Heads In Beds Part 11

(Another definition of "write-up": disciplinary action issued for going above and beyond while simultaneously antic.i.p.ating a guest's needs.) That put an end to the gift bags but certainly not an end to Ginger's willingness to tip me heavily.

I owned Ms. Smith. Or, well, maybe someone else did, by the hour. After a year of working together exclusively, we started to talk a bit more at the desk, real casual and about nothing, before she flew out the door, back into Manhattan. She once claimed her apartment bathroom was being renovated so she thought it was easier to shower here. Another time, when I directly asked where she, you know, worked worked, she said for the CEO of a hedge fund and he often had her work early a.m. and then attend dinner parties, hence, rather than make her go all the way to her apartment (which was a whole twenty blocks, one mile, away, less than ten dollars in a cab), he would give her cash to throw on a room and never needed receipts. Okay Okay. Why the fake name? I asked. Well, Ginger was actually her first name, but her last was so eastern bloc, she claimed, that it was more trouble to use it, what with the difficulty in spelling.

Prost.i.tute? Right? I DON'T KNOW!! She was so very sweet and generous and...well. Feel free to make your own decision. But me? Why would any working girl cover the overhead of the hotel room? I've seen it all, and I still, even today, can't call it for certain.

I decided to do something really nice for her. After she left the building but before posting her rate and settling the account, I went to the front office manager and explained a little bit about Ms. Smith: her revenue stream, low-maintenance status, and how her short, three-hour stays allowed us to double dip the room. Double dipping is essentially charging two guests full rates for the same room on the same night. Usually, double dipping is illegal. Por ejemplo: Por ejemplo: when a group books twenty rooms, but one traveler is unavoidably delayed without enough notice for the group to avoid paying the night's rate, yet the hotel allows another guest to occupy the paid-for-but-vacant room for the night and effectively clock a double rate, that's a fat double dip. In Ginger's case, I inquired about the possibility of offering her a half-day rate, since she only occupied the room for three hours, causing minimal damage, leaving the room easy to flip and sell again. when a group books twenty rooms, but one traveler is unavoidably delayed without enough notice for the group to avoid paying the night's rate, yet the hotel allows another guest to occupy the paid-for-but-vacant room for the night and effectively clock a double rate, that's a fat double dip. In Ginger's case, I inquired about the possibility of offering her a half-day rate, since she only occupied the room for three hours, causing minimal damage, leaving the room easy to flip and sell again.

"Go for it," the manager said.

I texted Ginger right outside the manager's office, explaining I had reduced her rate by half, hence I had $200 cash waiting for her, which I offered to hold in my bank and apply to her next stay.

:You're a sweetheart! No, no!! I insist you keep it!! It's all yours!: Again, does that sound like a s.e.x worker to you? Keep my $200?

And that totaled a personal take-home of $250. In one day. With Ms. Smith.

How much did I love her?

Let me count the ways: twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, BRICK.

Two weeks later she booked another room, and after she departed, I secured her another half-day rate, asking a different manager of course. She texted back immediately.

:Keep it!::f.u.c.k no. This is yours::Please, baby, just keep it::No. It will be in an envelope under your name at the concierge desk. Not another word about it. Buy yourself a beautiful dress with the money!::How sweet of you! I will pick it up tonight: That was that. Until I checked my phone an hour later and saw she had texted again: :You are so sweet. I hope you have a nice girl who takes care of you. You deserve one: That stopped me right in the stairwell. What exactly was that about that about? I didn't have a nice girl. In fact, I had just separated from Julie two weeks prior. We'd been seeing each other irregularly, but in this lonely town those infrequent dates drew us out of obscurity, and we became dependent on them, began to enjoy the knowledge that there was one other person who knew what your bedroom looked like, knew where you were born and what kind of person you had become. That became a relations.h.i.+p to me. And it wasn't easy, the separation. I listened to Elton John and felt miserable every night. Honestly, I am still still horribly in love with Julie. But now here was an unusual text from an unusual woman. Who hoped I had a nice girl. horribly in love with Julie. But now here was an unusual text from an unusual woman. Who hoped I had a nice girl.

:I don't anymore, Ginger. But I hope you have a nice man to take care of you::I don't anymore either (wink face): I sat on the stairs before heading down to the cafeteria, which would submerge me below cell service, and waited to see if she would text again. She did.

:We should get a drink together!: TOMMY, ASK YOURSELF: Are you certain she is not a prost.i.tute?

I texted her back.

:Ok!!: Indeed.

We met for drinks at Columbus Circle with a view of Central Park. I was dressed above my station, wearing the nicest clothes a front desk agent is legally allowed to wear in public. Fifteen minutes late, she flew into the bar, saw me in the corner, and hustled over. I couldn't believe she was going to sit still and talk. She was like a shark, always moving, and now here she was taking a seat next to me on the couch, her brunette hair a bit disheveled and her forehead cutely perspiring.

