Heads In Beds Part 8

I had no interest in joining our management staff. The hours here at the Bellevue were even longer than at other properties because the hotel couldn't seem to keep a manager in-house for more than six months. In New Orleans the managers cared cared. They would work extra hours to help out the overnight manager on a busy night. They would sacrifice a day off because a pop-up group of a hundred businessmen rerouted their conference from Las Vegas to New Orleans at the last minute. They would take you aside and ask you how you were doing. At the Bellevue they would call in sick, just like the employees, an hour before their shift from some bar in Queens, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the current manager into working a last-minute double. Then the manager they screwed would do the same thing to the next manager to keep it, you know, fair. Bellevue managers got fired for doing drugs or getting a front desk agent pregnant or stealing money from their banks or p.i.s.sing on the stairs, and the ones who did stick around all of a sudden had to cover those extra shifts. Plus, I was getting paid more than they were. I couldn't conceive of making that move to madness, especially as I grew more proficient at the cash game. But what did I have to be proud of? Nothing. Job security. Shift seniority. f.u.c.k all.

I had that candy bar, though. I ate the rest of it slowly and cried until I couldn't cry anymore. Then I walked back down to the desk and finished my shift.

And then, because I had to at that point, I turned thirty.

And now, a week later, here was another guest asking for special birthday treatment. But, you know, she didn't look ostentatiously wealthy, and she wasn't being rude. And we both just turned thirty. So I took care of her.

"Understood," I said to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. After ten short seconds of typing, I'd upgraded her to a Central Park view and reissued her keys. "Park view and I'll send some red wine. Enjoy. Next guest please?"

"Thank you. My name is Julie," she said.

"Feliz c.u.mpleanos. Next guest please?"

Five minutes later Kayla told me room 3618 was holding for me.

"Good evening, thank you for calling the front desk. This is Thomas, how may I a.s.sist you?" (There is that phrase chunk again!) "Hey, it's Julie. Thank you so much. I LOVE IT!"

So this one was really sweet. It was clear how happy she was. Hearing her yell about the room made me a little warm inside.

"Great. I'm glad."

"I'm having some friends over, all girls, and if they come to the desk, will you send them up, please?"

"Sure. I'll put you down on our event sheet, just in case they come to another agent."

"Thank you again. I really, really love it."

"I'm really, really glad," I said, actually smiling.

An hour later, another call on hold.

"Thank you for calling the front desk, this is..." I am a robot, I am a robot I am a robot, I am a robot.

"Hey, Thomas, it's me."

"Need something?"

"Can you come up?"

"Excuse me?"

"Can you come up here for a little bit, to visit?"

"I can't do that."

"It's a lingerie party, Thomas. There are eight girls up here in their underwear and-"

"I really can't be-"

"Hold on, let me finish. And we have champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries. Eight girls in expensive lingerie, Thomas."

"Listen, I work here. I can't hang out in the rooms."

"When you get off then?"

"No. I can never, ever party at my own hotel."

"Oh. Well, that just makes me sad."

I put the receiver back on the cradle. Ben the bellman walked up.

"f.u.c.k's wrong with you?"

"Eight girls in panties, Ben. Room 3618, eight girls in panties."

"That's what's up. I'll go knock and see if they need ice cubes. You know, for their nipples."

Three hours later I was counting my bank in the back office, done with my shift. Dante informed me I had another call on hold from room 3618. I told him to say I'd gone home.

"What did they want?" I asked.

"Wondering if we had Bibles."

"They wanted a Bible?"

"That's what they asked for, chief."

"Now, what exactly is that that about?" I asked. about?" I asked.

"Prayer meeting maybe? Though it sounded like a G.o.dd.a.m.n girl-on-girl party up there."

Next day I had an envelope waiting. No money inside, just a phone number. Fair enough. I called, she asked me out, and on the first date I brought up the Bible request. They just wanted to roll a joint, simple as that.

There are no Bibles in the Bellevue Hotel.

I ended up seeing Julie on and off for the next few years. Her life was very different from mine. She'd come to New York to live the posh life and had, after securing a good position in the financial industry, essentially succeeded. She dined at the best restaurants and saw every play. She was invited to open-bar events at MoMA and went to Kentucky Derby parties on the Upper East Side where people wore ragtime hats and drank sidecars. She hired limos. She drank champagne.

