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

by Jacob Tomsky

  Saturday more tourists and the occasional New York couple having a staycation or renting a room to cheat on their spouses.

  Sunday morning everyone checks out and the luggage storage room fills up to capacity, often pouring out into the lobby, which security surrounds with a red velvet rope, to give an edge of safety to the exposed luggage. After everyone clears out all at once, we flip the whole hotel and get ready for the next business week.

  Sunday can be a mess for the bellmen when the afternoon comes on. As I mentioned, all morning guests are storing all their possessions, checking every bag they can find. Come 3:00 p.m., they all want them back, and they want them back fast. I saw Trey, working alone one Sunday afternoon, trying to work down a cloud of checked-out guests who all had their claim checks waving in the air and cabs to catch five minutes ago. Trey comes out with two bags, a middle-aged woman snatches them and runs out to get a cab, stiffing him. The next guest, like a clone, pulls the same move: another snatch and stiff. After the third stiff, Trey, who’s about five feet nothing but has the intimidation potential of a foamy-jawed Doberman, stops cold and looks out at the rest of the cloud, all the guests wondering why he’s not hurriedly grabbing at the next set of claim checks. Just as the guest who figures he’s next is about to open his mouth, Trey tilts back his head and snorts.

  “Another goddamn stiff. I’m batting a thousand. I am working for goddamn free out here.”

  He said those words at a volume that was, let’s say, extremely audible. Then I said, less audibly, in fact under my breath, “Oh, shit.”

  After Trey calmly took the following guest’s tickets and returned to the back to get the bags, I kept an eye on the cloud. It was as if his attack had morphed them into a solid unit, and they shook their heads at each other in amazement and said things like, “The gall!” “Can you believe that?” And even an old-fashioned “I never.”

  Just as they were getting comfortable sharing their indignation, Trey burst out from the back, pulling two big-ass rolling hard shells behind him with carry-ons stacked on top of each and a backpack strapped right to the front of his damn chest.

  Like a blown-out candle, the huffing and puffing stopped, and every single one of those guests, even the ones at the end of the line, pulled out their wallets and brought some green into the lobby. Following the lead of that first guest, they were all planning on stiffing him, but Trey had flipped them all, like a slick casino dealer drawing an ace over a spread deck and inverting every card. Now they were all faceup, ass out, ready to tip and shut up.

  That, again, dear guests, is a New York City bellman.

  But during the slower desk shifts, the Tuesdays and the Wednesdays, Kayla and I would amuse ourselves by pretending to verbally critique everyone who wandered into our lobby. I had her down to a science. All I had to do to make her laugh was point out anyone (that was the funny part, that it wasn’t personal, it could be anyone) who came into the lobby, and I’d say, “Look at this guy.” And then on and on like that: “Now, wait, oh, wait, look at this guy, Jesus,” and then, “Whoa, look at this fucking guy, you believe this fucking guy?” until she had to go sit in the back and calm down before she peed herself.

  Clearly, the relaxed atmosphere of the Bellevue was beginning to take a firm hold. There was no focus on verbiage here, not even a focus on AAA.

  AAA are the bastards who hand out the diamond ratings. There was the Mobil “star” rating as well, but no one in the heads-in-beds game really paid the stars any mind, and now it’s defunct. But for a luxury property, that fifth and final diamond is elusive and very celebrated. It can drive in tons of new business and create a huge jump in RevPAR (meaning revenue per available room. Basically, you take the average daily room rate, or ADR, and multiply it by rooms occupied that given night or month, and then, like, whatever, you can totally figure out how much money you’re making). They would torture us weekly in New Orleans, warning us that the AAA inspector was coming, unannounced of course, and management would try to guess which potential arrivals it might be, using various telltale clues: usually a two-to-three-night stay, booked through the property (not Hotels.com or Expedia, since the reservations agents are on the chopping block as well), most likely it will be the first time the guest’s name will appear in the system, with perhaps a dinner reservation already booked in the restaurant. Some guests got treated like the king of Persia only because they had “POSSIBLE AAA INSPECTOR” tattooed all over their reservations. Inspectors always take a bellman and always order room service and usually complain about the first room and so on, always taking names. Upon departure, once the agent hands the inspector a final checkout folio, he will do a cute little move where he walks away and then walks right back, hits you with that AAA business card, and requests to see the GM. At this point, it’s basically as if a bomb siren goes off in the building: people start to go ape shit. The inspector will then take a tour of up to five random Vacant Clean rooms, with the GM in tow, slobbering to kiss ass and internally shitting himself, while playing it cool, even though every time he slides a key into a vacant he is terrified there will be a fatally wounded hooker bleeding on the duvet or a minibar mole enjoying consensual sex with a housekeeper.

