Heads In Beds Part 10

You say it's your birthday? No one gives a f.u.c.k!

First time in New York City? Who cares!

Anniversary? You're boring me.

Moving your business from another property to ours? I don't own stock.

Trying to impress your lady friend? I'm not.

So happy to be here? Write it on a postcard and send it to your mom. Maybe she's interested.

You never get upgraded? There is probably a reason for that, and it's not going to change today.

The bellmen have a Psalm for this: "You can't pay your rent with thank-yous."

Money. Cash on the desk desk. Most guests put money in the wrong hands. If you really want your stay to improve, whom do you think you should tip? The bellman? The doorman? The concierge?

If you tip any of the above, those employees will, sure enough, come directly to the front desk to ask for a favor. Why people tip the middleman is beyond me. It's a business maxim: whenever possible, bypa.s.s the middleman.

Think of it this way: Who is doing the typing? Who's a.s.signing you a room? Who burns your keys? Who knows the availability of every room in the property today, tomorrow, and three months out? Me. Your cute little hero, the front desk agent.

We can improve your life with a keystroke. We can keep your secrets and flood your room with wine.

Guests who really know tip the desk: nada mas nada mas.

So there you are, walking into the lobby, defenseless, a doorman hunting you down for a fiver he feels you already owe him and a bellman waiting in the jungle to get a ten. Those animals work for tips. Dropping money on them is extremely normal, so unless you make your presence felt with a brick, it's not going to elicit much more than a smile and a thank-you.

But drop a twenty, a baby brick, on a front desk agent, and something has s.h.i.+fted. It works because, for us, it is a commitment. We become indebted to you. That's what I learned as I unwrapped that fifty-dollar bill and slipped it casually into my back pocket. Now it was mine. The first reaction, if I may borrow a phrase, was "an initial feeling of elation." The second, surfacing a moment after, was a feeling of obligation obligation. No agent will pocket a tip and just say thank you, not one who has a soul (and yes, we do have souls-except for overnight agents). We have to earn our tips. I will do whatever I can to make you happy. A bellman doesn't even have a log-in to the property management system. I have control over every charge applied to your CC, and immediately I will make it worth your while. Even if I can't find an upgrade proper, I will put you in the very best room of your category.

Here is one of the top lies that come out of a front desk agent's mouth: "All the rooms are basically the same, sir."

Bulls.h.i.+t. There is always a corner room, a room with a bigger flat screen, a room that, because of the building's layout, has a larger bathroom with two sinks, a room that fits two rollaways with ease, a room that, though listed as standard, actually has a partial view of the Hudson River. There is always a better room, and when I feel that twenty burning in my pocket, I will find it for you find it for you. And if there is nothing to be done room-wise, I have a slew of other options: late checkout, free movies, free minibar, room service amenities, and more. I will do whatever it takes to deserve the money and then a little bit more in the hope you'll hit me again.

Some people feel nervous about this move. Please don't. It's not a drug deal. There is nothing more awkward than people who tip with a twenty folded down to the size of a Tic Tac in their palm. Just hand over the money. To everyone else it looks as if you are asking for change, that's it. And d.a.m.n do we appreciate it. We are authorized authorized to upgrade for special occasions. The special occasion occurring now is that I have a solid twenty to get drunk on once I snap off my name tag for the night. That's special enough for me! Having a wonderful, generous guest staying with us: clearly another special occasion, one that merits a view of Central Park in the spring with no additional rate increase. to upgrade for special occasions. The special occasion occurring now is that I have a solid twenty to get drunk on once I snap off my name tag for the night. That's special enough for me! Having a wonderful, generous guest staying with us: clearly another special occasion, one that merits a view of Central Park in the spring with no additional rate increase.

