Heads In Beds Part 5

The first hotel was a Historic Hotels of America member. That meant it was unrenovated. And that meant it was beat to s.h.i.t. I was interviewed in a bas.e.m.e.nt office with a yellow flickering light.

Though the ad in the paper was not clear, it turned out to be a housekeeping manager position: running the boards every morning and all of that that mess. My lack of enthusiasm was, even in the b.u.t.tery flickering light, all over my face. I didn't want the job. The old man slowly administering the interview didn't seem to care if he filled the position either. mess. My lack of enthusiasm was, even in the b.u.t.tery flickering light, all over my face. I didn't want the job. The old man slowly administering the interview didn't seem to care if he filled the position either.

"Okay, son, the pay is not good. And it won't get better. But at least things aren't too serious here, you know? Long hours, though. You want the gig?"

No.

In fact, since neither of us seemed to give a s.h.i.t, I told him I couldn't be in at 7:00 every morning. Plus, I asked for five thousand more.

"But maybe I could roll in around 11:00 a.m.?"

"We can't even give you five dollars dollars more, son, and how do you plan to run the boards at eleven?" more, son, and how do you plan to run the boards at eleven?"

"So then...no?"

No.

Because it was for a larger hotel, the second interview was quite a bit more professional. I actually had my initial interview at the hotel's corporate office on First Avenue. It took place, strangely, in the building's large airy lobby, the walls covered in enormous, terrible pop art. I was interviewed by an insanely hyperactive Korean-American woman who couldn't stop smiling and talking and certainly couldn't stop shaking her crazy knee up and down as if voltage were tearing through it. We were sitting on a modern, almost abstract couch together, the sitting angles a bit too creative, which was awkward. After I dazzled her with my experience and dusted off my luxury phrases ("guest loyalty," "exceptional service," "empathize and react," "attention to detail," "Very. Easy," "blah blah bulls.h.i.t"), she cooed in delight and directed me to the hotel where I would be working.

I took the subway, then walked to Ninth Avenue, right near the heart of...(Lord Jesus Christ, protect me!) midtown. The hotel was two avenues west of Times Square, but two avenues weren't enough. Despite the winter weather, the sidewalks and delis were filled with tourists, cameras flopping, maps unfurled in the icy wind, bundled children attached to those human leashes, just an incredible hustle and bustle of visitors, surrounded on every side by the thousands of service industry employees necessary to keep this tourism machine churning. Either you were a tourist or you had a name tag; that was my first impression of midtown.

I walked into the warm lobby of the hotel, and before I asked for the HR department, I took a little stroll, cruising by the front desk to the right of the revolving doors. I noticed their uniforms were a bit shabby; some of the men's black suit coats were flat and shiny from years of washing. The whole environment was a little worn: The decor was dark brown marble and yellows, essentially the same color scheme as a microwavable meal of Salisbury steak with b.u.t.tered mashed potatoes. The couches were from the 1980s and sagging as if they were trying to take a nap. The front wall, which was the first thing you saw upon entering the lobby, had a large, silver-framed antique mirror hung too high to reflect anything but the dirty crown molding above the entrance behind you. Below the mirror, one tiny flower arrangement sat on a useless table. I saw the restaurant to the left (same frozen-dinner color scheme) almost vacant, though I a.s.sumed lunch would be in full swing. Walking past the front desk on the right, I found the elevator banks, and with the exception of a tiny hole in the wall that I thought was a coat check but turned out to be the concierge desk, three of them packed in there and banging shoulders like a bunch of windup toys in a small box, there was nothing else to the lobby. Front desk to the right of the entrance, front wall displaying flowers of about the same ma.s.s and quality I'd bring to a dinner party at a friend of a friend's co-worker's house, that crazy useless mirror, sleepy couches hoping to crack a leg and die, dead restaurant to the left, and, down a hallway past the desk, the elevators and concierge rat hole. That was it.

Nice.

Let's call the hotel, for various reasons soon to be obvious, the Bellevue Hotel.

Welcome to the Bellevue.

After my secret tour, everything accelerated into hyper-speed. They shuffled me through the system so fast I was p.i.s.sing into a drug-test cup before I asked exactly what position I had qualified for.

"Position? Oh, front desk. Already got a uniform suit for you, too. Last guy, well, he no longer lives in New York. He no longer lives, actually. Just kidding. Good news is he was just about your size. Any surprises with that drug test?"

"No, sir."

"You took one of those detox teas? Just messing with you. I hope you did, though. Anyway, okay, so, uh, what's the name on the name tag?"

So, what's the name on the name tag? It was like a warden asking me what number I wanted on my orange jumper. But I needed the money, and even though it was just a front desk gig, I couldn't believe the hourly they were offering. Not that I was incredibly surprised; the hotel business has a very compet.i.tive starting wage. If hotels didn't keep a high starting wage, they would have the same turnover as McDonald's. You'll notice McDonald's isn't really known for customer service. You have to pay a little more if you expect someone to train properly, stick around, care at all at all, and, you know, not sort through luggage looking for iPods to steal.

So, what was the name on the name tag? It was time for a change.

"Employee X958B27."

"What?"

"Tom."

"Oh, Tom. T...O...M. Got it."

I looked at my new boss ("Same as the old boss." -The Who), and he looked at me.

"Well...welcome aboard."

Does every new boss in every new job say this? Or just hotel gigs? Welcome aboard. As if getting hired were similar to stepping onto a yacht, which it isn't (unless you're boarding the yacht to clean the toilets).

