consumed for the month, tempered with the coming month's predicted predicted usage derived from the previous year's usage in order to get a perfect ordering schedule, which then must be handwritten on order forms and submitted to accounting. Christ. usage derived from the previous year's usage in order to get a perfect ordering schedule, which then must be handwritten on order forms and submitted to accounting. Christ.

Speaking of Christ, the easiest thing to order was the Bibles. Terrance a.s.signed me the task of ordering 250 more Bibles, and all it took was one phone call to the folks at Gideons International. I said we needed 250 more Good Books. They said they'd arrive next week at no cost. Running out of Bibles isn't really a problem, but you don't want to be the one who fails to order enough toilet paper. And all of those tasks must be completed after you have "turned" or "flipped" the hotel (meaning ensured that every room has been cleaned, with the exception of any "dropped" rooms, which are rooms left dirty overnight due to low occupancy coupled with low staffing), as well as executed turndown properly with no mistakes. Not to mention the front desk is constantly moving guests, causing rooms to fall into the "touch up" category, necessitating a visit from a manager or a housekeeper to verify the guests didn't use the toilet or smush out a quickie before they decided that room wasn't good enough for them.

I was exhausted exhausted. Working eleven-to-fifteen-hour days. My new suits were thinning on the knees from constantly kneeling on bathroom floors to search for "dark and curlies." I worked through holidays and once worked a full month without a day off. I was never home anymore, to the joy of my roommate. My drinking, which started so casually at front desk, had now become the only stress release I had. After wrapping up a fifteen-hour shift at 11:00 p.m., I didn't have time to watch television; instead, I'd just limp to the bar to get a bunch of whiskey inside me, then go home and get five hours of sleep before running the boards in the morning.

And then, late one evening, while I was interfacing with that infernal purchasing spreadsheet, the phone rang in my office. It was John, my old manager from the front desk.

"John, you calling from Cleveland?"

"h.e.l.l no, Tommy. I wasn't even there a month before they offered me another position in D.C., and now I'm in West Virginia. The company is opening a new property, and you are speaking to the rooms exec. You believe that?"

"I do, actually. Congratulations."

"So why I'm calling...I wondered if you wanted to come out here and work with me. Maybe run my front desk?"

"Front office manager?"