Plus, though it really saddened me to think it, screw the Bellevue. I mean, after years of service I had come to really love the property. I might have complained before about its wildness and lax att.i.tude toward service, but now it was as if an invading army had come to occupy our city, altering it drastically. Not only did the occupying army create a spontaneous and intense love for the city it was in the past, it made me hate what the city had become, what the new regime had made it. Why "upsell" a guest into a suite running a hundred dollars more a night when I could "personally take care of the increase in rate" and accept a twenty-dollar bill in grat.i.tude? We blamed upgrades on keystroke errors or covered them by claiming a guest had just received a big promotion. And just like in a prison, there were too many inmates doing too much dirt to put a handle on. The minute managers started investigating upgrades, we were already comping breakfast. As soon as they cracked down on free breakfast, we started giving everyone 4:00 p.m. late checkouts. When the directive came down to kill all late checkouts, we began slicing off hundreds of dollars in minibar revenue. After they required we authorize adjustments over fifty dollars with management, we were back to comp upgrades and free breakfast.

In my own way, I reinvented the game. I stopped waiting for savvy travelers to dispense a well-directed ten into my wallet. I learned how to hustle it, how to extract it, how to make them want want to tip me. Starting small, I utilized the whispered-upgrade technique, where I lean over the desk and whisper, "I might have something special for you," just loud enough for his trophy wife or prost.i.tute to hear. If I can make the right guest feel the right kind of special, then out comes the money clip, the hundred peeled off cleanly and pressed into my hand. We call this "the crinkly handshake." to tip me. Starting small, I utilized the whispered-upgrade technique, where I lean over the desk and whisper, "I might have something special for you," just loud enough for his trophy wife or prost.i.tute to hear. If I can make the right guest feel the right kind of special, then out comes the money clip, the hundred peeled off cleanly and pressed into my hand. We call this "the crinkly handshake."

My skills sharpened. I realized the size of the tip given to the doorman indicated the possibility of a tip to me. If you tip the doorman large, you are here to play.

And I am here to help.

Eventually, I developed a list of regulars, a list of names, big hitters (which every bellman has as well). On top of that, I would still size up arrivals for new "generous" guests and developed an eye for potential. Wearing sungla.s.ses in the lobby and a wife with too much Botox? Hitter. An Italian in from New Jersey just for the weekend? Hitter. The morbidly obese? For some reason, hitters.

"Never forget a twenty, Tom," the Gray Wolf said to me one day. He never did. If a bellman came up to the desk after a standard check-in and asked for the last name, writing it down in a little book he kept in his vest pocket, it meant at least at least a twenty. He would lock in that guest's name and use it as often as possible when the guest came through the lobby. Some bellmen request an arrival list every day, scan the printout against their own personal lists, and then wait for the right guests to come into the lobby so they can position themselves for a well-placed front. They even started to ask for my a.s.sistance with this. If a fifty hitter was in line to check in, I might be asked to slow down or speed up my process, essentially lining up the right bellman with the guest he had intimate knowledge of. The bellmen loved me because I would always comply. h.e.l.l, I thought it was fun. I had my average check-in time down to less than thirty seconds by this point, every single step in the process streamlined, which allowed me to speed up and slow down at will. The only time I ever mentioned the restaurant or location and hours of our gym was when I was stalling a front to let the family of five Kayla was checking in head up with Ben, setting up Trey for his regular. In addition, getting this inside information from the bellmen helped me directly. Certainly, while servicing a proven hitter, I had the opportunity to throw a little something extra in there. a twenty. He would lock in that guest's name and use it as often as possible when the guest came through the lobby. Some bellmen request an arrival list every day, scan the printout against their own personal lists, and then wait for the right guests to come into the lobby so they can position themselves for a well-placed front. They even started to ask for my a.s.sistance with this. If a fifty hitter was in line to check in, I might be asked to slow down or speed up my process, essentially lining up the right bellman with the guest he had intimate knowledge of. The bellmen loved me because I would always comply. h.e.l.l, I thought it was fun. I had my average check-in time down to less than thirty seconds by this point, every single step in the process streamlined, which allowed me to speed up and slow down at will. The only time I ever mentioned the restaurant or location and hours of our gym was when I was stalling a front to let the family of five Kayla was checking in head up with Ben, setting up Trey for his regular. In addition, getting this inside information from the bellmen helped me directly. Certainly, while servicing a proven hitter, I had the opportunity to throw a little something extra in there.

