Heads in Beds: A Reckless Memoir of Hotels, Hustles, and So-Called Hospitality

by Jacob Tomsky

  Speaking of Christ, the easiest thing to order was the Bibles. Terrance assigned 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. 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?”

  “Hell 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?”

  “Yep. From valet to FOM, and that’s just the beginning. After you get this handled, I have no doubt they’ll find a housekeeping department for you to run. What do you think? Wanna open this motherfucker with me?”

  “Well,” I started, leaning back in my seat, rubbing at my eyes. My feet were swollen in my dress shoes, and in the harsh fluorescent lights my eyes burned from constant exposure to cleaning agents. I was, as they say, shot to shit. “Virginia?”

  “West Virginia. Not going to lie, Tommy, we’re a skeleton crew. I am already pulling sixteen-hour days to get this show running, and you will too. But the company will pay your moving costs, and I’ll show you how to bump the numbers to give yourself a thousand or so in your account even after the move. Everyone does it. It’s kind of like an unofficial signing bonus. So, my man, want to run my front desk?”

  I thought I was going to be sick. I couldn’t understand exactly why at the time, but then, as I held the phone to my head, I thought I was going to vomit all over the keyboard, slip out of the chair, pass out under the desk, and die.

  I had taken John’s call so late and exhausted it wasn’t until halfway through the following day’s shift I remembered the job offer. In the basement laundry dump, while I pulled sheet after sheet from the laundry chute, it came upon me like recalling a dream (or more like recalling the taste of a meal on your tongue, the one that made you ill).

  I had my jacket off and hung outside the dump room because this was physical and disgusting work. Sometime during the midday rush, when housemen run through the checkouts to strip the sheets and drop them down the laundry chute, everything had gotten jammed up. The floor of the dump room was half a foot thick with dirty bed linens, robes, and towels, which I scrambled over to get to the mouth of the chute. The chute resembled a frozen white waterfall, a cone of linens rising up to the metal tube. When I tugged at a robe hanging halfway out, another spray of linens came down to jam the hole and freeze the fall again.

  My hands were uncomfortably hot because I was wearing latex gloves. Why gloves? Because this was a never-ending pile of nastiness. The laundry department has a runner responsible for keeping up with this chute and separating the items into large blue bins for washing: one for robes, one for sheets, one for towels, and so on. Apparently, according to the laundry manager, the runner had been fired that morning. The manager had been inspecting the linen closets, trying to get an idea of what linens the day would call for most, when he saw a pair of black Nikes sticking out from the side of a metal shelving unit. A sheet had been draped over the entire front of the unit, and when he detached it, he found his runner asleep on a row of freshly stacked king sheets, even a pillow under his head. The runner awoke to an execution-style firing. A gentle shake of his shoulder and just as he came to, just as his pupils dilated, “You’re fired, Jamal. Get out. Now.” Two deadly sins of the hotel business: stealing and sleeping on the job. You can’t fight those sins. You will be fired.

  As exciting as finding that pair of floating Nikes was to the laundry manager, he failed to communicate to my department that his department was currently without a runner. How were we finally alerted to this problem? A houseman, stripping rooms on 10, had opened the chute and found it packed and rising up above his tenth-floor drop slot. Ten minutes later the whole beast was jammed up all the way to 15, just packed full of dirty linen. And housemen on 16 and above were still making it rain sheets. So now here I was, at the very bottom of it all, yanking at soiled linen.

  I focused on not touching my face, trying not to instinctively wipe the dripping sweat from my forehead. As I grunted and pulled hard at a sheet, the flow opened, and I hopped back to let the mouth expunge another floor or so of linens, backing up to let the pile spread. Taking a moment to rest, I scanned the billowy off-white pile I stood on, now almost two feet thick. In the mix I saw spots of red (blood) and slimy latex condoms hiding among the folds like greasy snakes (yep).

  This wasn’t the first time I’d found myself in the shit pit. Items lost in the rooms were also under my jurisdiction. A guest’s first instinct, since the beginning of hoteldom, all the way back to the nineteenth century, is to immediately assume the housekeeper is a thief. I cannot stand that. These ladies need their jobs, and never once have I witnessed a situation where a housekeeper put her job at stake for one earring. Usually, the guest lost it, or maybe left it buried in the bed linens, and once the sheets got dumped, I would be sent down here to sort through the pile until I found it. Or didn’t. Mostly didn’t. I wish I could offer advice on locating lost items, but it’s a big world, it’s a big hotel; earrings are grains of sand, and white pajama pants are water in the ocean. Utilizing the drawers in the room instead of flinging off your clothes like an excited five-year-old might help. Using the in-room safe for sentimental items instead of tossing valuables over your shoulder like lucky grains of salt, also a good idea. Messiness looks like trash to housekeepers, so keep papers in a folder or tucked in a briefcase. A hotel room seems to feel like home, that’s the plan, but you are not at home. You are in flux. You are in a private/public space. Act accordingly and keep organized.