Well, I was aboard. Three months of searching for any other kind of profession and nothing. After I broke down, it took forty-eight hours before someone was already carving me a name tag in the hotel business. Fine. Whatever. Sure. Fine. Whatever. I needed to make rent. Whatever. Thanks, New York.

Jyll was actually disappointed. I believe she wanted to keep my deposit and have her ridiculously dressed boyfriend move in.

After getting the job, I stayed up all night pounding Coors after Coors and staring out the window again, waiting for day to break. I was so far from everyone I'd ever known. My family was scattered across the country. My friends, all those I left behind, perhaps no longer retained a memory of our acquaintance. Only a handful of people in New Orleans would remain my friends, and certainly, as I sank into this city, they might soon forget me. Now here I was, drinking alone in an apartment with three strangers who only wanted my rent and my absence. I stayed awake until the sky above the city grew felt gray before locking myself in my bedroom to sleep the entire day away. I had to. I started my overnight shift that night.

There I was, name-tagged up again, pinned down, literally. It's standard procedure to start on the overnight shift and work your way up. Even beyond the fact that most people can't stand working the graveyard shift, so the new hire must slug it out until there is a change in the regiment above (a.k.a. someone gets fired), it also happens to be an ideal shift to train on. The desk is dead. Plenty of time to struggle with the new system and be ignorant about your own property. People don't expect crazy quality from front desk agents at 3:00 a.m. They just expect them not to be totally crazy.

So I set myself to the task of learning a new property, getting a headache from the new PMS (forgive me), and locking down the answers to the questions I was going to be asked over and over and over again, beginning at the beginning. For example: "Where is the bathroom?" Well, where the h.e.l.l is the bathroom? What are the gym hours, cost of continental breakfast, do we have the Golf Channel, how does one dial out internationally, where the f.u.c.k are the ice machines, how do I lock the in-room safe, who makes our pillows because they are fabulous fabulous, how do you get rid of the blinking light on the phone, where is the closest place to buy cuff links, what's the fax number, is the room available that has the tub and two twin beds facing north at the end of the hall with double sinks in the bathroom and one of the desks against the window so you can look out over the Hudson River while you surf p.o.r.n on the free wireless? I'm sorry, sir, that room is a fantasy that only exists in your frequent-traveler brain. And wireless is not free, it's $9.95 for a twenty-four-hour period.

While getting up to speed on the system and hotel info, I was also going slightly mental. Living the vampire lifestyle is taxing in more ways than you can imagine. You can't sleep properly, you can't eat properly, you can't even get drunk properly. It is quite possible to spend week after week being confused confused. Just generally bewildered bewildered, as if you took a blow to the head. But some people love the graveyard shift. That's what a property really wants, dedicated overnight agents. Maybe the agents are going to school during the day and can't afford to miss cla.s.ses. Maybe they have children, and working overnight alleviates the need for babysitters (though husband and wife never see each other). Maybe they are just crazy, scary, freaky night people. Whatever their reason, they are a G.o.dsend to any hotel. Most commonly, hotels get stuck with an agent who is forced into the shift and always calls in sick on the Friday overnight, causing the poor Friday late shift to stay and cover (the Friday late shift being just slightly more desirable than overnight and usually an agent's next rung on the shift ladder).

I was dependable, though. Always on time, I clocked in at 11:00 every night (even getting in a little early on Fridays to relieve the evening desk workers; those guys are ready to get the h.e.l.l out as fast as possible). I wavered behind my terminal, bewildered, bracing myself on the desk at 2:00 a.m., splashing water on my face at 3:00 a.m., eating a chocolate bar and drinking a Red Bull at 4:00 a.m., popping into the back office to slap myself hard hard in the in the face face at 5:00 a.m., greeting the early-riser guests and beginning to check out rooms at 6:00 a.m., my mouth tasting like the smell coming from the wilting and unchanged flower display at 6:05 a.m., counting the minutes at 6:06 a.m., feeling as if I've ruined my whole life at 6:21 a.m., dreaming about dreaming at 6:32 a.m., squinting with hatred at the sun sliding into the lobby at 6:43 a.m., thinking about absolutely nothing, my head sort of rolling around, eyes twitching and staring down the hallway at 6:51 a.m., at the end of which, next to the elevators, is the door that leads to the employee locker rooms, where my relief, hopefully, is on time and changing into uniform, then stumbling downstairs at 7:01 a.m. and fighting with everything I have, mustering all the strength and stamina and intelligence left in my sizzled brain, focusing and concentrating on one solitary task, determined not to let it break me-untying the double knot on my right dress shoe, which always seems to get stuck, picking at the knot with blurry fingers that seem to be made of string-then taking the train home to lie in my bed, the bed I've been absolutely fantasizing about all night, only to find the sun painting yellow neon on my closed eyelids and my body waking up for some reason, wanting now to move and be active, but I put a pillow over my face and take deep, deep breaths until I fall into a hot, twitchy sleep that lasts no more than three hours. at 5:00 a.m., greeting the early-riser guests and beginning to check out rooms at 6:00 a.m., my mouth tasting like the smell coming from the wilting and unchanged flower display at 6:05 a.m., counting the minutes at 6:06 a.m., feeling as if I've ruined my whole life at 6:21 a.m., dreaming about dreaming at 6:32 a.m., squinting with hatred at the sun sliding into the lobby at 6:43 a.m., thinking about absolutely nothing, my head sort of rolling around, eyes twitching and staring down the hallway at 6:51 a.m., at the end of which, next to the elevators, is the door that leads to the employee locker rooms, where my relief, hopefully, is on time and changing into uniform, then stumbling downstairs at 7:01 a.m. and fighting with everything I have, mustering all the strength and stamina and intelligence left in my sizzled brain, focusing and concentrating on one solitary task, determined not to let it break me-untying the double knot on my right dress shoe, which always seems to get stuck, picking at the knot with blurry fingers that seem to be made of string-then taking the train home to lie in my bed, the bed I've been absolutely fantasizing about all night, only to find the sun painting yellow neon on my closed eyelids and my body waking up for some reason, wanting now to move and be active, but I put a pillow over my face and take deep, deep breaths until I fall into a hot, twitchy sleep that lasts no more than three hours.