"Mr. Hansen, I see this marks your fifth stay with us?" Meanwhile, Ben, since he is up for the front and wants Hansen, is giving me the hurry-up motion from across the lobby, in his case like a third-base coach waving the runner home. "Such loyalty does not go unrewarded. Not on my s.h.i.+ft, sir." Upgrade. We share a crinkly handshake, baby brick to me. The keys go to Ben. Ben gets fifty dollars in the room.

We all worked together. "Mr. Palay, Mario the doorman put in a good word for you, asked that you be taken care of. A doorman's will be done. I've got you in a Central Park suite, and please allow me to deliver wine on Mario's behalf." The guest turns around toward the street because he doesn't know who the h.e.l.l Mario is is. But Mario knows who he he is. Five months ago, out of nowhere and, according to Mario, for no reason, this gentleman handed him a crisp hundred-dollar bill. If Mr. Palay, the moment after handing him the bill, had taken a quick look at the doorman's face, it might have looked as if Mario were giving him an intensely focused scowl. But what Mario was is. Five months ago, out of nowhere and, according to Mario, for no reason, this gentleman handed him a crisp hundred-dollar bill. If Mr. Palay, the moment after handing him the bill, had taken a quick look at the doorman's face, it might have looked as if Mario were giving him an intensely focused scowl. But what Mario was doing doing was memorizing his face. Five months later that memory work was about to pay off because Mr. Palay was now looking out the window and there Mario stood, giving a knowing salute to Mr. Palay. was memorizing his face. Five months later that memory work was about to pay off because Mr. Palay was now looking out the window and there Mario stood, giving a knowing salute to Mr. Palay.

"Break this hundred for me."

"How would you like it, Mr. Palay?"

"Twenties. Keep one for yourself."

"Thank you, sir," I said, removing one of the five bills and handing over four. Mr. Palay, while I burned the keys, walked all the way back to the street to pop a twenty on Mario.

What's more is the Gray Wolf (of course) saw the whole transaction go down and approached me quickly the moment Mr. Palay walked outside to tip.

"Working with the doormen now, Tommy? You slick b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Hand to G.o.d, you're like a son to me. What's left?"

By this he meant what was left to offer the guest once he had him up in the room.

"Upgrade and wine done. You're a go on the late checkout, Wolf."

"Here he comes. Set me up."

"Mr. Palay, this is my colleague Alan. He will take you to your suite. I also placed my business card in your key packet. Don't hesitate to contact me if something comes up. Enjoy your stay and welcome back."

Just recalling this hustle gives me the chills.

Alan came down five minutes later smiling. He handed me a five off what I a.s.sume was a twenty, but you never know. The hustle is now complete, and that five on top is the icing. Alan was good about that, kicking back on an effective setup. Other bellmen will take your a.s.sistance, jump in on your hustle, and then come down and say, "Sorry. He stiffed me. Do you believe it?" No, I actually don't believe it.

Does all of this seem morally corrupt? Well, consider this: the guest dropped a total of sixty dollars in ten minutes, for which he received an upgrade, wine, and a late checkout. He is more than satisfied, and of course so are we. What was in it for the hotel? Well, I'll say it again if I must: the Bellevue, well, the new Bellevue regime, could blow me. But even still, Mr. Palay will never stay anywhere else, believe me. These guests fly from hotel to hotel in Manhattan, always trying a new property and looking to find a home for their gigantic expense accounts. He has a home now. Mr. Palay will now clock over fifty nights a year with us, quite a sight more than the five bookings in the previous year. We just generated forty thousand dollars in new revenue for our property. What did it cost the hotel? An upgrade, which costs the same to clean as any other room, totaling zero dollars. A bottle of red that runs for seventy-five dollars on the room service menu but is purchased in bulk for four dollars a bottle. The late checkout jams up housekeeping but at no loss in revenue.

We turned four dollars into forty thousand dollars.

You see? We were kind of doing our jobs kind of doing our jobs. Mr. Palay loves loves the Bellevue. Won't stay anywhere else. Two years later we will have all met his wife the Bellevue. Won't stay anywhere else. Two years later we will have all met his wife and and his kids his kids and and his mistress. He can't wait to come back, drop a few twenties, and talk with Mario about sports and even connect with the Gray Wolf about child rearing. his mistress. He can't wait to come back, drop a few twenties, and talk with Mario about sports and even connect with the Gray Wolf about child rearing.

