by Jacob Tomsky
I took a lunch break, starting the countdown timer on my smart phone to make it back exactly on time. The managers were still tracking employees with the security cameras to crack down on extended lunches. In order to take a break, you had to call the manager’s office so the manager could queue up the video monitors on the computer screen (a new feature they had installed that could be accessed from any computer, anywhere. In fact, rumor was Tremblay would watch it from home, spying, and call in various infractions).
Work Environment of the Year Award goes to … Hotel 1984.
After lunch I almost felt better until some seventeen-year-old trust-fund toddler in a pink polo started treating me like his pool cleaner. I had just gotten back, I looked up, and in seconds this kid was going at me hard. Apparently, reservations promised him a room with two king beds. He, or his mother, booked through Expedia and then called Expedia directly to confirm his seventeen-year-old special requests.
Outside agencies know absolutely nothing about specific properties. In fact, even if it’s a large chain, it will have “central reservations,” which is some remote desk in India or Canada, and the agents there generate reservations for more than five hundred properties, five hundred buildings they will never, ever see. Certainly the system lists the features, bed types, views, and other property-specific info, but it is fallible. If you truly want to know what you booked and what that means, you have to call the property itself. You have to call me at the desk, and I will tell you exactly what you’re getting. In fact, especially if it’s an extended stay or an important reservation, having a contact at the hotel proper is invaluable. You can even prearrange a hustle and upgrade with a simple question like, “Will you be there the day I check in? I really would like to personally thank you for taking care of me.” That is code for, or should be code for, I will give you money if you stay on top of my reservation and hook me up. I’ve met and started long-term relationships with clients that stemmed from preemptive phone calls such as this.
But now, this kid, who confirmed his details with Expedia, a company thrice removed from us, is screaming at me, demanding to have what was promised. He wants his two king beds. We don’t have rooms with two king beds, they don’t exist, and I just wasn’t strong enough to let this kid’s attitude slide. Another day I might have been able to pull this one off without getting involved. But that day I slipped into “teach a lesson” mode. As I relayed the information, apologizing that Expedia misinformed him about our property and reiterating that we simply don’t have that type of bed layout and can we perhaps talk about other forms of accommodation because I assure you we can find something that will satisfy blah blah blah bullshit, he cuts me off again, slapping his soft, never-worked-a-day-in-his-life hand down on the desk to silence me. Like a crazy person, he once again demands I provide him with two king beds. I looked at his mother at this point, pleading. She determinedly avoided my look.
I then proceeded to politely, oh so sarcastically, offer to build him a room big enough for his two king beds, if he wants to wait two months. I looked again at his mother, and, let me just say this now, she herself lived in fear of her own child. Her expression was indecipherable, but in her eyes I’m sort of sure she was apologizing to me for her son’s attitude. But then this terrible teenager turned on his mother, giving her a look of control and hatred. The mother split open her face to ask for a manager. The kid crossed his arms in victory and stared at where my name tag should be. I knew what kind of day it was going to be after I chewed up that old man’s slippers: it’s like that sometimes, the job has a temperature, a feeling in the air, a discernible evilness. Today, sensing an evil wind was blowing, I took my name tag off immediately after dealing with that old man.
I informed them that I would absolutely call a manager and said I was sorry I couldn’t assist them. It didn’t even matter that I wasn’t wearing a name tag, because every time I alter or touch a reservation, my personal log-in code embeds itself in the system. In this case, like a blood trail.
Sara, like a bloodhound, happened to be approaching the desk at that very moment. I made the introductions and moved on to help the next guest, who was abreast of the whole situation and already had that facial expression I cherish: “Hey, you were in the right on that one and your job sucks, and I promise I won’t give you a hard time.”
Two hours later, I clocked out with a long sigh, slipped my ID card back into my wallet, and almost smashed into Sara. She’d only been here for two months; two months and she’d made negative-twenty friends.
There are all types of managers out there. I remember once, back in New Orleans, I found myself walking out of the building with Trish, my first FOM, the one who saw my potential in valet and invited me to the front desk. It had been a long day for both of us, and we were headed to the Alibi to drink a bit with the crew. That’s how you want things to be in a hotel: everyone drinking together at the bar, planning trips to go bowling, meeting up at Jazz Fest. If you look forward to hanging out with your co-workers outside the job, then performance inside the job will be stellar. It also has the side effect of everyone banging everyone, but, you know, that builds morale in a way too, so might as well let us go at each other.
It was a warm August night, the heat close to our faces, the roaches scurrying happily from trash piles to vomit, people strolling slowly toward Bourbon Street with sweating drinks, the live music perfect for the evening, all the harsh edges of the sound mellowed and smooth. Maybe because we had walked there together, maybe that’s why, but near the end of the night we met up at the edge of the bar to order our “last” drink and stayed together talking. She told me about my potential, but not in a bullshit way. She mentioned my drive and dedication, pointing out only two flaws I needed to watch out for:
One: I made too many jokes.
Two: I had a slight problem with authority.
Ha, ha, ha. No shit.
