Concierge Confessions

by Valerie Wilcox

  As Mr. Li retreated, another onlooker chimed in. “You ever see one of those guys behind the wheel of a car?” His wisecrack got a hearty laugh or two, but it wouldn’t have taken much for the verbal jabs to turn even nastier.

  Since tossing insults back and forth was a sport that didn’t interest me in the least, I stepped forward. “All right, folks,” I said, raising my hand in the air like a traffic cop. “Don’t worry about a thing. I can handle this.” Ignoring their skeptical looks, I grabbed a step stool from the storage room, kicked off my high heels, and set to work.

  My solution was straightforward—transfer the elevator pads and floor mats from the current elevator to the elevator Mr. Li preferred. The wall pads were lightweight and had several hooks at the top for easy removal—if you could get at them. At five eight, I’m a fairly tall woman, but I still had to stand on tiptoes in order to unhook the pads.

  I didn’t ask for any help from Mr. Li’s able-bodied mover guy or any of the other people standing around watching, nor did I receive any offers. However, I did receive plenty of comments, the gist of which was disapproval. Talk about shock and awe. I guess they were shocked that I had the audacity to change the designated freight elevator without permission, and awed that it took me just a few minutes to do so. But the only one who thought I was Wonder Woman was Mr. Li. Grateful for my simple remedy to his problem, he gave me a deep bow and then entered the elevator with his box-toting mover close behind.

  I was satisfied with the outcome, but the crowd didn’t seem in any hurry to disperse. Show’s over, folks. Time to move along. From their not-so-subtle comments, my brash decision to switch the original freight elevator to one that met feng shui requirements hadn’t been even remotely necessary. Their concerns didn’t bother me. Sometimes a situation required bold action, even though changing the elevator pads and floor mats didn’t qualify as all that bold. As my grandmother used to say, it’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission. But she didn’t work at BellaVilla.

  I had just put the step stool back in the storage room when Peter Westerfield came by to check up on me. Peter was a high-strung type who, believing disaster was just around every corner, gave new meaning to the term micromanager. Eyeballing the mini-mob in the lobby, he asked in near panic mode, “What’s going on?” Peter had a nervous tic which, I’d quickly learned, was as accurate as any barometer to gauge his mood. Given the way the right side of his mouth was twitching like a junkie looking for a fix, I figured he was more than a little upset. To Peter, an empty lobby is a problem-free lobby.

  “Everything’s fine now,” I said, retrieving the high heels I’d shed earlier and slipping them on.

  “Why did you have your shoes off?” BellaVilla had a strict dress code and the concierge uniform—a dark blue skirt, jacket, white blouse, and designer scarf for the women—was to be kept clean and well-pressed at all times. I was okay with the uniform since it made choosing what to wear each morning a snap, but the high heels were overkill. I’d asked to be excused from wearing them because of my problem feet, but Peter had insisted on adhering to a “certain level of formality.” I’m sure he thought I’d ditched the dang things as soon as he was out of sight.

  “I had to take them off when I was on the step stool,” I explained. “It was only for a few minutes.”

  Furious twitching ensued. “Ladder? Why were you on a ladder?”

  “Actually, it wasn’t a ladder.” The technical clarification didn’t seem to make a difference.

  “She changed the freight elevator around,” Mr. Leavy interjected. As a member of the homeowner’s board of directors, he had a certain amount of clout that he threw around at will. Especially in front of an audience. With the full attention of the lobby crowd secured, he proceeded to inform Peter of what had transpired between Mr. Li and me. His version left out how racist and troubling the scene had become before I intervened. The main thing—the only thing that counted—was that I had violated a board-approved rule. Bottom line: I had no authority to change the freight elevator without permission.

  What followed wasn’t pretty. Peter twitched himself into a frenzy as he chewed me out. Mr. Leavy and more than a few of the other residents seemed pleased to see me get my comeuppance. I tried to defend myself, but it was pointless. I was just grateful Mr. Leavy agreed that I should be placed on probation instead of fired.