You may have noticed from my extended check-in verbiage that I'd started to take my hustle one step further. I now had a business card. Did Tremblay sh.e.l.l out for employee business cards to make us feel special and part of the team? Yeah, no no. Just a blank Bellevue Hotel business card with my name, e-mail address, s.h.i.+ft schedule, and, in some cases, cell phone number handwritten on it.

Street hustle.

Now I could remove a business card from my pocket, where I kept at least five pre-written at all times, and say, "Mr. Uzzaman, please, if you ever need anything, do not hesitate to contact me. I can even make all of your future reservations if you'd prefer, ensuring the best rates. I receive e-mails on my smart phone instantaneously, so if you find yourself having to cancel last minute or need a complimentary bottle sent up, even if I am not at work, I will handle it."

How much do you think service like that is worth? I was getting bricks like a contractor. And it wasn't always about the money, either. I took personal care of CEOs because they were CEOs and, hey, you never know what kinds of kickbacks might come from them. My e-mail contact list was littered with leaders of industry. I would train home to Brooklyn and find a large company-logo'd box filled with hundreds of bags of potato chips waiting on my doorstep and inside a personal note from the CEO promising to s.h.i.+p a box like this anywhere at any time. a.s.sorted flavors. Great for throwing a party. I even sold some at work, two bags for a dollar.

This year's Hustler of the Year Award goes to...Tommy "I'll personally take care of the increase in rate" Jacobs.

I was reinventing the game, attending movie premieres all over the city with tickets for the show and after party waiting for me at Will Call, placed there by my contact at Universal Pictures.

I also met some plain old normal extremely wealthy extremely wealthy people. The first time I checked in the Bekkers, we became immediate friends. Two simple coincidences occurred simultaneously to spark our lasting acquaintance. First, we all loved the South. Though Mr. Bekker and his fiancee no longer live there, they met and fell in love in North Carolina, a state that, through my childhood relocations, I also share a deep love for. They now live in Cape Town, South Africa, an international city that has always intrigued me. Mr. Bekker was, in fact, born there and it lingers in his English, but his fiancee is North Carolina to the core. The second simple coincidence? He was extremely forthcoming with bobos. people. The first time I checked in the Bekkers, we became immediate friends. Two simple coincidences occurred simultaneously to spark our lasting acquaintance. First, we all loved the South. Though Mr. Bekker and his fiancee no longer live there, they met and fell in love in North Carolina, a state that, through my childhood relocations, I also share a deep love for. They now live in Cape Town, South Africa, an international city that has always intrigued me. Mr. Bekker was, in fact, born there and it lingers in his English, but his fiancee is North Carolina to the core. The second simple coincidence? He was extremely forthcoming with bobos.

Fast friends.

They would just flutter from his fingers and fly into my back pocket. Then his reservations would flutter on up to the sixtieth floor: a comp-upgrade luxury suite. Soon enough dark bottles of wine would walk themselves up to the door, surrounded by truffles and fresh fruits, and waddle their way onto the dining room table, the dining room table itself being a unique feature of the upper-floor luxury suites.

So, sure, the money certainly helped, but I grew to love those two, and they loved me. And they loved each other. Randomly one fall, I received an emergency e-mail from Mr. Bekker, requesting the recipe for a certain c.o.c.ktail served in our lounge. It was an emergency because his fiancee remembered and loved the drink, and he intended to surprise her by making it the signature c.o.c.ktail for their North Carolina "society wedding." He listed a few of the ingredients he remembered, and with this info I started grilling the bar about it. It was a spring c.o.c.ktail and no longer on the menu. Thus, I had to wait until the following week when the mixologist returned from vacation. As soon as I saw her strut through the lobby, I laid down the ingredients and two minutes later had the full recipe on a napkin. It was even called the Belle of the Ball. Perfect. I thanked her and mentioned it would be the featured c.o.c.ktail at a huge society wedding in the South, trying to explain how important those could be and the kind of news coverage they receive.

"I know. I'm from South Carolina."