I might have been confused (all the time), but I could already tell something was wrong with the overnight manager. His name was Julio, and though the policy in almost every hotel is to remain clean shaven (with the exception, absurdly, of allowing mustaches), he kept it Latin-style scruffy. I also noticed, during certain interactions with late-night guests, he would throw me a cautious look and then escort them to a saggy couch to finish discussing his business in private. These were guests who paid cash, guests who were accompanied by prost.i.tutes or who would be shortly once they wrapped up this shady business deal with Julio. We talked very little (his choice), and he was often absent from the lobby for hours at a time.

There was definitely something wrong with the overnight bellman. But his something wrong I liked. He was flat-out manic and, as if he were born for this shift, full of energy. I don't know what his fuel was. It seemed like cocaine. But it wasn't. He was clean. His name was Filipe, but everyone called him El Salvaje El Salvaje (the Savage). Even his hair, black and wild, had too much energy. Most of the time he expended his energy lamenting the Mets and attacking the desk and marble walls with huge shoulder checks, constantly in need of releasing the gigantic surplus of frantic energy he was packed with. We got along extremely well. If I was dealing with drunk guests who were slurring and swaying (most guests who drop by the desk after 2:00 a.m. are drunk), (the Savage). Even his hair, black and wild, had too much energy. Most of the time he expended his energy lamenting the Mets and attacking the desk and marble walls with huge shoulder checks, constantly in need of releasing the gigantic surplus of frantic energy he was packed with. We got along extremely well. If I was dealing with drunk guests who were slurring and swaying (most guests who drop by the desk after 2:00 a.m. are drunk), El Salvaje El Salvaje would come behind them and do a mock impression, wiping his mouth and rocking side to side to match their rhythm. Usually, I could hold it together, meaning refrain from laughing right in the guests' faces, and finish the transaction. Not to mention drunk guests aren't particularly aware of what's taking place before them, much less behind their backs. would come behind them and do a mock impression, wiping his mouth and rocking side to side to match their rhythm. Usually, I could hold it together, meaning refrain from laughing right in the guests' faces, and finish the transaction. Not to mention drunk guests aren't particularly aware of what's taking place before them, much less behind their backs.

Though once, dealing not with an intoxicated guest but with a German traveler who took the red-eye, I lost it. In this particular situation the gentleman had failed to book his reservation correctly for his purposes. He arrived, exhausted, around 4:00 a.m. and found no room available for him. So he started to scream at me.

Before describing the circ.u.mstances that caused me to laugh in this poor man's face, I should explain a bit about what generally happens to a hotel system when today today becomes becomes tomorrow tomorrow.

Somewhere around 2:00 a.m. the front desk will temporarily shut down the PMS and then "flip the system." Once the PMS is back up, three things have happened. One: the system will now reflect tomorrow's date. Two: all occupied reservations will have been auto-charged the room and tax. Three: all unclaimed reservations due to arrive earlier that night will be canceled and marked as a no-show.

If one plans to arrive after 3:00 a.m. and expect a room (as was the case with my exhausted German traveler), there are several things to know. The only way to absolutely guarantee that you will have a fresh, clean room waiting for you after a red-eye is to book it for the night before. Period. What's more, unless you want to be considered a no-show, you will also need to ensure that your reservation is pre-registered, or pre-reged, meaning checked in prior to your arrival. This is accomplished by you (or, you know, your a.s.sistant) calling in advance and informing us of the situation. The hotel will check you in the night before to a VC (or Vacant Clean, as opposed to VD, Vacant Dirty) room and add the term "pre-reged" after your name in the system. Though you are arriving early in the morning, you will be charged the previous night's room and tax, charged for the privilege of having a room waiting for you.

My German guest got it all wrong. He booked it for Sat.u.r.day, which was, technically, the date he would arrive. Unfortunately (for both of us), we had no room available that early in the morning. Essentially, he was eleven hours early for his Sat.u.r.day check-in. This made him, well, angry. Irate. He started making these sharp hand-chop movements while spitting out threats, trying to convince me I was in the wrong, the hotel was in the wrong. El Salvaje El Salvaje, hearing the commotion from the back office, popped out his wild finger-in-the-socket head of hair and then crept up behind the guest, who was loudly letting me have it. From behind this man's frame El Salvaje El Salvaje kept leaning over and popping his head out from one side, then the other, his elbows out, like some sort of synchronized dance. That was fine. I could handle that move. But when he started popping out and rotating his fists at the corner of each eye, making the international sign for crybaby, then, well, my mouth kind of exploded. I laughed so hard and so unexpectedly that spittle flew at the guest, my lips buzzed trying to hold it in, and I bent over, grabbing at my mouth. Having no plan for this kind of situation, I ran off the desk, pushing quickly through the door into the back office to calm myself. kept leaning over and popping his head out from one side, then the other, his elbows out, like some sort of synchronized dance. That was fine. I could handle that move. But when he started popping out and rotating his fists at the corner of each eye, making the international sign for crybaby, then, well, my mouth kind of exploded. I laughed so hard and so unexpectedly that spittle flew at the guest, my lips buzzed trying to hold it in, and I bent over, grabbing at my mouth. Having no plan for this kind of situation, I ran off the desk, pushing quickly through the door into the back office to calm myself.

