by Jacob Tomsky
Cape Town. I could go to Cape Town, strip myself to zero, and then see what I had left.
I couldn’t help but think back to New Orleans. Hadn’t I been happier there? I was a nicer person there, right? How come I’d even stayed this long in New York? I might have already left the city, but in a way New York put a hex on me. The gravity is so strong here, that center-of-the-world feeling, it made leaving the city unfathomable. It often made leaving my own apartment unfathomable.
And then there was the money. The number one reason any ho stays a ho: the hundos just kept flowing in, and it takes a real serious motherfucker to turn off a money valve, especially in a city that carves poverty into every line of your face. I thought about my New Orleans railroad apartment, with that backyard I never even utilized, and my spinning top started to lean, dreaming of finding a backyard somewhere else to not utilize. Center of the world, my ass. I needed to get out for a while. Get back to New Orleans.
(Hotels have no thirteenth floor, hence I have no thirteenth chapter.)
The hotel wouldn’t give me the time off (shocker). But by this point my seniority had secured me weekends off, something essentially unheard of in the business, and my fellow agents despised me for it. Another reason to leave town for a while: get a break from my co-workers. My request was promptly denied by management. So I just took it anyway, booking a ticket for Thursday through Tuesday and planning to double bang before and after my two weekend days. By this point I didn’t care. They could go ahead and write me up. And they would. I knew I deserved it.
Immediately after touchdown in Louisiana, I felt calmer, cleaner, better. Once I exited baggage claim, the hot puff of heat that circled me felt like a warm, moist hug. The taxi drove along I-10, through Metairie (Metry, brah!), and despite the devastation of the storm everything appeared fine. The French Quarter smelled the same. The locals drank the same. It was all so soft on my eyes and soothing to my heart that I started to feel concerned about the person I’d become. My humor had changed. I told my close friends to suck their mothers’ dicks now, something considered hilarious up north. Not so much in New Orleans. It sounded like a pretty mean thing to say down here. And now back in this town (where I had once existed pre–cell phone) my smart phone was still surging out e-mails from New York hustles. A big-tipping adulterer asking for a day room discount. CEO of a dying video rental empire asking for a late checkout. Ginger Smith telling me she’d be in at noon (for that one I had to call the Bell and set it up; I never left Smith to fend for herself).
I turned my phone off and walked into the Alibi, and he was there waiting for me.
“That’s my boy right there.”
He stood and we shook hands, smiling and looking each other up and down.
“You ain’t changed a bit, Tommy.”
“Just on the inside, Perry. Just on the inside. You look healthy, my man.” But he looked older now, his eyes had softened and his hair had flecks of white. He was wearing a Yankees fitted cap, something I never would have noted or associated myself with all those years ago.
“You go first,” he said.
“No, you.”
“Come on, Tommy, speak.”
“No. Is your family okay?”
“Everyone fine. Go on.”
“Go on with what, Perry? I got no story. You’ve got a story.”
“Let’s get some alcohol—hah?”
We moved to the bar. The bartender placed two Heinekens before Perry without asking, and he lifted his chin to me. Perry ordered me a Hennessy for some reason.
“Welcome back to New Orleans, Tommy.”
“Happy to be home.”
“So this your home, huh? Glad to hear that.”
“It certainly feels like it. So your family is fine. What about everyone else from the hotel?”
“Oh. Well, now, which ones?”
“Come on, Perry. All of them. Debra?”
“She back. Lost her mother, though. Went through it with her little boy, you know her son, right? He had a bad time of it. Next.”
“Roy?”
“He back too. Crazy as ever. Still in housekeeping. Got a new tattoo and everything.”
“Something about the storm?”
“Nah. Dude got another gun for some reason! Right on his tiny forearm. Shit is ridiculous!”
“Sanford?”
“Oh, man, he gone.”
“Where?”