  A few weeks after the AAA visit, the inspector will send a detailed report on his stay, with names and, if you can believe it, even bits of dialogue between him and various members of the staff (as if he’s William fucking ShAAAkespeare). All it takes is one housekeeper on a cell phone or one call to the desk where the guest’s name wasn’t used to blow the whole thing, and then everyone knows exactly who let the team down. You can lose it by setting the inspector’s CC or folio on the desk for him to pick up, instead of placing it directly into his hands. You’ve got to put everything right into his hands. That is stress you can taste.

  But the Bellevue? This hotel couldn’t seem to be bothered. First of all, let’s be honest, the place was worn down. We didn’t even have Wi-Fi in the rooms yet. You had to request a room with a DSL cable installed, and then there was an accompanying charge. Even cheap roadside motels were boasting that every room had comp Wi-Fi. You could already bring your laptop into any McDonald’s and surf the Net in the dirty bathrooms if, you know, you wanted to.

  I recall checking in a famous musician, a true innovator of punk and hardcore, very respected in his own community and beyond, though as far as celebrity status he might have slipped by. But I caught him and immediately upgraded him to a room with a view of Central Park (oh yeah, we got those, and later, for me, they will come in handy). He seemed as grateful as I could expect. However, he came down five minutes later and said he must have Internet. I told him about the park view and that if I moved him to DSL it would not have that view.

  “I need Internet,” he said.

  “Understood. And, hey, you can also just go to www dot central park dot com and check out the view on the Web site. It’s just as good, right?” Dead silence on that joke.

  Lotta punk. Lotta hardcore. Not a lot of giggling.

  In the Bellevue’s defense, there were many reasons it needn’t bother to troll like a whore for that fifth diamond. A suspicious lack of Internet was just the beginning. The Bellevue, actually giving it a leg up on the majority of New York hotels, did in fact have a swimming pool. There’s a long list of necessary features to achieve that fifth diamond, and a swimming pool is one of them. However, full spa on premises is another requirement. That we didn’t have. And the requirements only get more absurd from there (including a minimum allowed size for both the television and, insanely, the length of the dead bolt). I suppose that was one reason why the staff was so lax. That and the fact that it seemed the management company was done with the hotel. They were not spending dollar one on renovation, and the clientele was starting to notice. Our TV screens were, frankly, just not flat enough.

  That’s what allowed Kayla and me to prop our elbows up on the desk and say, “Fucking look at this fucking guy right here. Fuck.”

  No one seemed
to bother themselves about anything, not even our GM. His name was Shawn Reed, and, as Ben put it, “The man is a filthy alcoholic. Filthy,” and then, after his typical reassuring hand motion, like a horizontal karate chop, “Great guy, though.”

  Reed only asked me one question. Not that he only spoke to me once, but he only asked me just the one question and would ask it every time I saw him. He’d careen down the hallway connecting the elevators to the lobby, his body at a full fast tilt, his hair greased and dyed space black (earning him the nickname “Just for Men”), right hand always in right pocket, and, you know, drunk. He would touch his free left hand on the desk, like a bird landing briefly on a branch, and clear his throat to quickly ask the same thing every time: “So, hem, what’s the occupancy tonight?”

  “Running at 73 percent, sir.”

  Another clearing of the throat or some pressurized release of air, like a bus settling to a stop, then his hand would take off again, fly back into a pocket, and he’d beeline to the lobby bar.

  “Right to the booze,” Ben said.

  “He might be asking about business in there, Ben. Like, how many bookings for lunch.”

  “Tom, he’s asking for scotch on the rocks in a to-go coffee cup. Look, there, he’s got it.”