I could now hear him speaking to El Salvaje El Salvaje, and clearly he picked up on the fact that what had happened was not an explosion of illness but instead violent and unexpected laughter, and certainly at his expense. We called the manager on his cell phone, something I had rarely done, and Julio came down c.o.ked to the gills. I mean, he must have taken two fat rails immediately before rushing down to the lobby from whatever housekeeping storage closet he was partying in. The guest's anger was, in an unexpected way, no match for Julio's nonstop talking-jag energy, his accelerated apologies and tweaky explanations. Julio, in a rather brilliant move, scanned the in-house list (as in the list of rooms already checked in) for a reservation with the "pre-reg" tag, as I mentioned before. Finding one, he checked that guest out, who was only "due to arrive," and quickly, raining a downpour of heavy c.o.ke-fueled typing into the keyboard, checked the German guest into the now Vacant Clean suite and sent him on his way. Julio turned to us, his face jumping around like an agitated bunny, and then hopped off again, heading to the elevators without a word. A brilliant move, though. That is unless the pre-reged guest who had his room stolen arrived before housekeeping had time to come in and flip another room for him. Which, of course, he did. To deal with that situation, Julio simply lied to the guest, said that his reservation had been made for the previous night but, since there was no indication that he was arriving the following morning, it had been canceled and sold to a walk-in arrival at 5:00 a.m. The guest cursed his poor a.s.sistant, who'd actually done her job properly, and apologized for his att.i.tude. Julio bought him breakfast, and the guest wandered off way more pleased with the hotel than he should have been. And we made it through another G.o.dd.a.m.n night.

Early-morning arrivals don't always have to be so complicated. My advice, after seeing it all play out a thousand times, is this: If you simply must must have a room at 7:00 a.m., then you have a room at 7:00 a.m., then you must must book the night before and pre-register yourself. However, if you want to take a risk and possibly save an entire night's room and tax, call the property and find out the occupancy for the night before. If the hotel is running at 65 percent, then 35 percent of the rooms might be Vacant Clean and ready to check in, even at 4:00 or 5:00 a.m. (excluding those rooms that have been "dropped" and left dirty). Therefore, if the occupancy is low the night before, you can potentially roll on up and have an insanely early check-in. Requesting early arrival isn't enough. The book the night before and pre-register yourself. However, if you want to take a risk and possibly save an entire night's room and tax, call the property and find out the occupancy for the night before. If the hotel is running at 65 percent, then 35 percent of the rooms might be Vacant Clean and ready to check in, even at 4:00 or 5:00 a.m. (excluding those rooms that have been "dropped" and left dirty). Therefore, if the occupancy is low the night before, you can potentially roll on up and have an insanely early check-in. Requesting early arrival isn't enough. The best possible move best possible move is to call the property directly the morning you're scheduled to arrive and let the agent know you are on your way. Tell the hotel 7:00 a.m., even if you know your train doesn't hit Penn Station till 11:00 a.m., and ask to be pre-reged into a Vacant Clean suite. If the hotel has it sitting there and you call for it, it will be pre-reged and waiting for you when you arrive. Even if you have to call from the airport at 6:00 a.m. before you even is to call the property directly the morning you're scheduled to arrive and let the agent know you are on your way. Tell the hotel 7:00 a.m., even if you know your train doesn't hit Penn Station till 11:00 a.m., and ask to be pre-reged into a Vacant Clean suite. If the hotel has it sitting there and you call for it, it will be pre-reged and waiting for you when you arrive. Even if you have to call from the airport at 6:00 a.m. before you even board the plane board the plane and ask to be pre-reged, it's your best possible a.s.surance that when you roll into the lobby and everyone in front of you is getting their luggage stored and waiting for an afternoon check-in, your reservation will have been checked in and waiting since 6:00 a.m. and ask to be pre-reged, it's your best possible a.s.surance that when you roll into the lobby and everyone in front of you is getting their luggage stored and waiting for an afternoon check-in, your reservation will have been checked in and waiting since 6:00 a.m.

Two nights after the German debacle, I came into work, pa.s.sing through security on my way to change for a shift, and both security guards were staring at the monitors, too engrossed to even throw me a glance. This isn't particularly unusual, because there can be some high-quality viewing material on those monitors. I've since seen tapes of midnight s.e.x sessions in the public business center, two guests getting oral on top of the pay-to-play fax machine. I've seen footage of close-packed fistfights in a rising elevator (fights in an elevator are incredibly confined and extremely interesting to watch, especially if there are unrelated people along for the ride, backs pushed against the wall and hands protectively raised before their faces). And, of course, drunk guests staggering down a hallway and bouncing from wall to wall like a bowling ball thrown down a lane with gutter b.u.mpers. The video they were replaying that night was very similar to the last situation; however, it wasn't a guest. It was Julio the manager. He was walking crookedly down a hallway, his arms cradled against his chest, hands full of something.

"What's he got there?"

"Look at this this motherf.u.c.ker. Those are minibar bottles, Tom. What a moron. Keep watching, though, keep watching. It gets better." motherf.u.c.ker. Those are minibar bottles, Tom. What a moron. Keep watching, though, keep watching. It gets better."