"I only drink champagne, and I don't wait for anyone." That's a direct quote.

We got along very well, though. She didn't come from money and therefore had the ability to forgive me for not having enough of it. It gave her pleasure to make me her proverbial "plus one," and we had s.e.x in public places, like freight elevators and once in a Michelin-starred restaurant's vanilla-scented bathroom.

"What is your natural hair color?" I would ask. I loved asking her that. "Seriously, what color is it really?"

Her pretty face would bunch up in anger, and she'd point a finger at her head. "This color."

That seemed so indicative of New York City. It didn't matter where you came from or what kind of person you originally thought you had to be. Here you could be a pill junkie, drag queen, singer-songwriter, cowboy, hip-hop head, painter, anything.

What kind of person are you really? Just point at your own head and say: "This person."

What kind of person was I? A servant to the rich! And an increasingly unsatisfactory servant as well! After spending years around my fellow agents, I had started picking up their habits. I called in sick to work (to "bang out" in the parlance of the bag jockeys). I even started banging out two consecutive days in a row, which, according to union rules, only counted as one sick day, one sickness. Then I grew even more bold and started banging out the two days before my weekend and then the two days afterward, calling it two different sicknesses and essentially ripping a six-day vacation out of thin air, whenever I wished. For this I received my first piece of doc.u.mentation, my first piece of disciplinary paperwork. Management listed it as calling out "in a pattern." I was taking six-day vacays all over the d.a.m.n place, and it was undeniably a pattern. But union strong, I had to go to almost insurmountable lengths to be fired. Dante, beyond hustling every guest he touched, also clocked a record-shattering forty-five bang-outs in his first year. Was he fired? No. Therefore a precedent had been established, the bar had been lowered all the way down to the bas.e.m.e.nt, and we could all attempt to achieve that impressive number and be certain to receive no more doc.u.mentation than he had.

We were running around wild, the weeks smearing together, only punctuated by a few outstanding occurrences.

Por ejemplo: One afternoon, I checked in the Who's Roger Daltrey, and the transaction went down like a c.o.ke deal. He came in, eyeing me sideways, and moved his face a bit closer to mention his pseudonym. One afternoon, I checked in the Who's Roger Daltrey, and the transaction went down like a c.o.ke deal. He came in, eyeing me sideways, and moved his face a bit closer to mention his pseudonym.

Here's a list of a few of my favorite celeb pseudonyms: Doug Gravesd.i.c.k ShunairyTim Tation And a tricky one, perhaps the best, popular with rock ba.s.s players for some reason: Saul Goode So Daltrey hit me with his pseudo, and I kept leaning forward to confirm info into his suspicious side eye. I slipped him his keys as if room 4202 might have three kilos of Colombian hidden under the bed skirt. He ducked his head and crept away to the elevators. The following day, after the Who performed at Madison Square Garden, a weirdo with a swollen man-child look b.u.mbled through the revolving doors, crying so hard his tears were hitting the lobby floor. He headed to the concierge desk, and I must admit I was thoroughly entertained watching him sob it up over there while he pa.s.sed across an envelope.

Ten minutes later, a concierge, a new girl named Annie who hadn't yet had the time to evolve into an arrogant elitist, brought over the tearstained envelope and asked me for advice.

"Listen, did you see that chubby guy crying all over the place?"

"I did. What's the story there?"

"Well, apparently he has 'the bone' for Roger Daltrey and somehow knows for a fact that Daltrey's here. He pa.s.sed me this envelope and made me swear I'd forward it along."

"He knew the pseudonym?"

"Of course not," she said. Then, looking down at the envelope, she continued, "I almost want to pa.s.s it on, though. He was really upset. What do we do?"

I took it from her hand and said, "We read it read it is what we do." I slipped it into my pocket, and then, as if to test my resolve, Roger came slinking up sideways to the desk, sliding his keys over like a secret. is what we do." I slipped it into my pocket, and then, as if to test my resolve, Roger came slinking up sideways to the desk, sliding his keys over like a secret.

"Been a pleasure having you, Mr. Daltrey, and we hope to see you again."