She then gave me a chunk of advice. “You’ll be a manager soon, Tommy. Everyone likes you and believes in you. But before that happens, take the time to analyze the managers you have now. Pay attention to the way they treat you and the rest of the staff. Are they too friendly? Not friendly enough? Are they enforcers? Company drones? Too lenient or never, ever lenient? Just keep your eye on them, watch how their attitudes either cause or eliminate problems, and then, when you get to be a manager, you can pick and choose the type of manager you want to be, the type of manager your employees will think you are. Start thinking about that now, and you’ll be successful.”
This new manager at the Bellevue, Sara, was an enforcer. The hotel hired her away from Trump International two months ago, and recently I had the opportunity to do some recon. Julie and I, in our meandering yet loving way, were back together. She threw herself another fancy birthday party, this time at another fancy hotel. Knowing she’d want me in attendance, she booked at the Trump, and I went with her to oversee the check-in process, make sure everything went smoothly. Then we planned to rough up the bed before her friends arrived. (We ended up roughing up the bathroom. Anyone seen the Trump bathrooms? So much marble and gold it’s like banging in Versailles! I swear I heard trumpets and shit!) Sara had been with us for only one week at that time, and so far she was all smiles, waiting to get the lay of the land, much as a new sergeant dropped into the middle of Vietnam might want to hang back a bit before loading the rifle and starting to fire at the trees.
In between dropping tens on every front desk agent who looked my way (which got us the larger, fuck-worthy bathroom, wine, and, most conveniently, a late checkout), I asked about Sara, what kind of manager she was.
“Oh, she’s wonderful! We were devastated to lose her!”
What the hell was this nonsense? Had I not mentioned I was a front desk agent?
“Yeah, yeah,” I countered, leaving another ten on the desk, “but anything to watch out for?”
This agent gave me a psychotic smile, like a doll smile, as if her face were going to break. What were they
doing to these people? Did this woman have electrodes clipped to her body that administered a hot current of electricity every time a negative word was uttered? I let it go because she was frightening me.
Would we like a bellman to accompany us to the room? Yes, we certainly would.
“We don’t really have luggage, Thomas,” Julie pointed out.
“I know. I’ll take care of the tip. Let’s just give our man here a front.”
On the way to the elevator I mentioned I was front desk at the Bellevue. In the elevator up I mentioned I was union and inquired about the strength of the union here. Once we hit the floor, I asked about Sara. He gave me a flat statement about how she was fine. I gave him a twenty and said, “Hey, come on, man, just let me know. Me and the boys are getting a funny feeling. Anything to watch out for?”
He stopped pulling the cart behind him, which was light with our two small overnight bags. “Don’t trust her smile. Don’t trust her at all.”
Yep.
And now here she was two months later, asking me to get a union delegate and come upstairs.
“Really? Why? I just clocked out, and it’s my Friday.”
She just kept staring at me.
“Okay. Let’s go,” I said.
There were two other people in the bathroom-sized manager’s office, both of them pointing their much calmer gazes at me.
One: Orianna, my union delegate. Your union delegate is your elected advocate. Your uneducated, uninterested advocate. Soon after joining the union, they held elections for the delegate position. Two kinds of people try to be delegates. The first kind are after the perks. To begin with, being a delegate always pulls you off your job, taking you down to HR to hear a case or witness a write-up. Lazy people love being delegates. Also, as a delegate you are essentially bulletproof. It is near impossible to fire a delegate. If one even gets suspended, anywhere in the New York Hotel Workers’ Union circuit, then all the business reps (who actually work for the union) will roll out and protest. It’s a mess. It’s better to just set the delegate free than deal with the fallout. Beyond being bulletproof, a delegate is also unable to go on layoff. The hotel could shut down all but one goddamn room, and there would still be delegates from every department running around the property, waiting for the single guest to request some toilet paper or order a sandwich. In truth, that was what Orianna was after, since she was assimilated late into the realm of the front desk and put in the back of the line seniority-wise. She took the position to secure a paycheck and ensure the Similac kept flowing for that union baby she had.
The second type of person who goes for the delegate position is the shit-talking, fake politician. The kind of person who has little education but loves to try out big words and be in charge, know everyone’s goddamn business, and write little ineffective letters asking for this and demanding that and just generally embarrassing him- or herself with an over-the-top I-am-important attitude.
Which delegate is the better of the two?
It’s not much of a choice.
Perhaps the politician types will be better informed about the policies and loopholes. At least they want to think of themselves as good delegates. But again, they are playing a political game, and often, and this must make them so happy, they make “sacrifices,” bow down to management, let employees go, just to keep up the “dialogue” and make “concessions.” Games like that get good people fired.
There is actually a third kind of delegate, rare, but one that you’d actually want: a delegate who hates management. One who gets angry and thinks every single thing management does is bullshit. Those kinds of troublemakers can actually overturn a decision. They sincerely care about their people and will fight to the death, even if their union member was caught reading the New York Times while taking a shit in the presidential suite master bathroom.
I didn’t have that kind. I had Orianna. Perks.
The second person in the room was Sara: this new manager who came in here with new plans and processes as they all do, more than ready to jump into the Bellevue’s current “the flogging will not stop until morale improves” mentality. And now she was trying to discipline the white whale.
