Heads in beds.

by Jacob Tomsky.

Author's Note

To protect the guilty and the innocent alike, I have deconstructed all hotels and rebuilt them into personal properties, changed all names, and shredded all personalities and reattached them to shreds from other personalities, creating a book of amalgams that, working together, establish, essentially, a world of truth. I mean, d.a.m.n d.a.m.n, I even change my own name.

"WELCOME TO THE FRONT DESK: CHECKING IN?"

I've worked in hotels for more than a decade. I've checked you in, checked you out, oriented you to the property, served you a beverage, separated your white panties from the white bedsheets, parked your car, tasted your room service (before and, sadly, after), cleaned your toilet, denied you a late checkout, given you a wake-up call, eaten M&M's out of your minibar, laughed at your jokes, and taken your money. I have been on the front lines, and by that I mean the front desk, of upscale hotels for years, and I've seen it all firsthand.

How does one fall into the pit of hospitality? How is it that nearly every dollar I've ever earned came from a paycheck with a name of a hotel written on it somewhere (or of course in the form of cash from the hand of a generous hotel guest)? Call it an accident, like catching a train with the plan to go across town, but as the platforms smear by one after the other, you come to realize you've broken city limits, the train is not stopping, and you're just going to have to ride this life until the doors open. Or until the conductor stops the train and throws you out on your a.s.s.

After a certain amount of years in the hotel business (and I'll go ahead and mention this up front), you're just too useless and used up to do anything else.

I grew up military: navy mother, marine father. When I was a child, it was two years maximum in any given city, and then we'd be on the move again, changing schools, checking into a hotel in L.A., a hotel in Jacksonville, a hotel in Asheville, a hotel in San Pedro, looking for a new "permanent" residence. I grew up like a spun top, and, released into adulthood, I continued spinning, moving, relocating.

Those two-year episodes of my childhood left me feeling rootless, lost in the world; perhaps that's why I stubbornly pursued a degree in philosophy. I cannot explain the idiocy behind my choice of major. s.h.i.t, if I had chosen business, I might be in business right now. Perhaps you'd think one main goal within the philosophy degree itself would be the ability to argue unequivocally why a philosophy degree is not a complete waste of time. I never learned that argument. Garbage. My degree was garbage stuffed inside a trash can of student loans.

So someone, some a.s.shole, suggested I earn some money in hospitality. Hotels were willing to ignore my dubious degree and offer great starting pay, and I will say this: it's an ideal career for the traveler. I love travel in every way: new people, new sounds, new environments, the ability to pick up and disappear. (My top is, even now, spinning, and though it's digging a nice divot into Brooklyn, the balance is beginning to lean, and once that tip finds traction, it's going to rocket me off the continent.) Plus, hotels are everywhere: kidnap me, duct tape my face, drop me out of a plane, and I promise you I will land in a parking lot adjacent to a hotel and in less than a day I'll be wearing a suit, a.s.sisting guests, earning a nice check, and making friends at the local bar.

Hotels are methadone clinics for the travel addicted. Maybe the only way I can even keep keep a home is to hold down a job surrounded by constant change. If I'm addicted to relocating, then how about I rest a minute, in a lobby echoing with eternal h.e.l.los and good-byes, and let the world move around me? a home is to hold down a job surrounded by constant change. If I'm addicted to relocating, then how about I rest a minute, in a lobby echoing with eternal h.e.l.los and good-byes, and let the world move around me?

And that is exactly what I did. From New Orleans to New York, I played by hotel rules and, in the process, learned every aspect of the industry. Due to the fact I just don't care anymore, here is one of my objectives: I will offer easy and, up till now, never publicized tips and tricks. Want a late checkout? Want an upgrade? Guess what! There are simple ways (and most most of them are legal ways!) to get what you need from a hotel without any ha.s.sle whatsoever. It's all in the details-in what you need done, whom you ask to do it, how you ask them, and how much you should tip them for doing it. Need to cancel the day of arrival with no penalty? No problem. Maybe you just want to be treated with care and respect? I understand, dear guest. Come on, now, calm down, you fragile thing...take my hand...good...okay, now put some money in it... of them are legal ways!) to get what you need from a hotel without any ha.s.sle whatsoever. It's all in the details-in what you need done, whom you ask to do it, how you ask them, and how much you should tip them for doing it. Need to cancel the day of arrival with no penalty? No problem. Maybe you just want to be treated with care and respect? I understand, dear guest. Come on, now, calm down, you fragile thing...take my hand...good...okay, now put some money in it...very good...thank you. Now, that's a proper hospitality business transaction. good...thank you. Now, that's a proper hospitality business transaction.

