by Jacob Tomsky
But those were just the desk people. The bellmen and doormen were, if I may say, pretty unhappy about the turn of events. Some of the sentiment was based on honest friendship. But most of it was due to the fact that I was efficient and I earned for them. While other agents would take fifteen minutes for a simple check-in, irritating the guests in line, which, in turn, directly affected the size of a tip, I was handing out fronts and ushering in guests like a traffic cop, just running them through with a wave of my arm like, “Go, go, go!”
In fact, one voice mail, one of the greatest of my life, came from Mario the doorman an hour after I was fired and went pretty much like this, but, you know, in a grimy Italian New York accent: “You see what happens? You see what happens when you take twenty bucks from me? You little fuck, you. Don’t worry about a thing. My boys at the union will have you back on Tuesday, kid. And don’t get too whacked-out over the weekend, you little fuck, you.”
Okay, so that was maybe the sweetest voice mail I’d ever received. If you don’t understand at all why that voice mail is sweet, then perhaps, in a certain way, I have failed in these pages.
The comment about the twenty I allegedly took from him concerned an event that occurred a week prior to the letter incident. A rock band, as they are known to do, tipped out Mario $500 Bennys in cash, as opposed to charging it to an account where it gets taxed (imagine how much they hate that). It was then Mario’s responsibility to divide up the cash among the bell and door staff working. He spread the hundreds out to the three working desk agents to break down and came back later to collect the twenties for the boys, just grabbing the stacks and heading back outside. As he passed them out, getting rid of more and more bills and getting it down to just his share, he found that after he paid out the last bellman, his own cut was twenty short. The math hadn’t worked. First thing he did was hit up all the bellmen and doormen and see if he overpaid. He didn’t. Then he came to the desk and stared us all down. One of us, he thought, shorted him on the change. How did he decide it was me? That was part of the joke. He knew I was the only one who would never cheat him.
Mario had even run tests on me during my first year. A bellman is supposed to be in the lobby, hence when he passes you a stack to turn into a brick he can, and certainly will, loom over you and supervise the count. Conversely, a doorman, with his big coat and silly hat, isn’t really supposed to be loitering in the lobby. He’s an outdoor creature. So when he wants a stack converted, he has to leave it with me and come back later to pick up the dirty dancer. The first time Mario handed me a stack to convert, my count was $105. I handed him back a brick and a fiver, and he said, “Oh, shit. Must have counted wrong.” No problem, I said. Two weeks later he handed me $102 and then the next month $105 again. I always, always returned the overage and thought to myself: “This dude can’t count for shit.” I would never have known what he was doing if it hadn’t been for the first time he handed me an even $100 and when I passed him back a crisp slice he looked me in the eye and said, “You’re a good kid.” All of those off counts had been a test.
So Mario knew I would never steal from him, and he chose to joke out his anger on me because all the other desk agents would take him to HR for even accusing them of stealing and then, on top of that, point out to HR that breaking those bills isn’t a desk agent’s job and his choosing to put us in that position depleted our banks and made it difficult to provide change for the customers when that’s actually why we have the banks and … blah blah blah bullshit. You see how exhausting it was just reading that? Imagine a tough-ass Italian New Yorker having to sit through that childish tantrum in HR. It was just easier for him to spend the next week saying, “Tommy, you shitty little thief. I need my twenty by sundown, or I’ll break your shitty little legs.”
“And don’t get too whacked-out over the weekend, you little fuck, you.”
I failed to take his advice on that one. Those happy hour drinks propelled me back to Brooklyn, to drop off my life garbage, and then right back out the door. I suppose the Mafia tones present in his voice mail put me in the mood to walk into a Mafia bar, one close to my apartment that I’d always wanted to enter but never entered because it looks like the place they will kill you for entering. But I was drunk, so I did it.
Yeah, it was uncomfortable for the first few drinks, but since I was tipping more than properly, the bartender came over and asked me about my Friday. I said I’d been fired. He said he was real sorry, kid. I said I was a dues-paying union member.
That he liked. He said, “No shit? Well, friend, sorry about your troubles. Here’s a whiskey on me, and let me know if you want to blast off, okay, friend?”
“I will, thank you,” I said, taking down the whiskey. As far as “blasting off,” I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.
Two more rounds and he came back and put something beside my beer. A tiny baggy. A tiny baggy filled with white powder.
Now, I know. I know. Never touched the stuff. Ever. Been surrounded by it plenty of times. In fact, I sat in the very back of the historic Ziegfeld Theatre in midtown with a few bellmen, watching a special screening of the New York classic Saturday Night Fever, and while everyone else got skied up, rubbing their noses and laughing their asses off, I just stuck to the bottle of vodka we were passing around. I had too much to lose then.
Now I had nothing to lose. I sent out a call to Julie but, sadly, I hadn’t heard a word. So I pushed back my stool and went to the bathroom.
Blast off.
Thirty-one years old and doing key bumps of coke for the first time, alone, in a Mafia bathroom. I would have done it off my hotel bank key, for style, but I had turned that in along with my bank and everything else that symbolized my entire New York life up to that point.