  I suppose it could have been coffee. But it wasn’t.

  “This place is a mess,” I concluded.

  The Gray Wolf looked up while wrapping claim checks around a cartful of luggage and came over to the desk quickly.

  “Judge him all day, Tom. But, Ben, you remember Just for Men during the blackout? I stopped judging him after that.”

  “What happened?”

  “He handled business,” Ben said. “The minute the city lost power, that man dove headfirst into action. He issued flashlights to all the staff, sent us off to help guests walk down or up the stairs, brought blankets and rollaways down to the lobby, served coffee and orange juice, called the hotel across the street and demanded they open their loading dock and turn on the generator lights, which flooded our lobby with light. He took care of everything.”

  “You guys stayed at the hotel?”

  “Damn right we did. Remember, Wolf? We slept in the lobby and escorted guests up and down sixty flights of stairs using flashlights. Reed was in control the entire time, nice and lubricated. He never left the lobby, and he never slept. El Salvaje slept, though. You remember him snoring that night? The guests who felt better sleeping on rollaways in the lobby couldn’t believe the sound of it. He didn’t even have a cot or blankets; he just rolled up against the front desk like a fat homeless man and passed out snoring.”

  At this point a busload of Italians started pouring into the lobby, gesticulating and bellowing to each other while the tour operator tried to gesticulate and bellow louder, herding them toward the front desk.

  Eduardo the doorman pushed his way into the lobby. He had a thing for tourists: one night I showed up late to the pub, and two minutes earlier Eduardo had knocked out a tourist with a napkin dispenser. As I walked in, the whole hotel crew was being ejected from the pub.

  “What’d I miss? What’d I miss?” I asked.

  “Everything,” Ben said, emptying the rest of his pint glass and slamming it down on the bar.

  But now, as Eduardo walked up to my desk, his mustachioed face was strained with irritation, which in his case looked like an insane smile. Basically, all of his expressions (sad, bitter, happy, distressed, confused) looked like a psychotic smile. His accent, because of the growl, was on the far border of understandable, and for some reason his hands were always dirty, fingernails bruised black and rimmed with irritated red.

  “This group here, anyone say about this group? That bus is blocking my street. Where is the GM?”

  Eduardo always threatened to take his troubles all the way to the top. Even he knew it was hilarious. If there were no cups by the watercooler, he would say, “You know, this is bullshit. I will have a serious talk with the GM. No cups.” He would say this with a smile, the same full-on crazy smile he would give to guests while he waited for a tip, leaning his thick black mustache actually into their conversation and grinning like a madman until they grew so uncomfortable they would tip him just to make him go back outside. Then the guests would turn to me and complain about his insistence. Complain to me! I loved Eddie. I worked with him every day, and I was going to see this guest for another thirty seconds and then probably never again. Of course, I wanted the guest to be comfortable, and often, when an employee lingers for a tip, everyone gets uncomfortable. But I had watched Eddie load up that cart, heaving to get the final hard shell tucked tight, and it’s fine if a guest doesn’t want to tip, but why turn to me as if I’ll agree? I don’t agree. I think Eddie deserved a tip. Or at least a thank-you, an acknowledgment. Instead, some guests try to pretend he doesn’t even exist. That’s why he’ll jam his mustache into your conversation: to make you acknowledge his existence, if only with a thank-you.

  “No cups, Tom? Are we dogs? I should use my hands to drink?”

  “Don’t drink from your hands, Eddie, please. Not your hands. It’s not safe.”

  But now he was furious about this pop-up group, a busload of Italians with a busload of luggage that had to be tagged and stored in the lobby until the bellmen could sort through it and deliver the bags. These guests would never tip, but that wasn’t actually a problem, because porterage was included, usually three to five dollars a bag, both going in and going out, split among all the bellmen and doormen equally. Maybe Reed had even seen the bus pull up and eject a stream of Italians. He probably raised a space-black eyebrow, took a pull from his to-go scotch, and got the hell out of midtown. But it certainly would have helped if the staff had been made aware of the Italian assault. The other doorman working with Eddie was at the pub next door, “taking a union break,” and it was just Kayla and I at the desk, no manager. Kayla’s attention was usurped by her computer, which was illegally logged in to a Web site called Mi Gente, or “My People,” basically the Hispanic Facebook.

