Heads In Beds Part 13

"Yeah, yeah," I countered, leaving another ten on the desk, "but anything to watch out for?"

This agent gave me a psychotic smile, like a doll smile, as if her face were going to break. What were they doing to these people? Did this woman have electrodes clipped to her body that administered a hot current of electricity every time a negative word was uttered? I let it go because she was frightening me.

Would we like a bellman to accompany us to the room? Yes, we certainly would would.

"We don't really have luggage, Thomas," Julie pointed out.

"I know. I'll take care of the tip. Let's just give our man here a front."

On the way to the elevator I mentioned I was front desk at the Bellevue. In the elevator up I mentioned I was union and inquired about the strength of the union here. Once we hit the floor, I asked about Sara. He gave me a flat statement about how she was fine. I gave him a twenty and said, "Hey, come on, man, just let me know. Me and the boys are getting a funny feeling. Anything to watch out for?"

He stopped pulling the cart behind him, which was light with our two small overnight bags. "Don't trust her smile. Don't trust her at all."

Yep.

And now here she was two months later, asking me to get a union delegate and come upstairs.

"Really? Why? I just clocked out, and it's my Friday."

She just kept staring at me.

"Okay. Let's go," I said.

There were two other people in the bathroom-sized manager's office, both of them pointing their much calmer gazes at me.

One: Orianna, my union delegate. Your union delegate is your elected advocate. Your uneducated, uninterested advocate. Soon after joining the union, they held elections for the delegate position. Two kinds of people try to be delegates. The first kind are after the perks. To begin with, being a delegate always pulls you off your job, taking you down to HR to hear a case or witness a write-up. Lazy people love love being delegates. Also, as a delegate you are essentially bulletproof. It is near impossible to fire a delegate. If one even gets suspended, anywhere in the New York Hotel Workers' Union circuit, then all the business reps (who actually work for the union) will roll out and protest. It's a mess. It's better to just set the delegate free than deal with the fallout. Beyond being bulletproof, a delegate is also unable to go on layoff. The hotel could shut down all but one G.o.dd.a.m.n room, and there would still be delegates from every department running around the property, waiting for the single guest to request some toilet paper or order a sandwich. In truth, that was what Orianna was after, since she was a.s.similated late into the realm of the front desk and put in the back of the line seniority-wise. She took the position to secure a paycheck and ensure the Similac kept flowing for that union baby she had. being delegates. Also, as a delegate you are essentially bulletproof. It is near impossible to fire a delegate. If one even gets suspended, anywhere in the New York Hotel Workers' Union circuit, then all the business reps (who actually work for the union) will roll out and protest. It's a mess. It's better to just set the delegate free than deal with the fallout. Beyond being bulletproof, a delegate is also unable to go on layoff. The hotel could shut down all but one G.o.dd.a.m.n room, and there would still be delegates from every department running around the property, waiting for the single guest to request some toilet paper or order a sandwich. In truth, that was what Orianna was after, since she was a.s.similated late into the realm of the front desk and put in the back of the line seniority-wise. She took the position to secure a paycheck and ensure the Similac kept flowing for that union baby she had.

The second type of person who goes for the delegate position is the s.h.i.+t-talking, fake politician. The kind of person who has little education but loves to try out big words and be in charge, know everyone's G.o.dd.a.m.n business, and write little ineffective letters asking for this and demanding that and just generally embarra.s.sing him- or herself with an over-the-top I-am-important att.i.tude.

Which delegate is the better of the two?

It's not much of a choice.

Perhaps the politician types will be better informed about the policies and loopholes. At least they want want to think of themselves as good delegates. But again, they are playing a political game, and often, and this must make them so happy, they make "sacrifices," bow down to management, let employees go, just to keep up the "dialogue" and make "concessions." Games like that get good people fired. to think of themselves as good delegates. But again, they are playing a political game, and often, and this must make them so happy, they make "sacrifices," bow down to management, let employees go, just to keep up the "dialogue" and make "concessions." Games like that get good people fired.

There is actually a third kind of delegate, rare, but one that you'd actually want: a delegate who hates management. One who gets angry and thinks every single thing management does is bulls.h.i.+t. Those kinds of troublemakers can actually overturn a decision. They sincerely care about their people and will fight to the death, even if their union member was caught reading the New York Times New York Times while taking a s.h.i.+t in the presidential suite master bathroom. while taking a s.h.i.+t in the presidential suite master bathroom.