Julio ran his shoulders along the wall, bouncing off door moldings, until he reached the emergency stairs and pushed the door open.

"Okay, okay. Now we cue up the other camera on this monitor. Check it out, check it out."

On a second monitor, filming the stairwell, the video looked frozen or paused until the door to the hallway pushed open and Julio walked through, bending down to set the minibar bottles against the wall and take a seat on the stairs. Leonard, the overnight security guard who was queuing up the videos, put it into fast-forward, creating a comical little vignette of Julio drinking bottle after bottle at hyper-speed, his head bouncing up and down like a bobble head. The whole scene looked sort of jolly until he slowed it back down to normal speed and I saw immediately just how depressing it actually was.

"Here he go. Here he go."

Julio lifted himself up, spilling and rolling minibar bottles everywhere, used a palm to brace himself against the wall, and started urinating on, actually on on, the stairs.

"What!? Are you kidding me?"

"Believe that? Look, look look, it's rolling back down onto his own shoes his own shoes. What a dumb, crazy, nasty nasty motherf.u.c.ker." motherf.u.c.ker."

Let me take a moment here: Coming from a true luxury hotel in New Orleans, I was certainly not used to this not used to this. I was shocked. What in Cesar Ritz's name was going on here? Was it like this everywhere in New York? Or was this hotel just cursed? It was interesting, no doubt, but I kept reminding myself that I wasn't a part of this. I wasn't a part of this. I was just picking up checks until I could pay off my debts, get a little money in savings, and then look for other work elsewhere. I also promised myself I would keep up the high standards I'd been raised on. This hotel might be filled with criminals and drug addicts, but that didn't mean I had to stop saying "my pleasure," "good evening," and slopping out incredible service.

Despite my dedication to excellence, though, when management wasn't looking, I did tend to enjoy myself a little more than proper, and during the overnight shifts management was never looking. For three nights in a row, El Salvaje El Salvaje and I had taken a geriatric power scooter, on hold for a guest arriving next week, up to the sales office hallways on our 3:00 a.m. break. After attaching a rolling office chair to the back of the scooter, tied to it with a bedsheet, and I had taken a geriatric power scooter, on hold for a guest arriving next week, up to the sales office hallways on our 3:00 a.m. break. After attaching a rolling office chair to the back of the scooter, tied to it with a bedsheet, El Salvaje El Salvaje and I would take turns gunning the life out of the scooter and dragging each other behind on the rolling chair, careening around corners, slamming into walls, and inevitably smashing into the back of the scooter after a hard stop. At least and I would take turns gunning the life out of the scooter and dragging each other behind on the rolling chair, careening around corners, slamming into walls, and inevitably smashing into the back of the scooter after a hard stop. At least El Salvaje El Salvaje's hair acted as a helmet. I was going raw.

We would have had a fourth night of action if Julio hadn't p.i.s.sed all over his own shoes. But that night we had a new manager. The hotel shifted one of the day managers to cover until a replacement could be found.

"Who the f.u.c.k are you?" he asked me, as a sort of h.e.l.lo.

"I'm Tom," I said, tapping at my name tag.

"f.u.c.king new guy. Listen to me, FNG, run the reports and flip this b.i.t.c.h into tomorrow. Something explodes, call me in room 1402. I'm gonna throw a juke, watch SportsCenter SportsCenter, and pa.s.s out. This is bulls.h.i.t."

I didn't even know what throwing a juke meant (now I know it's not performed while watching SportsCenter SportsCenter, oh no). And nothing ever exploded. Just a few "late night" women limping out of the hotel, exhausted looking, avoiding eye contact with everyone, and hurrying back out into the streets.

Like milk and cereal: wh.o.r.es and hotels.

William Faulkner, in his 1956 Paris Review Paris Review interview, stated: "The best job that was ever offered to me was to become a landlord in a brothel. In my opinion it's the perfect milieu for an artist to work in. It gives him perfect economic freedom; he's free of fear and hunger; he has a roof over his head and nothing whatever to do...The place is quiet during the morning hours, which is the best time of the day to work. There's enough social life in the evening, if he wishes to partic.i.p.ate, to keep him from being bored; it gives him a certain standing in his society." interview, stated: "The best job that was ever offered to me was to become a landlord in a brothel. In my opinion it's the perfect milieu for an artist to work in. It gives him perfect economic freedom; he's free of fear and hunger; he has a roof over his head and nothing whatever to do...The place is quiet during the morning hours, which is the best time of the day to work. There's enough social life in the evening, if he wishes to partic.i.p.ate, to keep him from being bored; it gives him a certain standing in his society."

Hotels are the brothels of today. You rent a bed, and you're allotted a certain amount of hours. But now it's just BYOW (the W W stands for "prost.i.tute"). And there I was, the midnight landlord, watching the c.u.mings and goings. The whole process is amazingly discreet. There are women who stands for "prost.i.tute"). And there I was, the midnight landlord, watching the c.u.mings and goings. The whole process is amazingly discreet. There are women who look look like prost.i.tutes but are like prost.i.tutes but are not not (they are actually gold diggers). And there are women who look like business execs; however, beneath that beige, it's all black lace. Professionals never stop by the desk, or at least they shouldn't. I see them strut into the lobby already glancing at their cell phones, referencing the only piece of info they need: a room number. Then they look up, and there I am, the landlord, throwing a finger to indicate the elevator banks. Off she goes. (they are actually gold diggers). And there are women who look like business execs; however, beneath that beige, it's all black lace. Professionals never stop by the desk, or at least they shouldn't. I see them strut into the lobby already glancing at their cell phones, referencing the only piece of info they need: a room number. Then they look up, and there I am, the landlord, throwing a finger to indicate the elevator banks. Off she goes.