I am the white whale.
I’ve been here for centuries.
I came with the land.
Who does this woman think she is?
“Poor service.” That’s what I am being disciplined for. I can see the term traced huge on the write-up, extremely legibly. Poor service. The livid old man and that sucker-ass pussy in the polo.
I mean, eating shit is part of the job. Hell, eating shit is the job. And I used to have an iron stomach. But that was New Orleans. That was me ten years ago. This is New York. Christ, this is midtown Manhattan. Why can’t I do it anymore? What really changed: I became a semiprofessional alcoholic? Sure. Retaliating against new management? Yes, please. Been working as a front desk agent so long it makes me want to shit out my heart?
Absolutely.
We discuss the events of the day. The breakfast cards. I explain how, to me, her evidence is inadmissible (look at me go, Cop Show!) because I was directly following procedures. How can I be disciplined for any anger resulting from my request that a guest retrieve his original certificates, when two weeks ago there was a memo that said all guests must use their original certificates? You say break eggs, so I break eggs. And then you accuse me of getting the kitchen all dirty and getting salmonella in your mouth. I also pointed out that if I hadn’t been slightly curt with the gentleman, the line behind him would not have moved, and then we’d have guests complaining about the long wait to check in or maybe even silently deciding to find another property for any future New York City stays, one with better, more efficient service.
The kid, the seventeen-year-old. Whatever. I didn’t give Sara many words about that. That kid was out of line. Can I really be responsible for the accusations of a country-club teenager? I explain that perhaps management should take into consideration that his opinion of my attitude might be swayed by the fact he just rocketed through puberty. And he was unreasonable. Only providing him with a nonexistent room would have made him happy! That is the definition of unreasonable: demanding something that isn’t even possible.
“You know, Sara, I have been here for a long, long time. I may have helped 500 guests today. I may have helped 500 yesterday. I help a lot of guests. Out of today’s 500, 498 were pleased or perhaps more than pleased. Now you’ve got an unreasonable child and a man who disagrees vehemently and exclusively with hotel policy, and you are going to write me up? One more write-up after this, and I’ll be suspended pending termination. Does that seem fair to you? Orianna, does that seem fair?”
Orianna heard her name and looked up at me. Then she looked back down at her nails, enjoying the fact that it was a Friday rush down at the desk and she wasn’t hustling keys.
“Tom, you need to improve your attitude at the desk. You have to make every single guest happy. We feel that you are just cruising along, not going ‘above and beyond,’ not even paying attention. You are cold at the desk. Uninterested. Curt. In short: rude. If you cannot do your job properly, it will be our pleasure to fire you and find someone who will.”
And then it happened: I felt as if this woman grabbed my heart and rope-burned it, squeezed its pulpy flesh until blood, hot angry blood, flooded my face and my stomach and pushed the burning lava right to the tips of my fingers. I mean, I guess that’s why my hands were shaking.
I slowly pulled out a stack of letters from my inner suit coat pocket. I had this plan to prove to her how well I actually do my job. On top was a letter I’d received yesterday from a guest I’d helped last month. And I remember him.
He had checked in early, alone, and wanted to get upstairs as soon as possible.
“Please,” he said, “my girlfriend is taking a cab from JFK, and I want to prepare the room. I’m going to propose.”
I hear this a lot. And honestly, it is super pleasant to deal with. The man will
be all nervous and happy and tell me the situation while his soon-to-be-fiancée is helping the doorman get the bags from the car. Then she’ll come inside and be all smiles because maybe she knows but probably she doesn’t, and sometimes there will be notes pre-written on the res that say, “DO NOT UNBLOCK!! Special room for guest who is proposing. DO NOT MENTION PROPOSAL, EITHER.” You actually have to put that last line in there because, frankly, people are morons. I was witness to a co-worker once reading just the “do not unblock—proposal” message, and she smiled and said, “Oh my, congratulations you two!” and the woman was confused and the man tried to wipe the anger off his face and play it off. Then the woman started to pick up on it. It was pretty fucked-up.
But this guy wanted to get in early and prep the room. “Certainly, sir. I’ve got something wonderful. It’s a big upgrade, but I’ll take care of the difference in price.” Okay, you got me: I’m hustling just a tiny bit here. I am going to give it to him anyway, so what’s the harm in mentioning the price difference? He might be feeling generous! “So just let me free the room up. How about you ask her with a view of Central Park as the backdrop?” Earlier that day I’d checked out our Central Park views. It was fall, and the park was gorgeous, the reds and yellows of turning foliage spreading warmly against the long wall of Upper East Side buildings.
“Well, here is the thing. Can I trust you?”
“I am a front desk agent, Mr. Blanchard. You’re goddamn right you can trust me.”
“I need your help, then. I am going to propose in Central Park. I plan on taking her up to the room for a bit and settling in. I hired a photographer, and if you want to help, I’ll give him your name, and he’ll introduce himself. When you see us come back through the lobby, make certain the photographer sees us, and if he doesn’t, signal him to follow us.”