I didn't have that kind. I had Orianna. Perks.

The second person in the room was Sara: this new manager who came in here with new plans and processes as they all do, more than ready to jump into the Bellevue's current "the flogging will not stop until morale improves" mentality. And now she was trying to discipline the white whale.

I am the white whale.

I've been here for centuries.

I came with the land.

Who does this woman think she is?

"Poor service." That's what I am being disciplined for. I can see the term traced huge on the write-up, extremely legibly. Poor service. The livid old man and that sucker-a.s.s p.u.s.s.y in the polo.

I mean, eating s.h.i.+t is part of the job. h.e.l.l, eating s.h.i.+t is is the job. And I used to have an iron stomach. But that was New Orleans. That was me the job. And I used to have an iron stomach. But that was New Orleans. That was me ten years ago ten years ago. This is New York. Christ, this is midtown Manhattan. Why can't I do it anymore? What really changed: I became a semiprofessional alcoholic? Sure. Retaliating against new management? Yes, please. Been working as a front desk agent so long it makes me want to s.h.i.+t out my heart?

Absolutely.

We discuss the events of the day. The breakfast cards. I explain how, to me, her evidence is inadmissible (look at me go, Cop Show!) because I was directly following procedures. How can I be disciplined for any anger resulting from my request that a guest retrieve his original certificates, when two weeks ago there was a memo that said all guests must use their original certificates? You say break eggs, so I break eggs. And then you accuse me of getting the kitchen all dirty and getting salmonella in your mouth. I also pointed out that if I hadn't been slightly curt with the gentleman, the line behind him would not have moved, and then we'd have guests complaining about the long wait to check in or maybe even silently deciding to find another property for any future New York City stays, one with better, more efficient service.

The kid, the seventeen-year-old. Whatever. I didn't give Sara many words about that. That kid was out of line. Can I really be responsible for the accusations of a country-club teenager? I explain that perhaps management should take into consideration that his opinion of my att.i.tude might be swayed by the fact he just rocketed through p.u.b.erty. And he was unreasonable unreasonable. Only providing him with a nonexistent room nonexistent room would have made him happy! That is the definition of unreasonable: demanding something that isn't even possible. would have made him happy! That is the definition of unreasonable: demanding something that isn't even possible.

"You know, Sara, I have been here for a long, long time. I may have helped 500 guests today. I may have helped 500 yesterday. I help a lot of guests. Out of today's 500, 498 were pleased or perhaps more than pleased. Now you've got an unreasonable child and a man who disagrees vehemently and exclusively exclusively with with hotel policy hotel policy, and you are going to write me up? One more write-up after this, and I'll be suspended pending termination. Does that seem fair to you? Orianna, does that seem fair?"

Orianna heard her name and looked up at me. Then she looked back down at her nails, enjoying the fact that it was a Friday rush down at the desk and she wasn't hustling keys.

"Tom, you need to improve your att.i.tude at the desk. You have to make every single guest happy. We feel that you are just cruising along, not going 'above and beyond,' not even paying attention. You are cold at the desk. Uninterested. Curt. In short: rude. If you cannot do your job properly, it will be our pleasure our pleasure to fire to fire you you and find someone who will." and find someone who will."

And then it happened: I felt as if this woman grabbed my heart and rope-burned it, squeezed its pulpy flesh until blood, hot angry blood, flooded my face and my stomach and pushed the burning lava right to the tips of my fingers. I mean, I guess that's why my hands were shaking.

I slowly pulled out a stack of letters from my inner suit coat pocket. I had this plan to prove to her how well I actually do my job. On top was a letter I'd received yesterday from a guest I'd helped last month. And I remember him.

He had checked in early, alone, and wanted to get upstairs as soon as possible.

"Please," he said, "my girlfriend is taking a cab from JFK, and I want to prepare the room. I'm going to propose."

I hear this a lot a lot. And honestly, it is super pleasant to deal with. The man will be all nervous and happy and tell me the situation while his soon-to-be-fiancee is helping the doorman get the bags from the car. Then she'll come inside and be all smiles because maybe she knows but probably she doesn't, and sometimes there will be notes pre-written on the res that say, "DO NOT UNBLOCK!! Special room for guest who is proposing. DO NOT MENTION PROPOSAL, EITHER." You actually have to put that last line in there because, frankly, people are morons. I was witness to a co-worker once reading just the "do not unblock-proposal" message, and she smiled and said, "Oh my, congratulations you two!" and the woman was confused and the man tried to wipe the anger off his face and play it off. Then the woman started to pick up on it. It was pretty f.u.c.ked-up.