And when all is said and done, you will understand the hotel life, what we do, and how we do it. Though why we continue to do it continue to do it may be harder to grasp. All of this will be beneficial to you because the next time you check in with me (and believe me, I get around; I've probably checked you in a couple of times already), the next time we meet, a comforting, bright light of total understanding will be shining in your eyes, and I will help you and you will help me, and reading this book will give you the knowledge you need to get the very best service from any hotel or property, from any business that makes its money from putting "heads in beds." Or, may be harder to grasp. All of this will be beneficial to you because the next time you check in with me (and believe me, I get around; I've probably checked you in a couple of times already), the next time we meet, a comforting, bright light of total understanding will be shining in your eyes, and I will help you and you will help me, and reading this book will give you the knowledge you need to get the very best service from any hotel or property, from any business that makes its money from putting "heads in beds." Or, at the very least at the very least, it will keep me from taking your luggage into the camera-free back office and stomping the s.h.i.t out of it.

As a hotelier, I am everywhere. I am nowhere. I am nameless...except for the G.o.dd.a.m.n name tag.

But first, let's talk about names. Let's talk about changing the names to protect the innocent. Let's talk about how innocent I I am and how much am and how much I I need protecting. need protecting.

My name is Jacob Tomsky. But in the hotel world we are all registered with our last name first. Jacob Tomsky becomes Tomsky, Jacob. So, in the spirit of self-preservation, Tomsky, Jacob-for the purposes of this book-becomes Thomas Jacobs.

Good luck, little Tommy Jacobs.

I am standing on St. Charles Avenue, uptown New Orleans, a few months out of college and a few weeks into summer. It's already extremely hot in the full sun. Which is where I have to stand: in the sun. Next to the valet box. All day. am standing on St. Charles Avenue, uptown New Orleans, a few months out of college and a few weeks into summer. It's already extremely hot in the full sun. Which is where I have to stand: in the sun. Next to the valet box. All day.

I took a valet-parking job at Copeland's restaurant to shake off my college-loan laziness, to climb out of the educational womb and stand on my own two feet as a moneymaking, career-pursuing adult. Educated in the useless and inapplicable field of philosophy, I quickly deduced that my degree looked slightly comical on my already light-on-the-work-experience resume. Perhaps it was even off-putting off-putting. To a certain eye, h.e.l.l, it probably made me look like a p.r.i.c.k. But I had to start somewhere. So I started at the bottom.

This job is not good enough. Why not? First of all, I'm parking cars. Second, we have to turn in all our tips. I imagined I'd get off the first night with a pocketful of ones to take to the French Quarter, not that you need much money in New Orleans. As it turned out, however, attached to the valet box that houses the car keys, like a wooden tumor, is a separate slot for us to jimmy in our folded tips. All of them. Attached to that that box, like a human tumor, is the shift boss, back in the shade at a vacant umbrella table, sipping a noontime drink that most definitely contains alcohol. It also has chipped ice and is sweating in his hand, sweating in a much different way than I am sweating. box, like a human tumor, is the shift boss, back in the shade at a vacant umbrella table, sipping a noontime drink that most definitely contains alcohol. It also has chipped ice and is sweating in his hand, sweating in a much different way than I am sweating.

A lunch customer hands me his ticket. I find his keys easily in the box and take off at an impressive run. His car is not easy to find: the valet company has not rented a nearby lot to service the restaurant, and so we, certainly unbeknownst to the clients, just drive around the area and try to parallel park the vehicles as close to Copeland's as possible. Once the vehicle has been parked, it's up to the valet to draw a silly treasure map on the back of the ticket so another valet can locate it. My co-worker Chip draws every treasure map like this: #*. Every single one. And finding the car is never easy. But I bring it back and slide up to the curb, holding the door open, the car's AC pouring like ice water on my feet, and receive a neatly folded bill from the customer.

"It's d.a.m.n hot out here, son. This is for you running like that."

It's a twenty-dollar bill. Chip, now back and posted by the valet box, holds a salute against his brow, trying like h.e.l.l to make out the bill. I walk up to the tip tumor and start to wiggle it in when Chip says, "No. No! No! What are you doing, Tommy? Don't you keep a dollar handy to swap it out with? Please don't put that twenty in there. Please. It's for you. That dude What are you doing, Tommy? Don't you keep a dollar handy to swap it out with? Please don't put that twenty in there. Please. It's for you. That dude told told you it was for you." you it was for you."

"Actually, it's for Copeland's Valet Parking Corporation," the human tumor says, setting his drink down wet on the valet box.

"Are you seriously drinking a mudslide?" Chip asks.

I use a car key from the box to vanish the bill completely and post up next to Chip. Back in the sun. The shift boss sinks back into the shade.