“He dead, Tommy. Before the storm. Sanford got shot up on Rampart Street.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, you know how it is, cops won’t tell you shit. Maybe he was in on something, they say he had a gun too, but lots of people got guns, he might a just been passing through. Who knows, but he gone. Had a nice funeral, though, you should have been there. Real nice. We all danced and it was beautiful. That was all before the storm, though, but it was a real nice service. All love and everyone dancin’ to a brass band. I paid for the brass band. But it was beautiful. You get good music for my funeral, you hear? You hear? That was before the storm, though.”
We sat in silence for a long time. The bar wasn’t empty, but it did seem quieter than I remembered. The flood had left large eddies of silence in its wake, tiny reoccurring pockets where New Orleanians would sit mute over a drink, memories rushing like a strong current through their minds before they’d blink, be back at the bar, and find their voices and drinks again, find something to say about something.
I spent the long weekend with Perry and my other friends, walking the city like a tourist but loving every bar, every pissy corner. The French architecture leaned out and over me, a strong change from the straight-cut shiny skyscrapers of New York. I found myself stepping into the street to bypass a slow-moving couple, and it wasn’t until Sunday I discovered I wasn’t in a rush anymore and eased up on the throttle to enjoy the hug-like heat and sweet smell of garbage and culture that fills the air in the Quarter. Though the devastation was tremendous just outside the city, downtown and uptown were perfectly intact, including a bevy of new paint jobs, mostly bold and vibrant color choices. I did hear something new for the first time in the city: Spanish. Strains of Mexican music and a new population, brought in to rebuild after the storm, added to the music and life that floated along the streets. It just made it better: another spice.
I took a bottle to the Mississippi River. Where else would I go to be alone? I sat out my final night, watching shipping boats push hard and slow against the strong brown current, heading upriver. The Mississippi Queen belted out a howl and departed for a river tour. The commuter ferry crossed back and forth from the Northshore, passengers leaning over the rail, happy, and they all seemed to be in love or at least drunk. The homeless walked slowly along the wooden boards that framed the river’s edge and smiled at me, nodding. People biked by, and trumpeters walked along behind the benches, playing slow jazz over the lapping hiss of the dirty river, not even playing for money, but playing for themselves and this town. And me.
But I had to return to New York, didn’t I? I had clients who depended on me, and my wallet depended on them. I thought fondly of Julie, missing our evenings on rooftops where the city exploded around us, keeping our feet steady while we slowly sipped twenty-three-dollar cocktails, the buildings shooting over our heads. In that way I missed New York. I knew the city was not mine forever, that I would leave it. Perhaps I should leave it. Even after the New Orleans expenses, my savings account was growing, and travel was once again an option. I felt a frantic need to return and take advantage of everything New York provided. My time up north felt as if it were coming to a quick and harsh closing, and I didn’t want to miss any of it. New Orleans, the storm, Perry, the river: they all reminded me not to take anything for granted. It all washes away, and we are all washed away with it. So when the ground is steady and the sky is clear, we should breathe deep until our lungs inflate against our ribs and hold in that one breath until we are light-headed with the privilege of being alive. The absolute privilege of bei
ng human.
I began to consider, upon the thought of “permanently” relocating, everything New York had made me. When I arrived, I was like a half-carved sculpture, my personality still an undefined image. But the city wears you down, chisels away at everything you don’t need, streamlines your emotions and character until you are hard cut, fully defined, and perfect like a Rodin sculpture. That is something truly wonderful, the kind of self-crystallization not available in any other city. But then, if you stay too long, it keeps on wearing you down, chipping away at traits you cherish, character that you’ve earned. Stay forever, and it will grind you down to nothing.
Well, then, ma’am, would you like to play a game? How about this. I’ve got a three-digit room number put aside for you. If you can tell me which city’s area code it is, then you get a free bottle of red wine. Sound good?”
“Really? Sure! Okay, I’m ready!”
“I have you in room 504.”
“Um … I don’t know. Darn it. Houston?”
“Oh! So close. Five zero four is the New Orleans area code.”