Right after he hit the limo, we ripped into the letter. Window to a freak show. Apparently, the man had attended the concert, and during one of Daltrey's rock moves where he grabs the mic by the cord and swings it around like a propeller, the mic unsnapped from the cord and flew into the crowd like some kind of Mongolian field weapon. It had "brazed" the man's shoulder, and "after an initial feeling of elation" he "could visibly see how disturbed Roger was, how deeply concerned Roger was for the fans in the center area." He had then immediately regretted that "initial feeling of elation" and was "ashamed by personal selfishness and devastated that Roger had saffered all that drama [yeah, sic sic]." That night he cried and cried for Roger, knowing he must be concerned for the fans, and now, as any weirdo might, he absolutely had to tell Roger that no one was harmed and that he loved him very, very much and please, Roger, please respond to this and let me know when we can meet to talk about it. He apparently didn't plan to stop crying until this was resolved. The closing sentiments included eight separate pieces of contact information. Two phone numbers, three e-mails, two street addresses, and one P.O. box.

"Oh my G.o.d," Annie said.

"This letter is the s.h.i.t!"

"That guy has some serious mental issues."

"Best. Letter. Everrrrr."

"That was the right move, not pa.s.sing it on."

"Sure was. Daltrey acted like I was going to arrest him at check-in, so I'm sure this letter wouldn't have sat well in his stomach."

"Now what do we do with the letter?"

I took a moment to consider. "We respond?"

Just then, Dante wrapped up a long, tedious phone call trying to ensure a dubious guest that, yes, he swears, we have valet parking, he promises promises, and her vehicle will be taken care of. He slammed down the receiver in mock frustration and said he loved my idea. We didn't need to fill him in on the public display of crying or the contents of the letter, because while hammering the same point home fifty times with the guest on the phone, he had also been listening intently to our conversation. In this way, front desk agents are like bartenders. I can simultaneously and effectively call housekeeping for a rollaway while signaling for a bellman, while authorizing a credit card, while fielding questions about the equipment in the health club and still still keep an ear on Kayla's phone argument with her husband next to me, listening closely to her responses because when she hangs up, she'll want me to have heard it all so I can a.s.sure her she was being reasonable, even though she wasn't. We hear and see everything going on at all times in our lobbies. It's part of the job. It's not even hard. It's just a self-generating skill, like how a basketball player can spin a ball on his finger: you don't need that move to play the game, but it develops anyway. keep an ear on Kayla's phone argument with her husband next to me, listening closely to her responses because when she hangs up, she'll want me to have heard it all so I can a.s.sure her she was being reasonable, even though she wasn't. We hear and see everything going on at all times in our lobbies. It's part of the job. It's not even hard. It's just a self-generating skill, like how a basketball player can spin a ball on his finger: you don't need that move to play the game, but it develops anyway.

"We respond," Dante seconded. "We mail him a handwritten letter from 'Roger' himself, inviting him to London for a private concert, right? All of the details and flight info are included in the letter. All he has to do is show up at JFK at the appointed hour, and his guide and ticket will be waiting. He's going to pack a bag, crying from joy, then head out to the airport only to wait around to have his dreams slowly crushed! Either that, or we write a letter where 'Roger' expresses reluctance at not having aimed better and smashed the mic right into his face. We could close that letter with 'f.u.c.k You, Fanboy. The Rog.'"

In the end we decided the last one was funnier.

Then we decided they were both unforgivably cruel. Plus, maybe that's the kind of joke that upgrades a stalker from Cla.s.s A to Cla.s.s KILL.

Soon after Roger-gate, I was lucky enough to meet the Beach Boys' Brian Wilson. I wasn't initially a huge fan, you know, just the hits please, and only when I was drunk and needed some happy music. But there he was, looking seven feet tall, wearing track pants, and hunching his shoulders like a teen at a dance. I wasn't checking him in, unfortunately. I was checking in an older lady who had the contents of her mildewy purse dumped all over my desk, all crumpled tissues and hard-sh.e.l.l cases for her spectacles. She was rummaging for what I've described as a "method of payment," and in fact Brian Wilson wasn't checking himself in either. Two comfortably dressed gentlemen were negotiating his situation with Kayla, who, even if I took the time with her to outline Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys' impact on popular music, couldn't care less.