That was it right there. South Carolinians can be ice-cold sometimes. She wasn't even flattered about her c.o.c.ktail creating such a lasting memory. And that is her JOB. She's a mixologist. That's what she was doing with her life doing with her life. I even promised to introduce her to the Bekkers when they returned.

"I don't care," she said.

"Well, you might. He is very very generous and would most likely drop a hundred on you, probably more, just for creating the drink, not to mention helping him re-create it." generous and would most likely drop a hundred on you, probably more, just for creating the drink, not to mention helping him re-create it."

"It doesn't matter."

What a doll. No bother to me, though. No worry on my wallet. I e-mailed the recipe over to Cape Town and made them both very happy. After the wedding, I got a letter from the new Mrs. Bekker, on a beautiful piece of monogrammed stationery (but of course course), thanking me for my help. Knowing my interest in South Africa, she also offered to accommodate me lavishly for as long as I should choose if I ever made the trip over the ocean. How wonderful is that? It was so sweet, and, you know, at this time I was really considering getting the h.e.l.l out of town. Maybe even for good. I sent her a handwritten letter, thanking her for the offer and explaining that I might actually take them up on it. In fact, I informed them that perhaps, after saving up a bit more money, I might relocate to Cape Town, find affordable housing in the city, and burn up my savings, just as I had before in Paris and Denmark.

A month or two later (international mail is something else) I received a response: she was thrilled about the idea and would a.s.sist me in finding a place to live, and certainly they were happy to put me up while we found a place together.

G.o.dd.a.m.n it, I love the Bekkers! They are both so sweet and wonderful.

And look at that: now I had an escape plan escape plan.

The paparazzi. What a ragtag bunch of idiots. They were twenty-deep outside, pus.h.i.+ng their unshowered bodies against each other, holding cameras high overhead, hoping to get a decent shot of something.

We had celebrities running around all over the lobby. I could write another 250-page book on all the action I've seen firsthand, like listening to a young, rail-thin Nickelodeon superstar actress complain to her mom that they never feed them anything but cuc.u.mber sandwiches on a Nickelodeon set. Whoa. For reals. That girl was starving. I almost gave her a bag of chips right then and there.

And guess who stayed with us after the transition? My man Brian Wilson from the Beach Boys. Probably because he was mentally accustomed to the Bellevue and it was easier not to stress him with a change in location. I'm certain the increase in rate was not even a bother.

The hotel was at capacity because Elton John was having his sixtieth birthday party, and it promised to be a gay affair (come on, like Great Gatsby gay), and we had a large slice of the celebrities lodged in our rooms. The lobby was looking like a freaky circus as they headed out to the party. We had the D-list invitees too and also gay dudes who were not celebs but more like made men, the Velvet Mafia, I believe they are called, all of them scooting past my desk, and they all had the backs of their sport coats riddled with rhinestones: sparkly lion heads and glittery anchors.

Anyway, here comes my man Brian, utilizing his top-level invite as he d.a.m.n well should, all tuxed up and looking sharp. Well, looking like a freshman on his way to prom, but he looked good, though shy, but as if some lucky girl were going to find him rocking back and forth quietly by the punch bowl and f.u.c.k his brains out in the back corner of the cafeteria. So the handlers swung Brian by the desk on the way out to get a fresh key, just in case Bry Guy had been floating his in the toilet or whatever. I was busy with another guest, so they approached my co-worker, new on the job, a guy with a sweaty-hand condition, you know, constantly wet and everything he handles at the desk develops a gritty crust all over it. You'd come back from lunch, and it seemed as if a snail had crawled all over your terminal. So, anyway, he's all, "Who? What room? What is the name registered to the room?"

What choice did I have? I left my guest standing there, halfway helped. I said, "Excuse me," and he got all huffy because he was busy grilling me about where's good to eat tonight, even though that's really not my job: that's like asking a doorman to clean a toilet. We have trained concierge elitists for that, and they get paid five dollars more an hour.

I put my guest on pause for a moment, though, mostly because Brian was looking right at me. He was sort of peering at me, like through a fog, looking all sad and cute in his tuxedo. I burned off three new keys, and I didn't need to double-check the room number, because I'd kept a protective eye on Wilson ever since noticing the last line to "I'd Love Just Once to See You," which ends with the sweet refrain "I'd love just once to see you, I'd love just once to see you...in...the...nude." Hilarious. So I handle the key situation quickly, and Brian was still gazing at me, as if he knew I was taking care of him.