But this guy wanted to get in early and prep the room. "Certainly, sir. I've got something wonderful. It's a big upgrade, but I'll take care of the difference in price." Okay, you got me: I'm hustling just a tiny bit here. I am going to give it to him anyway, so what's the harm in mentioning the price difference? He might be feeling generous! "So just let me free the room up. How about you ask her with a view of Central Park as the backdrop?" Earlier that day I'd checked out our Central Park views. It was fall, and the park was gorgeous, the reds and yellows of turning foliage spreading warmly against the long wall of Upper East Side buildings.

"Well, here is the thing. Can I trust you?"

"I am a front desk agent, Mr. Blanchard. You're G.o.dd.a.m.n right you can trust me You're G.o.dd.a.m.n right you can trust me."

"I need your help, then. I am going to propose in in Central Park. I plan on taking her up to the room for a bit and settling in. I hired a photographer, and if you want to help, I'll give him your name, and he'll introduce himself. When you see us come back through the lobby, make certain the photographer sees us, and if he Central Park. I plan on taking her up to the room for a bit and settling in. I hired a photographer, and if you want to help, I'll give him your name, and he'll introduce himself. When you see us come back through the lobby, make certain the photographer sees us, and if he doesn't doesn't, signal him to follow us."

"This is extremely covert, sir, and frankly I am all about it."

"You see, the photographer is going to follow us and secretly take pictures when I drop my knee in the dirt. Then, on our wedding day, I'm going to give her the photos she doesn't even know were taken."

"Well, d.a.m.n. That is. That is borderline...you know, what with the photographer in the bushes and all? But when I picture the wedding present on wedding day, it's amazing. I am your man, sir."

And that is exactly what I did. I like to think the photographer would have missed them if I hadn't been there to flail around like a maniac when the couple pa.s.sed through. And after I saw the soon-to-be-groom's gigantic smile on the way back in and the woman's eyes glued to her diamond ring, I sent them wine and a personal note.

Yesterday I got a letter from him. It said he'll never forget me. It said the Bellevue is their New York hotel for life. It said they've decided to have the honeymoon here.

Beneath that letter is one from Mr. Palay. He's the big hitter we hustled into becoming a frequent-stay guest. The letter, which came out of nowhere and included, um, a fat-a.s.s personal check with my name on it, said he has never experienced service of this caliber before. The fact that I have given him my personal e-mail and I respond even when I'm not at work (I've helped him while I was drunk at a bar before) has convinced him my hotel is the place for his next group block. Turns out he's the president of a huge investment firm and the group totals more than 150 rooms. That's over seventy-five thousand dollars in revenue. In one night. He sent a second letter to my GM explaining the excellent service I provide, mentioning our e-mail correspondence and my twenty-four-hour service. Mr. Tremblay told the FOM to tell the a.s.sistant FOM to tell the manager on duty to tell me me that I was no longer allowed to give out my personal e-mail to guests. Apparently, that was inappropriate. At seventy-five thousand dollars, how inappropriate can that be? that I was no longer allowed to give out my personal e-mail to guests. Apparently, that was inappropriate. At seventy-five thousand dollars, how inappropriate can that be?

Weren't these people all about money? Was it possible possible to please them? to please them?

Another is a letter from the Bekkers. The letter where they offer to house me in their mansion while a.s.sisting me in finding adequate lodgings. The one where they thank me again for making their wedding so special and giving them a home in New York. The one where they say, again, that I should get on a plane, fly into Cape Town, and be taken care of. I received that letter a while ago but still kept it in my pocket. I really liked that letter.

All of these little pieces of proof were now in my shaking, angry hand. Sara was looking calmly at me, one hand flat on her thigh, the other softly resting on my write-up; that current write-up, plus one more, and they could fire me. Maybe Tremblay had offered a trophy for the manager who finally succeeded in terminating me. (What would that trophy look like? I wondered. A gold figure of me with a boot up my a.s.s, probably.) Clearly, they really, really did not want me here. But, d.a.m.n it, I love this hotel. The Bellevue is my home. I love the Bellevue. I loved what it had been. It had changed now, and I was having trouble accepting that.