  “You have to remember,” Peter admonished me later, “the residents we serve here are well capitalized, traveled, sophisticated, and educated. Their level of discernment and sensitivity is refined, as is mine.”

  I suppose he thought he’d put me in my place. Not even close.

  MEMO

  To: Concierge Staff

  From: Peter Westerfield

  Subject: Policies and Procedures

  Based on a recent incident, I want to remind everyone once again of my expectations for the performance of your duties as concierge.

  While you are to assist residents, you are not allowed to change policies or procedures merely to satisfy their personal needs. Example: elevator pads are not to be removed and transferred to another elevator simply because a resident prefers it.

  Your uniform must be immaculate and intact at all times, including footwear.

  The computer on the concierge desk is a tool to better serve our residents and guests. It is not to be used for playing games, surfing the Internet, or e-mailing your friends and families. Although your time on the computer is password protected, I have the ability to monitor your activity as the system administrator. And I do! Violation of our computer policy will result in disciplinary action.

  The concierge desk is not a cafeteria. You are not permitted to eat or drink at the desk. This includes gum chewing. The break room is available for your use, but any time you spend away from the desk must be covered by another staff member. The desk must be manned and kept free of clutter at all times.

  I’ve noticed that some of you spend an inordinate amount of time talking with your fellow employees. This is not acceptable, as it gives the impression you are not working.

  CONFESSION #4

  If a resident is unhappy, everyone is unhappy—with the concierge.

  Attempted murder isn’t as sexy as the real thing. Since Vasily had survived and there were no arrests, the whole episode eventually became a nonissue. That’s not to say there weren’t lingering questions about who had wanted him dead. It just wasn’t the major topic of conversation anymore. The Homeowners’ Association had created several committees that stirred up enough controversy to divert everyone’s attention.

  The committees had various purposes, most of which seemed like a waste of time and energy, especially for the concierge staff. The worst part was dealing with the fallout when a resident didn’t like something the committee had decided.

  The grievance committee’s purpose, as the name implied, was to receive resident complaints and recommend a course of action to resolve the issue. That was all well and good until the offending resident got a harshly worded notice to shape up. Never mind that it was the committee who’d lowered the boom. Unhappy residents took it out on the concierge as a matter of principle.

  The first firestorm I had to deal with would’ve been comical if it hadn’t caused so much turmoil. The complaining party was Amy Windham, a gorgeous brunette in her late twenties with an outgoing, bubbly personality. Amy was a financial advisor in a big firm downtown and often stopped by the concierge desk to chat a few minutes on her way home from work. I always looked forward to her visits, but I could’ve done without this social call.

  “It’s got to stop now!” she screeched. “I can’t take it anymore.”

  When I finally got her calmed down enough to tell me the problem, it took every ounce of concierge self-restraint I’d developed to keep a straight face. The gist of her complaint was that the residents of Unit 2405 in the other tower never closed their drapes. The way the towers were situated meant that Amy had a perfect view of their living spaces. Ord
inarily, this wouldn’t have been a big deal. Keeping drapes open all the time was not against the extensive list of rules spelled out in the condo’s covenants and restrictions. The problem was that the three roommates—a man and two women—were engaging in some ways of living that Amy found objectionable.

  “I don’t appreciate looking out my window and seeing naked people cavorting like animals. They fornicate day and night in every room in the condo. I’ve even seen them engaged in a threesome on the kitchen counter!”

  Although she claimed to be offended by the behavior, Amy didn’t come off as a prude in either dress or manner. Her photo was frequently in the “About Town” section of the newspaper, usually with a champagne glass in her hand and surrounded by a number of young men.

  I was tempted to tell her that she should call me whenever these trysts happened again. I’d hurry right up and take a look. After all, no matter how offensive or disgusting, a conscientious concierge should always investigate the situation. But Amy was far too worked up to appreciate any lame jokes. So instead, I assured her I would submit her complaint to the committee.

  “Please do it as soon as possible,” she said. “This foolishness needs to stop.”

  I don’t know whether it stopped, but the drapes were shut, although not without some protest. As I expected, the “cavorting” residents complained about Amy’s complaint.