I looked at myself in the mirror, lowering my apartment key from my face. Even for this, for this, I blame the goddamn hotel business.
Next day I felt, well, horrible. My phone kept ringing with false condolences, and I wasn’t picking up. I wasn’t responding to anyone. The plan was currently to sit in my apartment alone and be alone and stay alone and then, way later, figure something out. Maybe in like two weeks.
“My boys at the union will have you back on Tuesday, kid.”
The union didn’t even wait past Monday to ruin my current plan of hiding from life. How? By fighting for my job. A union rep called me at home that Monday, where I sat wearing pajamas and a New Orleans Saints winter hat, listlessly researching Cape Town, and drinking Heineken for breakfast. I learned, squinting at the phone, that apparently I already had an appointment. I was to meet my business rep at the Bellevue, in human resources, 9:00 a.m. tomorrow. Tuesday.
The case against me turned out to be weak. First of all, my delegate stepping down, which I assumed to be a terrible turn of events, ended up altering the characters involved and turning the scene into a “he said, she said” case with no third-party witnesses. Anything that happened or didn’t happen was all opinion without the corroboration of my delegate, the only other party in the room. And Orianna had refused to put her statement in writing. Good girl. Good union girl.
She had given verbal testimony, however. Bad girl. Bad union girl. But when my business rep noticed that management had handwritten her verbal testimony to make it look like written testimony, it was thrown out immediately. Suspiciously, Sara and my delegate’s testimony had the same handwriting. Management had in fact put words in my delegate’s mouth, incriminating words that were now unsubstantiated. Without a valid testimony they didn’t have a case at all.
And just like that the gods in hell fired me another name tag.
With a few stipulations.
Clearly, as far as expressions of anger or frustration, it’s a zero-tolerance situation: if I drop a pen at the desk, I better have a witness willing to testify I didn’t hurl it in a rage. Further, and here is where it gets really, absurdly good, human resources threw in six months of mandatory Anger Management Group Therapy. Every Tuesday, an h
our a week, for half a goddamn year, plus two private counseling sessions a month. Not to mention a general psych evaluation, which I passed with flying colors, thank you very much. They also tacked on a three-week unpaid suspension, trying to starve me out. Those three weeks were like an extended mental leave for me and, coincidentally, gave me the time to embark on this project it seems you might be enjoying, since we are quickly coming to the end.
Anger Management Group Therapy? I need Heads in Beds II to cover all of that.
Surprisingly, no complaints from me. You know how much a movie ticket costs in Manhattan? AMGT, that’s my Emmy-winning television. The class comprised union hotel workers, only my hotel-motel-trade-union people, half of whom are in “job jeopardy,” as I am, and the other half of whom are in what you might call “life jeopardy.” Imagine me telling my letter-tosser story a semicircle away from the carpet cleaner who just told his story of … well, you probably couldn’t even imagine. But trust me, it is not boring.
So this is me now, head lowered, all “yes, sir” and “no, sir,” just like McMurphy in the final pages of Ken Kesey’s One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, minus the friendly Native American willing to hold a pillow over my face until I stop kicking.
I float into work, friendless (my co-workers took me for terminated and had already come to expect my better shifts and holidays off; therefore, my return was unwanted. I can’t really blame them for despising me, I guess). I drift into group therapy every week, where my AMGT attendance seniority has now garnered me some respect and the group accepts me.
Do I have increased motivation to perform with excellence at the desk? Yeah, no. Don’t think so. My main focus is simple: Don’t get fired.
Dead man clocking in, dead man clocking out.
Oh, hotels.
You made me a whore and then beat me for whorishness. And I cannot seem to leave the business. As I said, the reason any ho stays a ho: it takes a serious motherfucker to turn off a money valve.
And unions will not protect our pride; that we must defend on our own.
Those who do not have will always serve those who do.
Hotel employees: I did this for us.
And you, dear, sweet guests: See you at the reception desk.
(Try not to give me a hard time, okay? I got fuckin’ anger issues.)
Things a Guest Should Never Say
“My credit card declined? That’s impossible. Run it again.”
Man, don’t make me run it again. If your CC declines once, it will, without question, decline again. Your card is not a crumpled old dollar, and the banking system is not a stubborn vending machine. That’s not how the banking system works. You need to call your bank.
And, no, you can’t use my phone.
“They told me I should ask for an upgrade.”
Who the fuck is they? Oh, they. Well, they told me to remind you to tip the doorman.
“Don’t you remember me?”
Let me think about this … average of five hundred guest interactions a day … it’s been two years since you stayed with us. So that’s a clean quarter of a million separate interactions between now and your last stay. Wait … Wait! No. No, I don’t remember you.
“Do I really have to show my ID? Ugh, I just checked in an hour ago. It’s not my fault you weren’t here.”
Anger rising. Need to attend Anger Management Group Therapy. How about you just hand over the goddamn ID anytime anyone in the world whose job it is to ask for an ID asks for an ID.
Things a Guest Should Never Do
Do not continue your phone conversation during the entire check-in.
