by Jacob Tomsky
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 hell 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. 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 coke delivery at 4:00 a.m., and the dealer walked up to the desk, looking pretty much exactly like a coke 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, 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 albums, Friends, 20/20, Wild Honey, and 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, shit-throat?”
Ben calls me “shit-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 Japan 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 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 dick?”
“Hah. Well, my dick needs a lot of rest after spending all night—”
“Don’t do it, Tom.”
“—fucking 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 fuck 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 goddamn minds (see also: Office Supply Art).
Guest gossip is also open for discussion and can be some of the juiciest stories. I, personally, never minded pleasantly diverting myself with gossip, so they started calling me Tom Jennings.
“Dante, you hear about Mr. Hockstein?”
“Do dah do do do dah do do do. Tom Jennings reporting to you live from the helm of the Bellevue. I swear, my man, you are always talking shit.”
“I am the editor in chief of the Bellevue Observer, am I not? This just in from our man covering the bar scene: Front Office Manager Kelly Madison; another mouth herpes outbreak? Details at lunch.”
Mr. Hockstein, as I mentioned before, had been a guest at the Bellevue since before I could have orgasms. About as tall as a trash can with meticulously parted, heavily pomaded black hair, he spoke to no one, not even the bellmen, who were masters at breaking down walls, since once the wall is down, it’s easier to hand over a tip. Hockstein usually checked in on a Monday with little or no luggage and checked out sometime on Friday, often without even stopping at the desk, in which case we would auto-check him out to the card on file, and then the following Monday his secretary would call to have his bill faxed. After a year or two I started to recognize him and decided to treat him as I felt he should be treated: preferentially. Guys like that use the same business CC every week, and so, if there was a line at the desk and he was at the back of it, I would pull up his reservation, telling the family in front of me to give me a moment, explaining I was trying to find them the best possible suite (LIE), which bought me enough time to copy and paste Hockstein’s CC info, check him into a nice room, and burn the keys.
“Excuse me one moment, Mr. Whateverthefuck, let me just confer with the bellman about the room I have for you and your family. Let me make certain it’s the biggest room possible.” Mr. Whateverthefuck was impressed, even though I was doing exactly zero work for him, but not as impress
ed as I figure Hockstein’s going to be when I slide up to him at the end of the long check-in line and slip him his keys.
“I just ran your card from last week, sir. You’re too loyal to wait in line with all these tourists. Enjoy your stay.”
Did I get a smile? No. He snatched the keys, grabbed the stapled-closed shopping bag at his feet, turned his back to me, and headed to the elevator. What was that about? That’s the kind of service you read about. That would make some old ladies have a huge, wet service-gasm. But he, apparently, couldn’t give a shit.
“I was correct, Mr. Whateverthefuck! Your family is going to love this room.” I screamed across the lobby to Ben, who was scratching at a new Yankees tattoo he got on his wrist. “Ben, thank you for the invaluable advice!” Ben looked up, completely unaware of what the hell I was on about. “Mr. Whateverthefuck, Ben is the bellman who told me about your suite here! Give him a wave, Whateverthefuck family!” The whole family turned and waved. Once they were focused back on the desk, Ben gave me the finger, but he couldn’t help but laugh. Plus, he’s up for the front, and though I have done exactly NOTHING for Mr. Whateverthefuck, he already feels grateful to Ben, which should translate to an increase in tip.
But what about Hockstein? Ice-cold! I decided at that moment I was going to continue to give him super service, start upgrading him, pre-reg him every time, and keep his keys in my suit coat pocket so that when I saw him spurt through the lobby door, I could pass the keys off like some clairvoyant key-genie. Who wouldn’t like that? He didn’t seem to want to make any connection with people, so you’d think he’d appreciate how I’d whisk him through the lobby faster than a Japanese businessman late for a meeting.
Soon enough, regarding his attitude, I found out the why-for. The next Thursday, Terrell, the Bell’s laundry guy, came into the lobby to pick up some dry cleaning and leaned over my desk with a wide smile.
“What up, pimpin’? How you live? Dig this, Tommy, guest in 3215 left a bag in the room, right? Shopping bag was the only thing in there, and when the housekeeper threw it in the trash, guess what was in there? Sex toys. Dildos, dog. Even one of them blow-up dolls! Whoo! You white people crazy! Nothing but supa freaks in this building.”
Before he was halfway through his story, I was already pulling up room 3215.
Oh, dear. Hockstein, Hockstein, Hockstein. Cockstein. See: it had already begun.
“Yo, Terrell, I know that dude. He never talks to anyone. Next time I see him … damn.”
Then, like hotel magic, Hockstein shoved through the revolving door, not using the push bar, just putting his hand flat on the glass, which annoys me because now my boy Tanglet has to clean it again. Plus, there’s no telling what’s on that man’s hand. (See? It’s begun, and now it’s getting worse.) He kept his face pointed down at the floor, tearing toward the elevator.
“Oh no,” I said.
“What up?”
“There he goes now.”
“Dildo man? He going back to his room? Oh no. Hell with this. I am out of here. I gotta go iron me a shirt or something.”
Five minutes later Hockstein was at the back of the line, his face on fire, veins pulsing, hands clenching, lips mashed so tight he looked like a fish in the wind.
“What can I do for you, sir?” I instinctively knew it was not a good time to use his name.
“WHERE ARE MY PERSONAL ITEMS? WHY HAVE THEY BEEN REMOVED FROM MY ROOM?” he said in a psychotic explosion. I thought his head was going to blast off.