  “Why’s she spying on us, anyway? She should just close her own drapes if she’s so offended. The weather here is dreary enough without having to keep our windows covered up all the time.”

  They filed a counter grievance alleging that Amy had asked to join them and retaliated when they turned down her request. The committee decided that retaliation or not, unit drapes or blinds must be shuttered if intimate activities could be viewed by any other resident. Their reasoning was that the two towers were situated in such close proximity that reasonable accommodation to the sensitivity of others should be taken.

  Everyone had an opinion about what constituted intimate activities, but reasonable accommodation was explicitly defined as closing unit drapes or blinds. The penalty for not doing so was a hefty fine. Problem solved.

  As Sam never failed to remind us, “Cold hard cash. It’s the important thing with the country club set. The only thing.”

  I didn’t want to tell him that cash was the important thing for me, too. Luckily, the social committee’s upcoming wine and cheese party coincided with my need to earn more of it. The stated purpose of the social was to have fun, promote community relations, and foster goodwill among the residents. The committee’s chairperson, Danielle Livingston, recruited the concierge staff to pour the wine and pass around the appetizers during the event. I’d signed on right away.

  “I hear you be a waitress now,” Moze said when he made his daily stop at the concierge desk.

  “Yep,” I said. “I can use the overtime.” If I did a good job, I might even get some tips out of the deal. Tips were frowned upon, but we all took them when offered and kept our mouths shut.

  Peter wasn’t happy about paying us overtime, but his budget problems were of no consequence to Danielle and her committee. Like an annoying horsefly, she simply swatted away any concerns that Peter dared to voice. She had an overbearing presence that made her an unlikely person to head the social committee. But her talent as a party planner and ability to get things done tipped the scales in her favor with the rest of the committee.

  Danielle hailed from Texas and, like the state, everything about the woman was big—big hair, big boobs, big money, and big opinions. At six feet two, she towered over Peter, whose nervous facial tic ran amok whenever she came within spitting distance. Trust me, Peter as a quivering mass of protoplasm was not a pretty sight. Danielle’s conscription of the concierge staff prevailed.

  “Who else is working this gig?” Moze asked.

  “Our friend Carla.”

  “She need the dough, too?”

  “I have a feeling it wasn’t the money that caused her to volunteer.” The scuttlebutt was that Carla was trolling for a new sugar daddy now that Vasily was out of the picture. Flashing her baby blues at a party with all the BellaVilla high rollers in attendance was a golden opportunity.

  As expected, the party drew a capacity crowd. Despite Peter’s budget worries, he flitted about the ballroom welcoming everyone like a genial host. Whatever his shortcomings, Peter was an expert at gushing and fawning.

  I hadn’t seen much of Billy Matthews since my interview, but he showed up for the party. As facility manager, his official role was to oversee everything, but mostly what he oversaw was the wine—as taster. “Just making sure it’s of the best quality,” he explained. I debated whether to cut him off after he’d tasted two bottles all on his own, but decided that would be a career-ending move. He didn’t seem to be any worse for wear so I felt justified not saying anything.

  All of the homeowners’ board and committee members were present and accounted for. Dressed to the proverbial nines and brimming with good cheer, the residents had temporarily set aside their disagreements for the festivities. Carlton Leavy and Bingwen Li of feng shui fame shook hands and exchanged a few stilted greetings.

  Even the restrictions against dogs in the ballroom were overlooked when Amy Windham showed up with her Maltese, Bitsy, tucked in the crook of her arm. Vasily Petrov had finally come out of hibernation and seemed more like his former self. He used the opportunity to schmooze the richest of the rich, hoping to interest them in his latest and greatest real estate deal. The reclusive Weinsteins also attended; free food and drinks were apparently too good a deal to miss.