“New Orleeens! I love New Orleeens,” she said, pronouncing it incorrectly. “But I never would have gotten it …”
“You love New Orleans? Well, then, I’m sending you the wine anyway! Enjoy, and welcome to the Bellevue.” I passed the keys to a bellman with a smile. Ben snatched them from me with a disapproving frown.
He came right back down.
“What’s the matter with you, Tom?”
“I feel good.”
“Clearly. You’d better get a handle on that.”
“I’m refreshed, you know? I got nice and centered down there.”
“You’re a real douche when you’re happy.”
We both had a nice laugh about that. But it wasn’t long before the job started hacking at my soul, cleaving at my heart, wearing me down again. Not long as in three hours.
A guest was already attacking me.
“You think this is funny? I stay here ten times a year. That makes me one of your top guests. You’d better get me the room number I was guaranteed right now, or you are going to be in serious trouble.”
A couple of things were dead wrong with this businessman’s thinking. First of all, we never guarantee room numbers. The worst mistake an employee can make is to promise a room number. Anything can happen: extensions, flooding from the room above, a murder, someone else paid me twenty for a nice view and I already gave it away.
Second of all, ten times a year does not make anyone a top guest. We’ve got people who clock two hundred nights a year. Anal-Block-Stein even has that beat. This current guest’s ten-night-a-year/two-grand-in-revenue was like a small black mark on the lobby floor; it doesn’t mean jack shit to anyone, especially not the GM.
This guest here, Asshole A, apparently was also the type of idiot willing to take it one step further and really point out his ignorance of the situation.
“I will never stay here again, do you realize that? I will take my business to the Plaza. What do you think about that?”
Though I couldn’t say it out loud, here is exactly what I thought about that: “Well, sir, I imagine it would be impossible for me to care less! Please, stay at the Plaza. We don’t want low-revenue/high-entitlement guests like you pushing your way into our lobby anyway. Plus, do you think I own stock? Think of it this way: Perhaps McDonald’s gets your order wrong, maybe they overcooked your fries into little black sticks. Would you attempt to use this logic on the fry cook? Promise to only eat at Burger King? No, you wouldn’t. Because they are just fry cooks. They don’t care about McDonald’s revenue stream, sir. And here, dear guest, I am just a fry cook. Stay anywhere else, it’ll only make me happy not to see you.”
Threatening a front desk agent gets you nowhere. Well, that’s not true. It gets you into a worse room. I have broken blocks, taken rooms from people who were even pre-reged into a gorgeous room just because their attitude was off. They never even knew they were originally set to see Central Park in one of the corner rooms with the big bathroom. I took it from them just because they yelled at their wives or manhandled their wives’ elbows in a way I didn’t appreciate.
It might not be pretty, but it’s important we cover this topic. Because that’s just the beginning of the ways I can and will punish guests. I am a god of instant karma. Instant. No waiting for it to kick in. No four to six weeks for delivery. If a guest makes a racist comment about a cabdriver, the backlash comes now. If some ignorant guest thinks it’s at all appropriate to make homophobic comments to anyone around me, much less directly to me, I dispense justice: Harsh. Instantaneous. Justice.
Por ejemplo: Speaking of area codes, one of the most wonderful tools at my disposal is putting a guest into a certain room on the twelfth floor. What is so punishing about this room? Nothing by the look of it: a decent room by all accounts. However, if I put you in room 1212, your phone will not stop ringing with wrong numbers. Why? Well, a surprising number of guests never seem to learn that from every hotel phone you have to dial out. In general, to place any call, one must press 9 prior to dialing, local or otherwise. So all day, and believe me, all night, idiots dispersed throughout the building will pick up their phones and try to straight dial a local number, starting with 1-212. Whatever they press after that matters not because they have already dialed room 1212, and 1212’s guest will constantly pick up the 3:00 a.m. call and hear the loud mashing of other numbers or some drunk guest saying, “Hello? Hello? Who is this?”
“What time is it? Why are you calling me? Who is this?”
“I’d like to order the Szechuan chicken please? Excuse me? Is this Happy Family Palace?”
All day. All night. Just like that.