  Catching my breath, I leaned against the far wall from the mouth of the chute, trying to balance on the pile, my dress shoes sinking in, and that’s when I remembered John’s phone call. Again, an unexplainable nausea overtook me. What was this feeling? Why was my stomach churning and my heart shuddering? Was it the disgusting scent of soiled linens? No. I was terrified. Of work. Of more uninterrupted, thankless work. Hour after hour on my feet and talking. Scheduling, purchasing, cleaning, hiring, firing, and constant door knocking (“Good morning, this is housekeeping.” “Good morning, this is housekeeping.” “Good afternoon, housekeeping.” “Good afternoon, housekeeping.” “Good evening, housekeeping.” �
��Good evening, housekeeping”).

  Perhaps now is also the best point to mention that this business, the one that currently has me standing on a pile of dirty sheets and blood-borne pathogens, does not pay exceedingly well. At the front desk I made a generous hourly wage and found myself with a close-to-normal amount of free time. Sure, I worked Thanksgiving afternoon and Christmas morning, but I had two days off a week and money to blow. It’s actually mid-management that doesn’t pay. My weekly housekeeping checks only beat my front desk checks by about the cost of a decent dinner* (*wine and tip not included). However, in management, I hadn’t worked less than an eleven-hour shift in three months. Calculated to a rough hourly wage, that put me earning 60 percent less an hour compared to what I made at the desk. That’s why “salary positions” are often jokingly referred to as “slavery positions.” But being at work all the time had one monetary advantage: my bank account was, in casual terms, dusty. My money sat there collecting dust. I made deposits and no withdrawals. I hadn’t bought anything other than well whiskey in months. I ate every meal in the employee cafeteria, which, though disgusting in practice, was cost-effective. I was never home. I was never out. I was simply on my way to or from work. Or sleeping during my day off, unable to rouse myself to do shit. The idea of walking and talking during my day off seemed excessive, and so there it was in my dusty, untouched bank account: thousands and thousands of dollars.

  West Virginia.

  I gave one more halfhearted tug at a pillowcase and staggered out of the dump room, snapping off the latex gloves and slinging my jacket over my wet back. I found Terrance in the manager’s office, eating a greasy double burger.

  With a mouth full of wet meat he said, “This computer is broken. Look here. The arrow on the screen moves backward, and the buttons aren’t even clicking,” and then he grabbed the mouse and started smashing it. I saw the cord snaking out from beneath his wrist. His hand moved toward the phone, to call the IT department, I assumed.

  “Wait, you’re just holding it upside down. The cord should come out from the top. That’s why it’s moving funny and you can’t click.”

  “What? Oh. Shit. You know, maybe you should get a job in IT, Tommy. How about that for an idea?”

  “Because I know how to use a mouse?”

  “Don’t get smart with me. I’ve seen you. You know computers. And you ain’t cut out for this work down here. You don’t have it in you.”

  “Meaning I haven’t been doing a good job?”

  “The staff likes you, but that’s it.”

  “That’s it?”

  He took a second to look me right in the eye. “Basically.”

  At that moment, still mentally avoiding touching my face, I hated the hospitality business. I hated all of it: servicing overprivileged, whiny guests, the short pay for long hours, dealing with this prick who couldn’t operate a mouse and constantly insulted my work. And here I was on the cusp of digging myself deeper, moving to a state I had no interest in, so that eventually I could run a hotel in a city I might have no interest in. I wouldn’t have time to take a shit in West Virginia while opening the property, much less spend the money I was making, money I was currently making for, apparently, no reason. The business had even eliminated my desire to spend any of it. I saw what the other managers bought with their money: mostly finding a nicer apartment and furnishing it heavily with a nice couch and fancy throw pillows, though they, like me, were only home to sleep. What was all of this about?

  The bottom dropped out of my tiny world, and I staggered out of the housekeeping office, up the stairs to the employee exit, and back around to the garage. I sat myself on a bench in the porte cochere and stared at the white marble fountain, trying to calm my erratic breathing. I thought about happiness, about what would make me happy. Not working so much. Travel. There it was: travel. For a man like me, someone who made friends in fifth grade only to lose them in sixth grade and, in another state, make new ones to lose in seventh grade, I could no longer deny my addiction to relocation. I wondered how I’d even lasted so long in New Orleans. But then, as I said, this business is like a methadone clinic for the travel addicted. I changed everything by simply moving departments, and no matter what, in whatever department, the guests were always changing. But that wasn’t traveling: it was like watching the Travel Channel. And I didn’t have much hope that West Virginia would feel like an adventure. That would feel like erasure. I needed a solid hit to the vein. I had to move and I had to move now and I had to move someplace absolutely crazy.