  This wasn’t New Orleans. This wasn’t a delicate situation. I put my fists on the desk and shouted: “I need CREDIT CARDS. People, put your PASSPORTS AWAY. This is not CUSTOMS. Credit cards ONLY.” The whole lobby was a sea of red passports, and technically I was obligated to check an ID with every CC transaction, but in this case I knew the best course of action, even if management didn’t agree, was to get the group out of the damn lobby immediately. Clear the room. Any guests who walked in during the onslaught would feel as if they were in a Rome train station, not a luxury property.

  To be honest, I never check IDs. But it’s policy. Another policy is to research if guests have had previous bookings and, if so, “welcome them back.” These two policies working together at the same time killed me. The hotel wanted me to say “Welcome back!! It’s a pleasure to have you with us again!!” and then, just as that warm feeling of being recognized spreads over the guest’s face, I was supposed to demand identification like some hard-ass cop. I thought that kind of spoiled the soup, and though credit card fraud is a viable concern, I personally decided that if out of 100,000 guests whom I made feel welcome there came one credit card fraud, I felt it was still landing in favor of the hotel and our customers. Plus checking IDs slows down the check-in process. And also it’s annoying, and I don’t want to do it.

  So Kayla and I banged out the Italians, doling out all of our least desirable rooms to the group because the language barrier would obliterate 97 percent of the guests’ ability to complain effectively—a great way to get rid of the smoking rooms and the noisy rooms next to the elevators and ice machines. Often, as was the case here, the worst rooms are given to very specific guests for very specific reasons. There are larger factors, such as being part of a huge faceless group, that might make a guest more likely to receive one of the poorer rooms. Reservations made through Internet discount sites are almost always slated for our worst rooms. Wondering why? Does this seem unfair? Let me try to explain th
is decision from a hotelier’s point of view. First of all, we cull the least amount of profit from these reservations. In a capitalistic business environment, that should be explanation enough. The guest pays the Internet site a specific rate, and then the hotel charges the Internet company an even lower rate. Here is a possible price breakdown: We, the hotel, are selling at $500. Expedia is offering a rate at our property online (which it reserves in bulk) for $399, which the guest books and prepays. When the guest arrives, he will never see a rate on his folio, because we are going to charge Expedia directly, which is a low, low rate of $199. Why would we sell so cheap in bulk? No matter what, it does benefit the hotel to put a head in every bed, despite a deep discount, since, first of all, $199 is better than a vacant room and, second of all, we are counting on guests dining at the property, ordering late-night room service, minibar, movies, and drinks in the lounge. So less profit equals less priority. But why do we then slate Expedia guests for our worst rooms? Well, honestly, those guests didn’t really choose our property based on quality; they chose based on value. We were at the top of a list sorted by price. They were instructed to book here. But the guest behind them in line, the one with a heavy $500 rate, she selected this hotel. When she comes to New York, she goes onto our Web site to see what’s available, as opposed to a cheap rate being pushed in her face and all of a sudden she finds herself in some random hotel in Tribeca with a discounted rate. So, since we have no reason to assume Internet guests will ever book with us again, unless our discount is presented to them, it truly makes business sense to save our best rooms for guests who book here of their own volition.

  And there is always, always a better room.

  Am I suggesting that every time you book through Hotels.com or Expedia you will get a bad room? Certainly not. But your chances are increased. Are there ways to separate yourself from the discount pack and ensure a good room? Yes! The first step would be to call the property directly once the booking has been made and speak to a front desk agent. Immediately, you are no longer part of the discount-seeking masses. You are now the person on the phone who is coming in next week and wants to know what type of room you have booked. The agent can preassign you a nice room, and you can be confident that due attention has been paid. But, a word of warning, that is one week out, and as your special day arrives, VIPs and full-rate guests are also looking for good rooms, and if one is not immediately available, it can and will be taken from you. So now what, eh? That’s where it comes down to your direct interaction with your personal front desk agent at check in. Kindness, being polite, and expressing a positive desire for a nice room can once again shift your crappy discount reservation into a corner suite, and off you go.