I'm not proud of it, but at that time, in that moment, I felt I had one move left. Apparently, that move was to snap. So I snapped.

"You want to fire me for poor service? I don't GIVE GIVE poor service. And if you need proof, read these poor service. And if you need proof, read these," I said, pretty G.o.dd.a.m.n loudly, and then tossed the letters into the air.

Considering the consequences of this action, I remember it in slow motion: the letters slowly twisting in varied trajectories, unfurling, arranging themselves high in the air like leaves on an invisible tree, and then slowly, slowly falling down on all of us.

The beginning of the end.

I know I'm to blame. Because this is the G.o.dd.a.m.n hotel business. You either strap it on hard or, if you can't handle it, go wait tables. I flashed back to the image of Keith and Walter, those two valets, flopping around on the concrete, screaming, trying to choke each other to death death. Maybe those cats had been running cars for two decades, and they'd had enough. I recalled Chip, drop-kicking those two s.h.i.+ny quarters, and I saw his image clearly in my mind now, specifically recalling the face he made while he executed the kick: It was furious. It was determined. It was psychotic. And behind that, it was filled with so much sadness.

Now I understood. Maybe I'd had enough.

I gave myself another long weekend. Even after my two days off, I called in sick Monday and Tuesday. I needed the time. I really, really needed the time. It was like self-prescribed mental leave. gave myself another long weekend. Even after my two days off, I called in sick Monday and Tuesday. I needed the time. I really, really needed the time. It was like self-prescribed mental leave.

I dialed Julie, whom I'd been out of touch with for a month, and she invited me out to dinner. We dined on caviar, scooping it into our mouths with tiny spoons, and drank seventeen-dollar c.o.c.ktails that arrived in whatever color you wanted. I chose blue.

"Stop slumping."

"I'm depressed."

"Well, drink more, then, baby. Get another. A happier color. Get orange maybe. Orange is a power color."

"Orange? Okay."

"So you hate your job, Thomas. Be comforted by the universal truth that everyone hates their job. Or, you can change it. Get a new one."

Finding another hotel gig in New York made no sense. Beyond the fact that I would be forced back onto the overnights, I wouldn't be able to pay my rent after dropping back down to starting pay. A few years ago, feeling financially stable, I moved farther out into Brooklyn, deep into an area called Bushwick, where I could afford to live alone. Having my own apartment improved my life but doubled my rent. It was either stay at the Bellevue or clear out of the city altogether.

"Why don't we move to L.A. together, Julie?"

She set her c.o.c.ktail down carefully on a napkin. Hers was yellow. It looked like urine. I wondered if urine was a power color too.

"Nonsense," she said quietly.

We'd discussed it in the past, moving away together. She could easily find work out there, and you know me: if there's a hotel, then pa.s.s me the drug-test p.i.s.s cup because I start tomorrow.

"You think it's nonsense?"

"It is, Thomas." She still called me Thomas because, in a way, she was still a hotel guest. "That doesn't mean it's not a possibility, though. You know we could make each other perfectly happy."

Here I was, expecting a guest to take me away, to pay for my life. Ben the bellman, as always, had offered some sound advice on this flawed plan: "You f.u.c.king moron. Never get involved with a hotel guest. Bang 'em on the minibar, but leave it there. You'll never be on their level. Get you a nice Russian housekeeper. Russian housekeepers, Tommy, now, they know how to love."

I drank a whole rainbow that night.

Soon enough it was the following Friday, a week after the tree of letters shed its leaves down on everyone. During the intervening s.h.i.+fts I'd been extremely timid, almost over overservicing the guests, earnestly trying to make up for my previous week's deficiencies. I also, in an effort to avoid confrontation with anyone about anything, handed out breakfast certificates like they were free samples.

As if stuck in a repeating pattern, I was informed that my presence was required in HR, again on a Friday after my s.h.i.+ft, when I should be walking out of the building. I wasn't worried: I a.s.sumed Sara wanted to finish what she started last week in the company of HR, since, if I recall, I had walked out without giving her a chance to ask me to sign the write-up. Which I wouldn't have signed anyway, because we all know the union rule about not signing anything but your check. The delegate does sign it as a "witness." But we hadn't even gotten to that point.

I walked to the back office to get Orianna and bring her down there with me.

"They're calling me down to HR. What's up, you think?"

Orianna was concentrating hard on the computer screen. I should have sensed something was horribly wrong. She never concentrates hard on anything.