  Due to the size of the group, Danielle decided Carla and I couldn’t handle our duties without help. She recruited Marcus Summers from the concierge staff at Tower 2 and arranged for the overnight security guards to man both desks in our absence. Carla and Marcus circulated through the ballroom, with silver trays artfully arranged with a variety of cheeses and crackers and glasses of sparkling Riesling and Merlot, while I stayed at the banquet table to pour the wine and replenish the trays. This division of labor worked well until Marcus came to exchange his empty appetizer tray for one I’d just finished arranging.

  Marcus was in his early twenties, with a ruddy complexion and a sinewy athletic build. He loved to climb mountains and it showed. He was a good-natured guy who worked hard and seldom complained unless the weather turned so nasty he couldn’t go climbing. So I was surprised when he stomped up to the table with a scowl the size of Danielle’s home state plastered across his face.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “We have a problem,” he said. He looked around to make sure we weren’t overheard. “It’s Carla.”

  I’d been halfway expecting something to go wrong with her on the loose. “What’s up?”

  “Some of the residents are starting to talk. She’s acting as if she’s a guest at the party instead of the hired help.” He leaned in closer and said, “She’s had Mr. Abdul Azim cornered for over half an hour now, flirting up a storm.”

  Of course she did. Abdul was single and rumored to be richer than God and Warren Buffett combined. Prime sugar daddy material. I told Marcus to take over my duties while I dealt with Carla.

  I carried a tray of wine as I passed through the crush of residents to where Carla and Abdul stood. It took me awhile to make it across the vast ballroom since I had to stop frequently as residents selected a glass of white or red. Snatches of party chatter overheard in the process: “Do you see what Danielle’s wearing tonight? I’m surprised she could squeeze herself into anything other than a plus size.”

  “You forget, darling, she’s from Texas, and you know what they say—all hat and no cattle. In Danielle’s case, it’s all hips and no class.” This from a small clique of skinny women dressed in Vera Wang and pearls. Like many of the other women in the room, they passed on the appetizers, preferring to drink their calories.

  Dishing dirt wasn’t just a female sport. A couple
of men stopped me to refresh their drinks and kept on chatting as if I were invisible. “I know what Ralph was feeling. But good God, what was the man thinking? Taking up with your secretary is a game changer.”

  “It’s worse than that. His lifestyle is due entirely to his wife’s fortune.”

  By the time I finally joined Carla and Abdul, my tray was empty but I was stuffed with gossip and snarky comments. Carla’s back was turned, but Abdul saw me approaching and smiled broadly. Trim and distinguished-looking in a custom-made silk suit, Abdul looked younger than the gray at his temples suggested. Well-mannered to a fault, he would never have brushed Carla aside even though her flirtations bordered on harassment. He had a “Save me, please!” look in his dark brown eyes that I was only too eager to oblige.

  “Carla,” I said. “You’re needed at the banquet table right away.”

  She turned abruptly and frowned at me, shooting enough daggers to make me cringe. I shook off her silent attack and ordered, “Now!” It had been a long time since I’d used my because-Mother-said-so voice, but it worked. Carla obeyed, but not before giving Abdul a suggestive look and cooing, “Catch you later, sugar.”

  If Peter had heard her, he’d have twitched himself into a frenzy. Me? I was just embarrassed. Abdul noted my discomfort and said, “Don’t worry about it. She’s just a girl trying to act like a woman.”

  “Skank” was the word he was too polite to say. I quickly apologized and hurried back to where I’d expected to find the little sexpot. But Marcus was by himself, busily pouring wine. “Where’s Carla?” I asked.

  “She slammed down her empty tray and huffed off. I think she may have gone to the restroom.”

  When she didn’t return after a few minutes, I wanted to go check on her but there wasn’t time. As the party progressed, everyone seemed to get thirstier and thirstier. Marcus and I were overwhelmed trying to satisfy all the requests. We eventually ran out of wine and I left Marcus in charge of the cheese trays while I went to find Carla. I’d been embarrassed by her behavior earlier, but now I was furious. Once again, she’d acted irresponsibly, leaving others to take up the slack. As much as I didn’t want to involve Peter in this ongoing drama, I’d made up my mind to talk with him about the problems with Carla as soon as possible. In the meantime, I’d deal with her myself.