  “Damn, son. Looking all fucked-up, you. And sitting on a bench like he a guest. Stand on up, Tommy. Let’s take a break real quick, heard? Get up, let’s go.”

  “Where we going?”

  “To a bar, ma’fucker. Stand up.”

  Perry walked me to the Alibi and sat me down on a stool. I tried to order a whiskey, but he forced me to drink a Heineken with him. Nobody forced me to drink the next three, though.

  “Virginia? Please. What you gonna do in Virginia?”

  “West Virginia. Work, I guess. Opening a hotel … that’ll probably be sixteen-hour days.”

  “How’s the money?”

  “Prolly not that good.”

  “Damn. You trying to be a GM, Tommy?”

  “Shouldn’t I?”

  “You too cool to be a GM. Anyway, they look happy to you?”

  “They look paid.”

  “You wanna get paid, go be a bellman. Now, those dudes get paid and don’t do shit.”

  “I need a change, Perry. I have to go someplace new.”

  “What’s wrong with New Orleans? Best city in the world.”

  “You been around enough to know?”

  “Tommy, I ain’t even been to Houston, Texas. That don’t make me wrong, though.”

  The next morning I gave my two weeks’ notice at the hotel. I’d saved fifteen thousand dollars, and my top was ready to spin. I was going to get rid of all my useless throw pillows, pack one single bag, and move to Europe.

  That should do it. Right in the vein.

  I told the ladies the following day at the 8:30 a.m. meeting. Some of them actually cried. The housemen were all happy for me. Roy labored up and put his hand out for me to shake. He moved it up and down awkwardly and then teared up, and I started to get emotional. Nancy waited her turn to speak to me and said protective, motherly phrases: to make sure I eat enough and be careful over there. Terrance, of course, interrupted the flurry of positive humanity to tell the ladies to get upstairs and remind them that their jobs were “Very. Easy.”

  There is nothing easy about housekeeping. There is nothing easy about dealing with other people’s filth and having to get on your knees to do it. There is nothing easy about scouring and spraying and polishing and getting on all fours to make sure there isn’t a porno mag under the bed skirt (previously, I didn’t even know what a bed skirt was much less how surprisingly not easy it is to make it hang perfectly). There is nothing easy about being sexually harassed by guests. There is nothing easy about scrubbing a toilet on Christmas morning, believe me. And there is certainly nothing easy about hearing your boss tell you every morning that your job is very easy when it motherfucking isn’t.

  Just tell me why, Tommy?”

  “Well, Mr. Daniels, I’ve never been to Europe, and I plan to move there. To Paris.”

  “You’re going to move to Paris? To work?”

  “No, just spend the money I’ve saved, get an apartment, read novels, maybe write one, drink, travel. See some of the Continent if I can.”

  “Well,” he whispered and looked down at his desk. “I’ve heard plenty of reasons for leaving this gig. Mostly, someone wants to whack out a kid. But I’ll tell you one thing. I like your reason.” He paused and pointed a finger at me. “Your reason has balls. Get over there and sop it up.”

  “Do what?”

  “Yeah, that sounded disgusting, sorry. What I mean is this: Usually I would try to talk someone out of leaving. I might
offer more money or give them a paid vacation to one of our other properties so they can press the reset button. But in this case, I think you know exactly what you’re doing here. Go do it. You call me if you ever need anything. Anything at all.”

  That was the last time I ever spoke to Mr. Daniels.

  The day after I wrapped up my two weeks, Perry drove over to my apartment in his brand-new truck. It was a calm Saturday morning. Before heading out, we sat in the sun on the lowered back tailgate and drank beer from the side coolers built into the car, over the wheel well. I think the side coolers were for, I don’t know, fishing bait, but Perry always had them full of ice and beer. The radio was on nice and loud. We had ourselves a few and listened to Trick Daddy, watching the uptown morning come on.

  In the cab of the truck was a bottle of Crown Royal. We started tipping that up and rolling back to his side of town because Perry said he needed a fresh cut. The barbershop was, essentially, a shotgun apartment, and the barber chairs were just regular banquet chairs (probably even stolen from a hotel). It was like a house party inside. One dude kept falling asleep in his chair, like a crackhead (because he actually was a crackhead), messing up his own haircut every time he nodded out, his beer drooping dangerously between his knees. They gave us some free barbecue ribs, and we kept on hitting the Crown, sharing some with Perry’s barber, Henry, who looked drunk already. Henry kept pausing the haircut to talk about how every man needs a wife, a boo, and a freak.