Then it happened.

I slipped the keys in a packet and gave them to the handler, the one I recognized most, and Brian smiled at me, as if he'd seen me before, knew I'd been helping him for more than five years, and he stepped forward. His face lifted in a smiley smile above his boyish black bow tie, and he put out his big hand for me to shake, held it over the desk, like let's-be-friends. ("We've been friends now for so many years." -the Beach Boys.) I put my hand in his, and he said, "Hi. I'm Brian Wilson."

"I know who you are, Mr. Wilson." I moved his hand up and down a little, since he was just keeping it still. "And you look sharp, my man. It's an honor to have you. I hope you have a good time at the party, Mr. Wilson," and I let his hand go. His face clouded over a bit, but his happiness remained, and I know there was music blowing up inside of him and that he felt good. The handler I recognized gave me a genuine smile and took Brian by the elbow, leading him off.

The lobby cleared out, just the overwhelming lingering odor of cologne and a few rhinestones left on the ground that the bellmen were scooping up and rocketing at each other's faces now that no one was in the lobby. One of the stones. .h.i.t me hard in the throat, and I smiled at Trey. He said, "That's right, b.i.t.c.h. Throw it back and I'll break your left leg." I used a pen to pick it out of my keyboard, where it had lodged itself, and while staring at it, thinking, s.h.i.+t, maybe it's a real diamond, and I can sell it for a hundred thousand dollars, quit this s.h.i.+t job, and buy a mansion in South Africa. Then it hit me.

Brian hadn't recognized me at all. I thought the sad-happy fog he lives under had parted for one magical moment and he'd seen me. But no. His handlers had probably sat him down on our uncomfortable couch while tying his bow tie for him and said, hey, Brian, so tonight we are going to be around a lot of people, okay? We won't stay long, but some of these people are going to know who you are and might want to say h.e.l.lo. Don't worry, we'll be next to you the whole time, and all you have to do is say, "h.e.l.lo. I'm Brian Wilson." Here try that once. Good. See, that's all you have to say, okay? Don't worry, we can come back soon, and we won't let anyone bother you. Can you let me hear it one more time?

"Hi. I'm Brian Wilson."

I know who you are, Brian. You were just programmed for meet-and-greet party mode, right? You are not there yet, buddy, you're still in the lobby, but I hope you had fun when you got there, and I hope everyone who shook your hand felt as honored as I felt. I'm so sorry you had to die for our sins, Brian, and thank you so much.

Two weeks after that I met Ginger Smith.

Ginger Smith. For the purposes of this book, that is a fake name of a fake name of a fake name, meaning the name she stayed under was fake to begin with and I have altered it again. How awesome is that? Ginger, model-slim brunette, five feet ten, was always dressed in tight-fitting business attire, the kind that looks a little too too good, something maybe for a p.o.r.no. A p.o.r.no set in the workplace. She was always in a hurry and always smiling. good, something maybe for a p.o.r.no. A p.o.r.no set in the workplace. She was always in a hurry and always smiling.

Things were a little odd. First of all the fake name. If you asked her for an ID (you know me, I never did), she would hand you a twenty-dollar bill instead. If that didn't work, she would cancel the res and walk right back out. Shady. Sometimes she would lay down a CC, but she always paid cash at checkout, always. And if that wasn't odd enough, she always checked out the same day she came in. Up to the room around 1:00 p.m. and back at the desk at 4:00 p.m. with a stack of dirty dancers to settle up with.

She was always always in a rush and wouldn't even wait for change. If the room and tax came to $459, she would hand over five Bennys, and the $41 on top went, without question, to the agent, since the minute an agent touched the bills, she'd say, "Thank you, sweetheart," and blow out the doors. in a rush and wouldn't even wait for change. If the room and tax came to $459, she would hand over five Bennys, and the $41 on top went, without question, to the agent, since the minute an agent touched the bills, she'd say, "Thank you, sweetheart," and blow out the doors.