Can you imagine how it feels, as a human, to be part of someone else’s effort to multitask? While you say to the phone, “Uh-huh. Yeah. Yeah, well, I told her they wouldn’t go for it. I know these people,” I get the lift of an eyebrow, side-glances, brief and uninterested head nods thrown in my direction indicating your main focus remains on your call, perhaps a moment where you hold the phone slightly away from your ear to benevolently allow me 5 percent of your attention. That call will end in five minutes. But because you treated me like an automatic check-in machine, this room I’m giving you will plague your whole stay. And also I key bombed you.
Do not snap the credit card down on my desk.
You know this one, where you press the card down with your thumb and use your index finger to bend the front corner of the card up and then release it so it snaps authoritatively and loudly on my desk? You just made me hate you!
Do not try to describe someone without ethnicity when ethnicity could be key.
“I gave my claim check to a bellman, and he never came back.” “What’s he look like, so I can go find him?” “Well … he was kind of tall. Not too tall. He … I don’t know, I don’t think he had facial hair. Maybe mid-thirties. I mean, he was dressed like a bellman, but I guess that doesn’t help. Um, well, he was … about as tall as you?” “Ma’am, was he white, black, Asian?” “Oh, well, Asian.” “Okay, that was Jeremy. I’ll go find out what happened.”
Do not make me use your cell phone.
Sometimes it’s necessary. Sometimes the person on your phone has the CC info I need or the confirmation number. I just don’t want to use your cell phone. But I guess I have to, so, here, give it to me.
Do not bring up the beautiful weather to people stuck inside at work all day.
That’s just one tough side effect of working in a business that accommodates people on vacation. Vacationers, God bless them, sometimes forget that the whole world isn’t on vacation too. “Oh. My. GOD!! It is so gorgeous in Central Park right now!! Look at it out there!! Just look at it!!” Are you fucking with me? Look at it? Just look at it? You must be aware that all I can do is look at it, just stare out the lobby doors, and wish to high hell I wasn’t working. Next time I have a vacation I’m going to come to your office and rub it all over your face.
Do not ask your husband to ask me something when I can hear you asking him to ask me because I am standing right here.
This one kills me. “Oh, honey, ask him for extra towels.” Usually, the husband will just turn to me and raise an eyebrow. If I’m feeling slightly confrontational (or froggy, as they sometimes say in New York), I will just stare back at him. I’ll make him do it. Come on, honey, ask me.
Do not hold out your hand for the change you’re waiting on.
You know, when I am still counting it out but your hand is there, in front of me, floating in the air, waiting while I count, empty, implying impatience, and uselessly reasserting the fact that the money I am counting belongs to you. Relax, buddy. It’s coming. You look like a five-year-old with your hand out like that.
Things Every Guest Must Know
You don’t have to pay for the in-room movies either!
Even those of you who shook your heads and blushed when I offered up the minibar might find yourselves morally creative enough to steal a movie. Simply because, whereas the minibar items must be replaced, causing a loss in revenue, for the in-room movie service the hotel usually pays a flat subscription fee, meaning there is no loss of product, no item that needs replacing. Watching a movie and claiming you never watched a movie has no negative effect on the hotel’s revenue stream. It just doesn’t have a positive one. So stop blushing, and we’ll take it in three steps:
1. Watch and enjoy any movie (any movie).
2. Call down and say you accidentally clicked on it. Or it cut off in the middle. Or froze near the end. Or never even started. Would you like them to restart the movie for you? No thanks. You need to go to bed/leave now. Just remove the charge, please.
3. Order another movie, and this time hit up the minibar as if it were an unmanned concession stand!
How to Avoid a Same-Day Cancellation Penalty.
First of all, this little move will not work with anything prepaid online, only “natural” reservations, booked through any channel as long as it’s not prepaid.
Let us assume, for whatever reason,
it’s 10:00 p.m. and you have a reservation for this evening. However, you will not be making it in. At all. Should you resign yourself to the fact that you will be charged a no-show fee? Should you erase all memory of the reservation and blissfully hope that no-show fees are not real and your credit card will not be charged a full night’s room and tax?
The fee is very real. And it charges automatically.
So do this: Call the property directly and ask for the front desk.
“Good evening, thank you for calling the front desk, my name is Doesn’t Matter, how can I assist you?”
“Excuse me, are you the manager?”
If the person says yes, hang up and call back. What we want here is certainly not the manager.
“No, I am not. Would you like to speak to the manager?”
“No, actually, I just have a quick request. I think you can help me. Well, I was supposed to fly in late tonight, but my twelve-year-old daughter is sick—”
Let me stop you right there, dear guest. Sure, you need a reason, but what you don’t need is a forty-five-minute story. Remember, it’s me on the other end of that line: I’ve got about ten minutes left in my double shift, and I’ve been standing up for thirteen hours straight. Try again.
“No, actually, I just have a quick request. I think you can help me. I’ve had a personal emergency and won’t be able to check in tonight; HOWEVER, I have already rescheduled my meeting for next week. Do you think you could just shift tonight’s reservation to next Friday without a penalty?”
“Sure. Next Friday, the twenty-fourth, all set. Same confirmation number. See you then.”