"Orianna?"

"I'm not involved anymore. There is a delegate down there for you," she said, picking up the phone receiver, though there was no incoming call.

"What's going on here?" I said, actually out loud, before turning and walking back through the lobby. I found Jay, the union delegate for the bellmen and doormen, and ran my situation by him. He's got the perfect kind of psycho-terror for a delegate.

"Yeah, Orianna's stepping down as delegate," he said.

"Now? She witnessed the whole thing, and she steps down now?"

"It doesn't look good for you, chief."

Downstairs I was introduced to Teo, a union delegate from housekeeping whom I had never, ever seen before: not in the halls, not in the locker room, not in the cafeteria, nowhere. One thing was clear: he didn't speak much English. But, whatever, let's get this over with, I thought. Just take my write-up and move on with my s.h.i.+tty little life.

The director of HR was leading the witness. She kept saying, "And then?" which made it clear to me she was hoping to fast-forward directly to the letter-throwing incident. I certainly wasn't falling for that. So I continued on my slow path, explaining the certificate policy calmly, going over all the reasons I was being punished for doing my job properly. Teo, my delegate, was struggling to keep up. It wasn't just the language barrier; there was a lot of front desk minutiae here, a lot of little policies and rules that are nowhere near his expertise. That's why you're supposed to get a delegate from your department, someone who knows what the h.e.l.l you're going on about. I don't even think the director of HR was following it all.

It seemed so tedious to me, all of it.

Somehow, while continuing to explain my side of the situation, I figured out what happened with Orianna. Her husband had been walking down Queens Boulevard when a car driving down the road paddled him with the pa.s.senger side door. Which was fully opened, like a wing. I can't imagine why something like this would happen. You You try to figure it out. No serious damage to the husband, he was out of the hospital two days later, but Orianna took advantage of the situation, as any union member would, and secured two months' Family Medical Leave to help her loved ones through this emotionally devastating incident. It was the end of the summer, so she went to the Dominican Republic, as you might do after a vehicular paddling. Last Friday marked her first day back after the two months off, the day I snapped. She came back tan, happy, relaxed, and unprepared to be thrown back into the cage-match environment of the hotel. She still had sand in her toes, and me getting loud and throwing s.h.i.+t was too much. Plus, she had all the seniority she needed to avoid a layoff, which was one of her initial reasons for seeking the position. So she stepped down as delegate. I was considering this fact, realizing how bad this really was for me: my union delegate stepping down implies my guilt and leaves me without a witness, without a defense. try to figure it out. No serious damage to the husband, he was out of the hospital two days later, but Orianna took advantage of the situation, as any union member would, and secured two months' Family Medical Leave to help her loved ones through this emotionally devastating incident. It was the end of the summer, so she went to the Dominican Republic, as you might do after a vehicular paddling. Last Friday marked her first day back after the two months off, the day I snapped. She came back tan, happy, relaxed, and unprepared to be thrown back into the cage-match environment of the hotel. She still had sand in her toes, and me getting loud and throwing s.h.i.+t was too much. Plus, she had all the seniority she needed to avoid a layoff, which was one of her initial reasons for seeking the position. So she stepped down as delegate. I was considering this fact, realizing how bad this really was for me: my union delegate stepping down implies my guilt and leaves me without a witness, without a defense.

Orianna could have said, "No, Tom never threw anything. Maybe he tossed tossed them onto the table but certainly never meant to hurt anyone, and he never them onto the table but certainly never meant to hurt anyone, and he never threw threw anything, not that I saw." Then I could say, "What she said," making it two against one, and we would walk out unscathed. I might have bought Orianna a bottle of Brugal for her trouble. anything, not that I saw." Then I could say, "What she said," making it two against one, and we would walk out unscathed. I might have bought Orianna a bottle of Brugal for her trouble.

"We have testimony that you threw objects at her face."

"At her face face? I never threw anything at her face, I-"

"Stop. Thomas, listen..."

Just then I was thinking: Why isn't Sara here?

The director of human resources cleared her throat. "We have decided to terminate your employment here at the hotel."

Teo heard that s.h.i.+t. He said, "Ess yuse me?" "Ess yuse me?"

"I'm fired?"

"Yes, Thomas, we have decided to terminate your employment. Effective immediately."

There followed a long, long silence during which all the blood in my body sank to my feet and started pooling up, filling my legs like a pitcher, leaving my face dead white.