One particularly busy Friday night, women constantly streaming in and out of the hotel, I took a few notes, cataloging the attire and times of arrival so I could cross-check them with the time of departure and then estimate length of service. But, you see, again, you never know. Some people rent a woman just to talk. Some of them could be married women stopping by to see their lovers. You never really know, and, believe me, never really knowing is how everyone wants it everyone wants it.

Faulkner wasn't the only writer to man a front desk, bordello or otherwise. Nathanael West worked the overnight shift at a failing Manhattan hotel while completing Miss Lonelyhearts Miss Lonelyhearts and even offered up free lodging to his writer friends, like Dashiell Hammett and Edmund Wilson. In return they helped promote his work, providing blurbs in lieu of paying room and tax. That was the 1930s, though. On my overnights I wasn't even allowed to offer and even offered up free lodging to his writer friends, like Dashiell Hammett and Edmund Wilson. In return they helped promote his work, providing blurbs in lieu of paying room and tax. That was the 1930s, though. On my overnights I wasn't even allowed to offer myself myself a G.o.dd.a.m.n a G.o.dd.a.m.n stool stool to sit on. to sit on.

Two months on the graveyard shift and one night an Ecuadorian comes in and stands next to me, wearing the same uniform suit, same uniform tie.

"Who are you?"

"Hector," he said, taking off his name tag and putting it on the desk in front of us. We both looked down at it.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm jew. Jew going to deys, mang."

"I'm going to the day shift?"

"Jew didn't know? They never tell people s.h.i.t, mang. It's like the f.u.c.king army."

The bellmen were the first to intimidate.

"Listen very closely to me, FNG. I see you handing guests their own keys, I'll stab you. I hear you asking them if they need help with their luggage, I'll stab you. You don't ask them s.h.i.t. You call 'front' and hand the keys to a bellman. Let them tell me to my face they can take their own luggage and my baby girl has to starve. I catch you you handing them keys, I figure handing them keys, I figure you're you're the one who wants my baby girl to starve. In which case I will find out what train you take home and collapse your throat as soon as you step into your borough." the one who wants my baby girl to starve. In which case I will find out what train you take home and collapse your throat as soon as you step into your borough."

New York pep talk number two! The first, from my roommate in Brooklyn, promising to throw me out if I didn't make rent, seemed like a pillow fight in comparison. Jyll's verbal "encouragement," which forced me to unwillingly reinsert myself into the hotel business, had, in turn, led me to this this pep talk, administered by a bellman exactly one minute into my first evening shift. Three of them had pulled me to a corner of the lobby, and while the pack leader gave me the rundown, the others stood at each flank and nodded in affirmation. The head of the triangle, according to his name tag, was Ben. Ben the bellman. I know now he was just trying to be helpful. pep talk, administered by a bellman exactly one minute into my first evening shift. Three of them had pulled me to a corner of the lobby, and while the pack leader gave me the rundown, the others stood at each flank and nodded in affirmation. The head of the triangle, according to his name tag, was Ben. Ben the bellman. I know now he was just trying to be helpful.

"I hope for your sake you don't f.u.c.k this up," he concluded and all three dispersed.

That's how I was welcomed to my new 4:00 p.m. to midnight schedule, the evening shift, the major leagues, the show. The overnight shifts had been a sobering return to the business: the echoing emptiness of a 3:00 a.m. lobby, layered by the low drone of a vacuum, punctuated by the rattling cough of a hooker returning to the streets and the sound of my own thoughts as I stood behind a front desk again, alone for eight hours.

Alone no more. I returned to the desk, a little off balance from the attack, weaving my way through a line of waiting guests. No one had "a.s.signed" me to someone or asked me to "shadow an agent" as they had in New Orleans. In New York, management didn't even bother to check and see if I showed up.

But once I was on deck, logged in, and ready to work, I calmed down. After all, I'm a veteran desk jockey: I can sling keys like a motherf.u.c.ker.

It was immediately clear that one factor was of the utmost importance in this new environment: SPEED. In New Orleans, it was like living in syrup; no one was in a rush. The pace of a Manhattan evening shift is four finger lines of cocaine dumped into a five-hour energy drink. After a week of shifts I began to triple and quadruple task. I realized that while the credit card (or CC, we don't even have time to say "credit card") is authorizing, it's best to utilize those five seconds to write the room number on the key packet, confirm the rate, or start running down the list of mandatory information I was responsible for covering during every check-in process. In New Orleans, the one thing I might utilize a whole five seconds to do utilize a whole five seconds to do was, maybe: Take another sip of my Heineken? Or smile for Christ's sake? You stand on the island of Manhattan and smile while the CC is authorizing, just waiting around for five seconds smiling? That makes you a moron. was, maybe: Take another sip of my Heineken? Or smile for Christ's sake? You stand on the island of Manhattan and smile while the CC is authorizing, just waiting around for five seconds smiling? That makes you a moron.