"Yeah, but why does he stand there all stupid and s.h.i.t? Reminds me of my uncle Ramon, used to stop dancing and stand there just like that, same look on his face, because he just p.i.s.sed himself from being such a borracho borracho."

Like a seven-year-old at a museum, my man Brian was playing it cool. Not touching anything, just sort of rocking back and forth, his expression timid, his face saggy. The old lady in front of me had finally succeeded in peeling all the wet tissues off her Wells Fargo debit card, and I'd managed to conclude our relationship, save for me essentially forcing forcing her to take help with her luggage, calling a bellman with our code word "front" so she doesn't get wind that some dude wearing gloves is going to rip the suitcase from her feeble hand and then, once in the room, pretty much demand she give him money. And not 1920s money, not jingle-jangle quarters the bellman can two-step back down the hallway with like some happy-go-lucky shoe-shine boy, no. That kind of coin tip gets left right outside your door for you to find on your way out, supposedly working on that "you need it more than I do (you cheap piece of s.h.i.t)" theory. (Tipping change is bad luck, people. If you can't round your generosity up to a whole dollar, then just embrace your cheapness. Don't try to pay off your own guilty conscience with quarters.) her to take help with her luggage, calling a bellman with our code word "front" so she doesn't get wind that some dude wearing gloves is going to rip the suitcase from her feeble hand and then, once in the room, pretty much demand she give him money. And not 1920s money, not jingle-jangle quarters the bellman can two-step back down the hallway with like some happy-go-lucky shoe-shine boy, no. That kind of coin tip gets left right outside your door for you to find on your way out, supposedly working on that "you need it more than I do (you cheap piece of s.h.i.t)" theory. (Tipping change is bad luck, people. If you can't round your generosity up to a whole dollar, then just embrace your cheapness. Don't try to pay off your own guilty conscience with quarters.) Anyway, so I rip out a huge "FRONT!" because these bellmen are half-drunk from last night, showing each other cell phone video of some s.e.xual act they recorded, or busy counting up their ones. Plus, it was hectic in the lobby, and I had to make myself heard. So I roar out a nice "FRONT!" and the F F alone caused my man Brian to pop about two feet into the air, landing back down with a look of sheer terror on his face, alone caused my man Brian to pop about two feet into the air, landing back down with a look of sheer terror on his face, terror terror, his eyes reddening as if he might cry.

"Oh, G.o.d, I'm so sorry, Mr. Wilson," I said, inching over, my hands leveled out there with rea.s.surance, as if he might sniff them and learn to trust me. "I really am sorry, sir. It's a pleasure to have you here," I concluded, giving a business smile to his two handlers. I'm always throwing out a heavily loaded "pleasure to have you" when it comes to celebrities, or a rare "an honor to have you," but only if it actually is is an honor, and in truth it never comes off well anyway. an honor, and in truth it never comes off well anyway.

Mr. Wilson made our hotel his New York home for the next several years. I came to realize his true condition and repeatedly observed that he was never alone, always had no fewer than two male handlers with him, and never spoke to anyone, just hunched off to the side, usually in track pants and not always unhappy. His moods were leveled out, like a big lake with only the occasional ripple (unless of course he was startled by anything, in which case: TERROR).

One beautiful spring day, I caught Brian and his boys coming out of the elevator, the two handlers walking up ahead and Bry Guy sort of bounding behind them, a nice lift to his step, his big hands swinging like pendulums, and I heard him: he was humming, a strong little tune, all over the place, but clearly, for him, it was exploding in his head and giving him the crazy positives. I followed as long as I could, listening to his humming, through the lobby and even outside through the revolving doors, snapping off my name tag just in case one of the handlers realized Brian had picked up a tail. Though over the years those casually dressed gentlemen had gotten to recognize me as a "sympathetic," or maybe the only one who knew how important their client was, or at least someone who knew who the h.e.l.l he was at all. Plus, in the intervening years, Annie, who became a good friend of mine at the concierge desk-yes, a good concierge friend ("If I can change and you can change, everybody can change." -Rocky IV)-had taught me to love and respect the Beach Boys music, just before she was fired.