She was sitting still.

Then we started to drink. For every one of my Jack on the rocks, she downed a martini. She drank seven G.o.dd.a.m.n martinis seven G.o.dd.a.m.n martinis, and I have never seen anything like it. I went to the bathroom about three hours into this drinking war, and when I returned she had paid the whole tab (and, well, I couldn't really fight that. Fourteen drinks anywhere near Columbus Circle comes to, essentially, my weekly paycheck).

Minutes later we were walking along Central Park South (she was stumbling a little, holding on to my arm) on the way to a second bar, one where we could smoke. Yes, you can legally smoke inside, and it's right there in midtown, but I will not mention where, because this bar belongs to me and not to you. I propped her up on a stool at the antique wooden bar, and all the old cigar-huffing fat cats stared at me in what I suppose was envy. Hooker envy.

She took off her diamond-bezeled Rolex and put it before me, next to my drink. "You know, I bought that because it reminds me that money doesn't mean anything. Money doesn't mean anything at all." The Rolex was all scuffed and scratched but definitely sparkled magnificently in the low light. "You take it, Tom. Take it."

"You're giving me your Rolex?"

"For a time. Just take it, okay? Wear it for a bit."

I put it on my right wrist. I was now rocking two watches. We ordered another round, and she brought out her iPhone to show me pictures of her family dog.

As she wiped a drunk finger across the screen, she slowly pa.s.sed several nude photos of herself, some taken inside a tanning bed, staining her naked body with eerie yellows and greens. But, you know, they were still hot. Then she really began to open up, but not about her profession. About herself and her problems, mental problems that manifested themselves in physical ways, like a compulsion to pick at her chest with tweezers until it bled.

I have to say, at that moment, I was living the life. Whatever else I might be, I was not bored not bored. This was some other, other, other other type of s.h.i.+t. type of s.h.i.+t.

So we ordered another round.

Everything else was continually escalating at work. I received almost weekly doc.u.mentation for some crime, along with the rest of the desk staff, and everyone's service and commitment just got worse and worse.

All of my service training was gone. I talked fast and dirty. If you weren't tipping me, then move on. I had money to make. Want to know all about the property? Read the book in the room.

Next guest, please.

But just like drinking toilet hooch, these clandestine operations began to give me stomachaches. It was dirty money that I spent on dirty martinis to forget how terrible it felt to hustle and steal every day. This life was giving me the frowns, daily, but as the hundreds began to push my savings account higher, I started to think about a nice clean break, getting back out into the world, posting my own bail, and flying away.

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 motherf.u.c.ker 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 a.s.s. 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' d.i.c.ks 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 precell 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 boy right there." 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 a.s.sociated 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 You've got a story." 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 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. s.h.i.+t 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 s.h.i.+t. Maybe he was in on something, they say he had a gun too, but lots of people got guns, he might a just been pa.s.sing 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 bra.s.s band. I paid for the bra.s.s 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 p.i.s.sy corner. The French architecture leaned out and over me, a strong change from the straight-cut s.h.i.+ny skysc.r.a.pers of New York. I found myself stepping into the street to bypa.s.s 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 s.h.i.+pping boats push hard and slow against the strong brown current, heading upriver. The Mississippi Queen Mississippi Queen belted out a howl and departed for a river tour. The commuter ferry crossed back and forth from the Northsh.o.r.e, pa.s.sengers 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. belted out a howl and departed for a river tour. The commuter ferry crossed back and forth from the Northsh.o.r.e, pa.s.sengers 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 c.o.c.ktails, 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 being 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 New Orleeens," she said, p.r.o.nouncing 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 pa.s.sed the keys to a bellman with a smile. Ben s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 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. a.n.a.l-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 s.h.i.+t to anyone, especially not the GM.

This guest here, a.s.shole 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 Please, stay at the Plaza. We We don't want low-revenue/high-ent.i.tlement guests like you pus.h.i.+ng 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." don't want low-revenue/high-ent.i.tlement guests like you pus.h.i.+ng 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 pre-reged into a gorgeous room just because their att.i.tude 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. into a gorgeous room just because their att.i.tude 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 will punish guests. I am a G.o.d 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 h.o.m.ophobic comments to anyone around me, much less directly punish guests. I am a G.o.d 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 h.o.m.ophobic comments to anyone around me, much less directly to to me, I dispense justice: Harsh. Instantaneous. Justice. 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 punis.h.i.+ng 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 mas.h.i.+ng of other numbers or some drunk guest saying, "h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo? Who is this?" 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 punis.h.i.+ng 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 mas.h.i.+ng of other numbers or some drunk guest saying, "h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo? Who is this?"