The evening shift also acquainted me with the Bellevue's place in the Manhattan hotel scene. It had a good reputation. Unfortunately, that reputation was ten years old. We had a few working-cla.s.s celebrities, nice guys like Tony Danza who stuck it out Bellevue-style because the bellmen here weren't afraid to scream, "Ayo, Toneee," when he would swagger into the lobby and, you could tell, Danza loved that loved that s.h.i.t s.h.i.t. Business travel put a lot of heads in beds too, and the clientele was extremely international. Truly a fresh joy of the New York hotel business, something not present in New Orleans, was the multiculturalism: Australians who flew in from South Africa to take the Queen Mary Queen Mary to England. Jews from Catalonia who needed a non-Jewish escort for Shabbat: someone to press the elevator b.u.t.ton, open the electronic door lock, and maybe, just maybe, turn on to England. Jews from Catalonia who needed a non-Jewish escort for Shabbat: someone to press the elevator b.u.t.ton, open the electronic door lock, and maybe, just maybe, turn on SportsCenter SportsCenter before inching back out of that holy hotel room. As well as a huge j.a.panese clientele who all wanted two twin beds to avoid sleeping next to their wives, bathtubs, and ample s.p.a.ce to bow. (The average j.a.panese businessman bows more than five hundred times a day. He even bows on the phone.) before inching back out of that holy hotel room. As well as a huge j.a.panese clientele who all wanted two twin beds to avoid sleeping next to their wives, bathtubs, and ample s.p.a.ce to bow. (The average j.a.panese businessman bows more than five hundred times a day. He even bows on the phone.) And it just kept coming with these d.a.m.n bellmen. Well after my two-week anniversary on the evening shift, they continued to rattle me: at least twice a day I had to dramatically jump out of a bellman's rolling luggage path to avoid getting a Samsonite to the b.a.l.l.s. But as time pa.s.sed, I grew sympathetic to their plight.

Nature's bellman: an anachronistic, virtually obsolete animal. People drag their luggage through their own house, down the driveway, into their car, up to the airline desk, off the luggage carousel, into the back of a taxi, through the revolving doors, up to the desk, and now, an anachronistic, virtually obsolete animal. People drag their luggage through their own house, down the driveway, into their car, up to the airline desk, off the luggage carousel, into the back of a taxi, through the revolving doors, up to the desk, and now, now now some guy with a crew cut wants to help? You've taken it twenty-five hundred miles, and this dude wearing gloves wants to jump in for the last twenty feet and get tipped for it? "No thanks, I don't need any help." some guy with a crew cut wants to help? You've taken it twenty-five hundred miles, and this dude wearing gloves wants to jump in for the last twenty feet and get tipped for it? "No thanks, I don't need any help."

Hence Ben the bellman's "I hope for your sake you don't f.u.c.k this up" speech. Now, the princess of Abu Dhabi, she has a fourteen-piece luggage set, more bags than her well-dressed bodyguards can handle...she'll need some help. I'm not saying she's going to tip, but she'll need some help. And so will the family of seven who all brought their own pillows. (In case you didn't know: hotels provide pillows. It's a standard hotel worker pet peeve to see BYOP guests. This is a hotel, not summer camp.) However, the other 98 percent of travelers would gladly refuse help, and a bellman cannot survive with a 2 percent kill ratio. Therefore, as I learned at my new perch, he uses two tools to maximize his percentage: guilt and fear. If I ask the guests "Do you want help?" the answer's going to be no. Every time: no. But if I signal a bellman silently or with the code word "front," put the keys into his hand, and then lay a strong declarative sentence on the guests, such as "The bellman will take you to your room," the kill ratio goes way up. You can see the guilt and fear well up in their eyes. They feel cheap about not taking the help, and they are terrified of telling the bellman (who has their keys in one hand and the other aggressively gripping their luggage) that they can do it themselves. Often they were so afraid of the bellman they would turn to me me and say, "Um, you know, it's okay really, I can take it." I love that. A real "Please, sir, please!! Call off your dogs!!!" moment. I'll benevolently nod at the bellman, and he'll relinquish his hold on the guest's throat and sink back into the woods to wait for another kill. I actually invented the mind-controlling declarative sentence and later added, "This is my good friend, Ben. Ben will take you to your room," bringing the bellman's life into reality, and hence bringing the guilt to the next level. Eventually, I began to throw in "This is my good friend Ben, G.o.dfather to my child and confidant to my wife," but only if they were real-deal j.a.panese and wouldn't understand a word I was saying anyway. But Ben grew to love that line. It won't get him a "front," but it sounds so d.a.m.n suspicious we can't get enough of it. and say, "Um, you know, it's okay really, I can take it." I love that. A real "Please, sir, please!! Call off your dogs!!!" moment. I'll benevolently nod at the bellman, and he'll relinquish his hold on the guest's throat and sink back into the woods to wait for another kill. I actually invented the mind-controlling declarative sentence and later added, "This is my good friend, Ben. Ben will take you to your room," bringing the bellman's life into reality, and hence bringing the guilt to the next level. Eventually, I began to throw in "This is my good friend Ben, G.o.dfather to my child and confidant to my wife," but only if they were real-deal j.a.panese and wouldn't understand a word I was saying anyway. But Ben grew to love that line. It won't get him a "front," but it sounds so d.a.m.n suspicious we can't get enough of it. Confidant to my wife Confidant to my wife.

Now, the doormen, they get to touch every bag. The cabbies pop the trunk right when they pull up. Hence, the car isn't even in park before the doorman has touched your personals, like it or not. If he just applies a little guilt and fear, you'll pay him to stop uncomfortably lurking just outside your personal s.p.a.ce. Bellmen have to do a lot more hunting.

It's a tough world out there. Am I suggesting you always take help and always tip? Yes. I suggest you do that. However, in reality, there are times when guests don't want to be escorted by a gloved chatterbox. Maybe your life is falling apart, and you've no interest in telling a stranger "where you came in from." The best way to get back the keys to your room (and your freedom) from "the gloved hand" is to say, "I can go up alone, but thanks anyways." "No thank you, but I appreciate it." "I think I would rather just go up alone, if that's okay."