I once saw Ginger Smith, in an unprecedented move unprecedented move, walk right down the desk and hand every single one of the four working agents a baby brick. The cla.s.siest move I have ever seen in my life. So s.e.xy. So beautiful and, hence, she was loved.

Ms. Smith. She was/is gorgeous. The first step with a guest of that caliber is to lock her down hard. Become her only agent, the sole recipient of her generosity. And I tried. Every time I was lucky enough to pick up her call, usually about an hour before she'd roll in, I would have everything waiting for her (including a slip of paper inside the key packet that laid out her room and tax in advance, so she could get her money in order before she came down). Plus, also inside the key packet, you guessed it, one of old Tommy Jacobs's business cards with e-mail and and phone number, including a little note that told her to text me any day she wanted to come in and I would take care of it. For months she never utilized my personal contact info. I would bring it up, and she'd say she lost my card but, yes, agree that having a cell number she could text would be the best. phone number, including a little note that told her to text me any day she wanted to come in and I would take care of it. For months she never utilized my personal contact info. I would bring it up, and she'd say she lost my card but, yes, agree that having a cell number she could text would be the best.

"Ms. Smith, put it in your phone right now. Tom at the Bellevue. Stand still for three seconds, and put it in right now."

She did. "Here," another twenty on top of the sixty in change she was going to leave me. "You're a sweetheart."

She was the sweetheart. And the next week I got the text. was the sweetheart. And the next week I got the text.

:Coming in, darling! Around noon!::You got it, Ms. Smith. Rate is $429.50 after tax. I'll have the keys waiting!::(Smiley face): From then on she could fly through the lobby, and I would hand the keys off like Gatorade to a marathon runner. Off she went.

"Ms. Smith was coming in today?" my co-worker Janelle asked, clearly jealous she hadn't gotten the reservation call.

"Yep."

"You always get her now. You should share."

"Yep." Not going to happen. I locked Ginger down hard. I was in love with everything about her.

Except for the fact she was a prost.i.tute? A prost.i.tute, right? I couldn't see it any other way and, believe me, I wanted wanted to. She used the room for three hours max and paid cash (at to. She used the room for three hours max and paid cash (at checkout checkout, even though paying up front would be more convenient, a single point of contact simultaneously beginning and ending all business with the hotel, but, prost.i.tute-wise, she wouldn't have the cash until after the deed, feel me?). But, just like Hockstein, you never really know until you know know. Some people blow money for no reason. Plus, I've seen my share of working girls, and they do not do not make reservations. The johns secure the room, and the pimp just points the hooker missile in the right direction. make reservations. The johns secure the room, and the pimp just points the hooker missile in the right direction.

But eventually, adding another hazy clue to the mystery, she mentioned she could use some extra amenities (razor and shaving cream, extra soap). I guess she liked to get superclean before or after whatever happened up there. So I started filling our little Bellevue gift bags with bath salts and soaps and creams and mini deodorants and lint rollers and whatever cool stuff I could find in the housekeeping closet. I would paper clip her keys to the side of the gift bag, and she would fly through the lobby, looking beautiful and talking fast, s.n.a.t.c.hing the bag with a wonderfully grateful smile. These care packages ended up getting me into substantial trouble with the new director of housekeeping. Hired from some brutal land of feudal reign, our new housekeeping director fit right in. She looked like Shrek rolled in mud. As I was organizing a care package one afternoon, there she was, more than obstructing the door to the main storage closet in the housekeeping department, not allowing me to leave.

"Why are you taking this bag of items?"

"Well, it's for a frequent-stay guest. She only uses the room to freshen up but still pays full rate, so I think it's nice to make sure she has what she needs in advance so she can be in and out as fast as possible."

"There is no reason she is getting these items for free."

"Yeah, well...Aren't they free to all guests?"

"If they request them."

"Well, she requested them."

"No, you are stealing them. Tell her to call our department directly, and we will deliver the items."

"What? Seriously? How about you grab me a piece of paper and I'll write down every item in this bag and then you can pretend she called you directly and go ahead and deliver them up. And do me the favor of delivering them ASAP because she is on her way way. That work for everybody?"