As early as my second year, I invented the “key bomb,” and it became instant protocol. A move someone, perhaps a bellman, could request.
“Yo, Tommy,” Trey would say to me, pulling me to the side of the desk, “key bomb this dude. He called the cabbie something racist. Something I hopefully never have to hear again.”
“You got it, Trey-Trey.”
When I cut the keys for a bomb, I do it a little differently. Any arriving guest should receive what’s referred to as “initial keys,” which are programmed to reset the door lock when they are first inserted, deactivating all previous keys. Guests seem to think these locks are supercomputers, connected to the system wirelessly, hence if they check out at the desk and realize they forgot something in the safe, they ask me if their keys will still work. I inform them they certainly will. Again, they point out that I just checked them out. But, man alive, they will still work until they auto-expire at a certain date and time (designated automatically at check-in and set for 3:00 p.m. the day they depart). Not until the keys expire or a new “initial key” enters the lock will their keys fail to work.
Therefore, dear guests, if you ever extend, even if the front desk forgets to inform you (which we will), then, YES, you need new keys. (You’re welcome, my front desk people! I just told everyone all at once!)
And NO they do not have your personal information on them, with credit card info, passport number, and the ages of your children. Who started that rumor, I know not. Why the hell would we put personal info on a disposable key card?
But back to the key bomb. If I wanted to, I could actually go ahead and never even program your keys, just hand you any old set and send you up to battle that red light over and over before dragging your bags back down to get new keys, keys that I could again refuse to program correctly, though it looks as if I did, since I ran them through the programmer but authorized them for the health club only. That might draw heat, though, which is why the key bomb is so gorgeous. What I do is cut one single “initial key,” then start over and cut a second “initial key.” Either one of them will work when you get to the room. Slide one in; you get green, and as long as you keep using the very first key you slipped in, all will be well. But chances are you’ll pop in the second key at some point, and then the
first key you used will be considered, as far as the dumb-ass lock is concerned, an old key and invalid. Without a doubt, at some point after that, you will be locked outside your room, jamming your first key into the slot, fighting that damn red light, or maybe the yellow light (whatever the yellow light means, I don’t know, but it won’t get you in either). And that’s the key bomb. Trace that back to me? Not a chance. Trace that back to the fact you told your nine-year-old daughter to shut her mouth while harshly ripping off her tiny backpack right in front of me at check-in? Never.
I also happen to know the electronic curtains are not functioning in room 3217, and it gets loads of morning sun in there. Good luck sleeping in.
Recently, I called Perry, and he related a story told to him by a bellman friend at another property. Among all get-backs there is a king. And this might be it.
“So this ma’fucker has fourteen bags. Takes me three goddamn trips, up and down, up and down. I’m feeling lovely about it, I mean, this dude’s one of the greatest athletes who ever lived, not to mention he’s up in that movie money. Dude is getting paid, and here I am poised to pocket some trickle down. So I lay his last bag on the carpet, actually wipe some sweat from my forehead, and this dude gives me a handshake, nothing in it, just a friendly ma’fuckin’ handshake and a smile. A Walt Disney zip-a-dee-doo-dah smile, and I almost lost my shit. He closed the door on me. I’d heard he was famous for being cheap, but I didn’t believe it, especially not with the work I put in. So, damn, it’s not like I could miss him coming out of the lobby, and it’s not like I didn’t know he’d be doing his thing live at the Superdome for the next four hours. So I strolled back up to his room, unlocked the door, and went into his bathroom. He’d unpacked, laid all his luggage out, and I was gonna do a couple laps with his toothbrush in my ass … until it hit me. Boom. I mean, the man has his own cologne, and he actually wears it. So I unscrew the top, pour out a bit of the bottle into the sink, and fill it back up. With my own piss. The color was a perfect match. Gave the bottle a little shaky-shake, squirted a few clouds to get it going. And then I walked on out. Felt pretty good about it too when I saw him pimp through the lobby that night on his way to some party, looking sharp and smelling like bellman piss. Professional athletes, my man. They are some cheap-ass ma’fuckers.”