Of course it's okay. Just be polite about it. I even once saw a guest tell a bellman, "No worries, but thank you," and still give him two dollars, just for not not helping. The rest of his stay that guy was famous. Like a guru. There goes that guy who gave Ben two dollars because he didn't need the help. It was almost more effective than if he had taken the help and dropped a twenty in the room. helping. The rest of his stay that guy was famous. Like a guru. There goes that guy who gave Ben two dollars because he didn't need the help. It was almost more effective than if he had taken the help and dropped a twenty in the room.

Unfortunately, it wasn't just the bellmen and the doormen I had to contend with: the Bellevue's regular guests were giving me the business as well. I had opened the hotel in New Orleans: we all started together from the beginning, both guests and employees. At the Bell it would take me years before I knew as much about the hotel as some of the guests. Mr. Sandbourg, who'd stayed here three nights a week for fifteen years running, had no patience for the new guy pretending to know about the hotel. Sandbourg has stayed in every room, literally every room literally every room, and eventually I took to listing room numbers, offering potential options for his current stay, and letting him shake them off like a pitcher on the mound. Room 1503? No. Room 702? No. Room 4104? No. How about a G.o.dd.a.m.n fastball?

Another frequent guest refused to stay in any room where the digits didn't add up to nine. It said that on his profile: "Room digits must add up to nine." That meant I had to do math. If I had maff skillz, I wouldn't be a key monkey, so...this was difficult for me. Plus, he's a light sleeper (one of many psychological problems, I'm guessing), which means nothing close to the elevator. Room 1503? Room 702? Room 4104? Curveball?

My new co-workers often tried to help me out, warning me about our guests' idiosyncrasies, oftentimes right in front of the guest. Kayla, an early-thirties Colombian with wonderful black curly hair, called me over to her terminal during a particularly difficult check-in, saying, "Hey, Tom, come see if you want to give her this room." Her manicured index finger was indicating the s.p.a.ce where you enter and search for a guest name. On the screen she had typed: "Don't sweat this hag, she only complains at the desk, tell her you love this room, any room, and get her out of the lobby. She won't come down to complain." We would often use that s.p.a.ce on the screen to type messages to each other, most of them tactical communiques designed to stealthily discuss a guest issue within the guest's hearing range. But also some that said things like, "Will you ask your guest if she'll let me put it in her mouth?" After you read a message like that, it's a pretty fun game to look up, a weird smile on your face, and go back to a.s.sisting your guest as if nothing happened.

The first time Kayla utilized this technique, I picked up the game pretty quickly.

"Oh, perfect. Mrs. Lansing, you are going to love love this room. I promise. this room. I promise. Front Front. This is my good friend Ben. He will take you upstairs."

"I better love this room. And I don't need a bellman," she said with palpable disgust. "It's on wheels."

Bernard Sadow: the man all bellmen hate, though they've never heard his name. In 1970 he invented the wheeled suitcase, the bane of the bellman's existence. Before that the bellman was a necessity, a provider of ease and comfort, a useful member of society. After Sadow sold his first prototype to Macy's in October 1970, he instigated a catastrophic change in the hospitality environment, causing the once n.o.ble species to retreat, rethink, and reemerge as a hustler fighting for survival. Sadow might as well have invented the phrase no bellman wants to hear, the phrase that leaves bills unpaid and ruins Christmas: "No thanks, I got it." Or that surprisingly prevalent and ignorant phrase: "I don't want to bother him." Don't want to bother him? The man has a family. No one is getting bothered here. "I don't want to bother him." Don't want to bother him? The man has a family. No one is getting bothered here.

So, these poor anachronistic hunters roam the plains of lobbies across the world, starving for a kill. And just as any predator must adapt to a more savvy, conveniently wheeled prey, each bellman develops his own hustle, his own style. I studied Alan, bellman at the Bellevue for nineteen years, second in seniority. I watched his interactions until I finally realized his angle. Fifty-something with a salt-and-pepper crew cut and silver-framed gla.s.ses (incredibly reminiscent of the bellman I met on my first visit to New York), Alan will squat down and make your children love him. He will high-five them and ask them what game they got going on their handheld, tell the little girls how "Manhattan stylish" they look, ask the kids if they are going to get some famous New York cupcakes, and stuff like that. If Alan checks in your family on Friday, then on Sat.u.r.day your kids will be running through the lobby to get one of Al's high fives and tell him all about "wha, wha happen did last night and, um, um, um."

Just when the parents are marveling at what a wonderful man, and probably what a wonderful father he is (because you best believe believe he's already told you about he's already told you about his his children), he will cut the parents off cold and stare them into shock through those ice-framed gla.s.ses. They had not even considered that this wonderful bellman should be children), he will cut the parents off cold and stare them into shock through those ice-framed gla.s.ses. They had not even considered that this wonderful bellman should be compensated compensated for the unique and memorable experience he is providing. Alan has now turned to them with a look full of meaning and power. He will nonverbally make them understand that he should be tipped for this level of service: all of a sudden he has placed a check on the table for services rendered. Someone might take that opportunity to ask if there is an ATM on property. Alan will entertain your children while you go withdraw some cash. for the unique and memorable experience he is providing. Alan has now turned to them with a look full of meaning and power. He will nonverbally make them understand that he should be tipped for this level of service: all of a sudden he has placed a check on the table for services rendered. Someone might take that opportunity to ask if there is an ATM on property. Alan will entertain your children while you go withdraw some cash.