(This particular firing was memorable and eventually became historic historic. It occurred one morning following a huge snowstorm. In the event of a snowstorm-or, as before, a blackout-a hotel will offer any unoccupied rooms to the staff, ensuring we stay in the building ready to work should huge chunks of the scheduled staff become unable to make it in due to weather and train shutdowns. So what does the staff do after their shifts, up in our own hotel rooms? We party, brah. We fill the ice buckets with ice and jam forties of Budweiser into them. We put fresh towels under the doors and spark joints. What did my friend Annie from the concierge desk do? She called for a c.o.ke delivery at 4:00 a.m., and the dealer walked up to the desk, looking pretty much exactly like a c.o.ke dealer, and started asking for Annie. The dealer didn't even know her last name. The following morning, and this is when it gets historic, Annie, who stayed up inhaling line after line-apparently listening to Ride of the Valkyries Ride of the Valkyries, she told me later-then had an emotional breakdown and banged out of work. She banged out of work ten minutes before her shift. She banged out of work from the room phone. She banged out of work five floors above her own desk. Sadly, for me, but not unreasonably, she was "let go.") Prior to her firing, though, Annie had burned me several alb.u.ms, Friends, 20/20, Wild Honey Friends, 20/20, Wild Honey, and Smiley Smile Smiley Smile, all of which I shuffled on my iPod for sixty days straight and almost went insane with a dark, crazy breed of happiness. And I mean it, Brian Wilson is special and a genius and he paid the price.

I kind of feel as if Brian Wilson died for our sins.

It was amazing to interact with a man whom I'd come to admire so much. Soon I'd get to interact with many celebrities I admired. Also celebs I didn't admire. Also celebs I had never even heard of but could cause a lobby full of teenage girls to scream.

And all of that begins now.

Ben the bellman walked up to the desk. The hotel was as dead as ever, so I was busy creating some new OSA, or Office Supply Art. Last week I'd made a triptych of panels on the thick-papered checkout folio sleeves. I dismantled blue and black pens, cutting the tops off the ink tubes, then dipped an unfolded paper clip into the heavy ink. Folding the folio envelope around the paper-clip "brush," I would draw out the ink-slathered tip, leaving harsh branch-like cuts on the panel. Then, after meticulously and irreparably destroying a highlighter and using the inner spongy mess to smear bright color over the severe ink streaks, I tempered the entire project by squirting hand sanitizer on the still-wet ink, rolling the empty highlighter tube over the hand sani, which was already breaking up and bubbling the ink, creating mixed and blended circles of paint over the dark ink branches. After I finished the triptychs with an emotional splattering of Wite-Out, the pieces looked like the work of a mental patient. Or, I guess, synonymously, the work of a front desk agent. But that doesn't mean they weren't also, you know, gorgeous. I even sold one to a rooms control agent for five dollars. ("Every day I'm hustling." -Rick Ross.) But today's OSA project was completely different, more of a crafts piece: I was using a personal sewing kit amenity to make an embroidered pillow out of two napkins, with tissues for stuffing. I used every thread in the kit to decorate the top of the paper pillow, and it was looking pretty colorful.

That's when Ben the bellman disturbed the artist at work.

"You hear the news, s.h.i.t-throat?"

Ben calls me "s.h.i.t-throat" because we are close friends now. With New Yorkers, the more they love you, the more they insult you. Briefly we had a manager from j.a.pan who, every shift, would shake in frustration and say, "For one day can't we get along and be nice and stop insulting each other?" The whole back office, in the middle of loudly insulting each other, tried to explain that we were actually having a great great time and getting along splendidly. time and getting along splendidly.

"The news about what?" I asked, testing the softness of my fragile paper pillow.

"What's that? A pillow for your tiny d.i.c.k?"

"Hah. Well, my d.i.c.k needs a lot of rest after spending all night-"

"Don't do it, Tom."

"-f.u.c.king your mother."

"AYO, he did it. Anyway, you hear the hotel's been sold? Seriously."

"What? Who bought it?"

"A private equity firm," Ben said mysteriously. "Whatever the f.u.c.k that is."

Hotels and restaurants are alike in one way: news travels at the speed of heroin in the vein. One person knows, and everyone knows. Doesn't matter if it's about a manager impregnating a room service dispatcher or someone getting suspended. We talk endlessly about everything that happens to everyone because we are bored out of our G.o.dd.a.m.n minds (see also: Office Supply Art).