“Sorry, sir?”
“I LEFT A SHOPPING BAG IN MY ROOM, JUST ONE BAG, AND SOMEONE HAS BEEN IN MY ROOM AND REMOVED MY BAG. I DO NOT CHECK OUT UNTIL TOMORROW.”
This was a perfect opportunity for him to throw some four-letter words at me. Somehow, it was even more terrifying that he didn’t. This guy was going to lose it, big-time. I could hear his teeth grinding.
“Well, sir, perhaps if there was just one shopping bag in the room, the housekeeper assumed you had departed and was attempting to save you from accruing tonight’s unneeded room and tax.”
“I stay every week until Friday, and I keep my suits at my office. Where,” he hissed, and I thought I heard a tooth snap, “are the items I left in my room?”
“Most likely they tossed the shopping bag directly in the trash, sir.”
Looking me right in the eyes, he was starting to calm down now. He began taking deep breaths, reassuring himself that perhaps they had not looked in the bag and, even if they did, no one would connect the contents to him, at least visually. Meanwhile, the story was already public domain. Across the lobby, I could see Dante telling it to Trey. Dante bent over one of those hard-shell Euro suitcases in profile, and Trey began to mime a hotel umbrella in and out of Dante’s ass.
Jesus Christ. I never broke into laughter anymore, though. Now I was a pro: all day long I could laugh on the inside, even if guests were SCREAMING at me, showing their ass, and saying ludicrously funny shit, I could hold it all in. I was always laughing on the inside these days. (When I wasn’t crying in long-term storage, I guess.)
Dante walked back behind the desk, sort of saddle-walking as if he had ass trauma.
“I apologize again, sir,” I said loud enough for Dante to hear. Then I really took it to the next level of brilliance. I picked up a notepad and poised my pen for action: “If you’ll provide me with a detailed list of the bag’s contents, sir, we will replace the items within the hour.” This was some classic shit.
Hockstein was now eyeing Dante, aware the conversation had gained a new member. “No, fine. Don’t do anything. Just put a note to never check me out early ever again. Perhaps I’ll find a new hotel,” he said and walked off.
He never did. He continued to stay at the Bellevue. And no one ever made him feel uncomfortable again. We never thought less of him. But that’s the point about hotels. Everyone knows everything. He assumed we never found out, and meanwhile people started calling him Cockstein or Anal-Block-Stein, which everyone generally thought was funnier (you win, Jay). Later that day Terrell returned to the desk to inform us that the blow-up doll had been sanitized, dressed in a housekeeper’s uniform, and was now located in the tenth-floor storage closet, available for viewing. Or use.
So, still holding the napkin pillow in my hand, I knew I wasn’t the first person to hear about a private equity firm buying the Bellevue, and best believe, within five minutes everyone knew. We just didn’t know what any of it meant for us.
Three weeks later we began to grasp the full extent of the change this would bring.
Just for Men looked heartbroken. Reed would walk into the lobby, nowhere near the same energy, nowhere near as drunk as he should have been. It was as if he were too sad to be an alcoholic anymore. I could have hugged the guy.
They shut down the lobby on a Monday afternoon. Now, normally, if a hotel goes through renovations, it’s done a few floors at a time. Perhaps the hotel shuts down 20 to 22 for remodeling, along with 19 and 23 for a sound buffer. Impossible in this case because the private equity firm was planning a full-scale gutting: with the exception of the name, everything was to be ripped up and thrown out on the street (some said perhaps the employees as well). A normal move might have been to put us all on unemployment, board up the doors, renovate, and reopen as fast as possible. Not this company. These motherfuckers (excuse me, these asshole motherfuckers) were about one thing: the bottom line. That was it for them. This company was a machine that ran on money and did not consider the people affected as human, be they employees or, and here’s when it gets absurd, even the guests.
They shut down the restaurant. They shut down the bar. They shut down room service. They shut down internal laundry service. They shut down the goddamn lobby.
What is a hotel without the above really? Just the room. Which is why you’d think they’d have closed the doors, but they had a better idea for the bottom line.
Eventually, I figured it out. They knew one fact: once the doors reopened, the rate was going to dou
ble. What once cost $299 was now going to cost $599. Planning on such a dramatic rate hike, they assumed, correctly, it would come with a new clientele. All those businessmen and family travelers who’d been supporting the Bell for twenty years would find themselves priced out and searching for another property in their fiscal range. When calling for a reservation in the future and handed a double rate, they would say, “Excuse me? But I always pay half that. That rate is higher than my company allows for business travel. I simply cannot stay at the Bellevue for that rate. Can you help me?”
No.
Fine. That’s fair enough. The world moves on, hotels renovate, rates skyrocket, and people change properties. However, prior to relaunching the hotel, when the staff was crippled with layoffs and you couldn’t even order fries in the building, the private equity firm, working on the knowledge that soon enough the clientele would change, did not feel it was necessary to inform guests making reservations what state the hotel would be in.
“Yes, we have your usual rate available, sir. See you next week.”
The guests pushed through the revolving door into a construction hallway, plywood ceiling and everything, like a fun-house tunnel through the lobby, the surrounding sound of hacksaws and drilling adding to the fun-house vibe. Then they took the elevators to the second-floor meeting spaces, and there in the back was our makeshift front desk, a tiny desk in the middle of nowhere. No couches, no music, no art, nothing. A conference room with a lone desk agent staring out the window onto Ninth Avenue. It was sad as hell. And it got worse from there.
“This is the lobby?”
“Yes, sir.”