"I am way way too old for this. Sharing tips? Forty percent to management leaves 60 percent of the tips to us, divided over twenty runners, on a check, with taxes taken out, and guess who's running the math, guess who's counting up the tips? A grown man drinking a G.o.dd.a.m.n mudslide." He must have been talking to himself previously because now Chip turned to me: "You think he's gonna turn in that twenty? Or just keep it for himself? We too old for this. Sharing tips? Forty percent to management leaves 60 percent of the tips to us, divided over twenty runners, on a check, with taxes taken out, and guess who's running the math, guess who's counting up the tips? A grown man drinking a G.o.dd.a.m.n mudslide." He must have been talking to himself previously because now Chip turned to me: "You think he's gonna turn in that twenty? Or just keep it for himself? We never never get good tips out here. You know what I heard? There's a new hotel opening up downtown. You heard that? It's supposed to be get good tips out here. You know what I heard? There's a new hotel opening up downtown. You heard that? It's supposed to be luxury luxury." He said the word as if it were mystical and perhaps too good for his own tongue: "luxury." "luxury." "And they're looking for parkers. Copeland's customers don't tip for s.h.i.t." "And they're looking for parkers. Copeland's customers don't tip for s.h.i.t."

Chip, with a wide smile, accepts a claim check from an emerging lunch customer and locates the keys in the box. "It's a f.u.c.king Mazda, dude," he says quietly to me. And then to the customer: "You won't be long in this heat, sir! I will run for your vehicle!" Then he takes off sprinting: it's almost vaudevillian how he tears a.s.s around the corner, his body at full tilt.

Chip cruises the Mazda back in record time, gliding up to the curb. "AC running and cla.s.sic rock on low for you, sir."

The customer drops something into his cupped palm. Something that makes Chip's face contort.

Chip stands upright, essentially blocking the customer from entering his own vehicle, and spreads open his palm to let the two-quarter tip flash in the sun.

With a voice strained and tight, as if he were suffering intense physical pain, he says, "Why, thank you so very much, sir."

Then he pivots slightly and extends his hand, palm flat, quarters in the sun again.

Then he drop-kicks both coins. Kicks the s.h.i.t out of them into the street.

They arc over the road and land on the rough gra.s.s of the neutral ground, settling in before a streetcar rocks by.

I can see the shock on the customer's face-the confusion, the horror. Chip just walks off with determination, crossing St. Charles and onto the neutral ground. After picking the quarters out of the gra.s.s, he crosses the tracks to the far side of the street and starts bearing down Napoleon Avenue, toward Mid-City: the job, the restaurant, the shift boss, me, all of us in his rearview mirror.

I finished my shift. Then I took his advice about the hotel job.

Whether I knew it yet or not, it was one h.e.l.l of an important moment for me, watching Chip snap at what seemed like such a minor affront, seeing that much emotion applied to a single low-quality tip. And then watching him bend down, fish the quarters out of the dirt, and take them with him. I didn't understand any of it. Not yet.

Here we go.

Hotel orientation. Human resources pretty much hired everyone. Everyone who pa.s.sed the drug test.

I pa.s.sed, thank you.

Chip did not.

The River Hotel, connected to a brand known for luxury, known for being out of almost everyone's price range, was being built right there on Chartres Street, in downtown New Orleans. It was three weeks from opening and still under construction. Yet they hired us all, tailored our uniforms, and started paying us. A week ago I was earning earning money and money and giving giving it to an idiot who pounds mudslides. Now I wasn't even working, but I was collecting a check. A good check. And no one had even said the word "valet" yet. it to an idiot who pounds mudslides. Now I wasn't even working, but I was collecting a check. A good check. And no one had even said the word "valet" yet.

Not that our new managers weren't saying any words. Honestly, they couldn't stop stop saying some words: "Service." "Luxury." "Honesty." "Loyalty." "Opulence." And mid-length phrases such as "Customer Feedback" and "Antic.i.p.ating Needs." And then longer, million-dollar phrases like saying some words: "Service." "Luxury." "Honesty." "Loyalty." "Opulence." And mid-length phrases such as "Customer Feedback" and "Antic.i.p.ating Needs." And then longer, million-dollar phrases like "Fifteen-Hundred-Thread-Count Egyptian Linen Duvet Covers." "Fifteen-Hundred-Thread-Count Egyptian Linen Duvet Covers."

Management ran cla.s.ses every day on service, administered in the completed conference rooms, the tables draped with what we a.s.sumed to be Egyptian fabric and adorned with iced carafes of water, which we poured into crystal goblets to wash down the huge piles of pastries they fed us. They were h.e.l.l-bent on teaching us how to identify something called "a guest's unmentioned needs."

"A man needs his car, he don't need to speak a word. Get that claim check out. Get that dollar out, feel me?"

That came from the back of cla.s.s. I turned my head to get a look at who I a.s.sumed were to be my co-workers: three black guys not really adhering to the "business casual" mandate for these orientation cla.s.ses.

"Tommy, can you give me an example of a guest's unmentioned need?"

I wasn't even wearing a name badge: these hospitality maniacs had actually learned everyone's name.

"Well, ma'am-"

"You can call me Trish. I'm the front office manager."

"Well, ah, Trish Trish..." That got a low laugh from the back of cla.s.s. "Maybe they pull in a car, it's dirty from the drive, and we could get it washed?"

"Perfect example."

"Wait up. You want I should drive the car back to my driveway in the Ninth Ward to wash it? Or bring in quarters from home?"

"Perry; correct?"

"Yeah, Perry."

"Perry. You come to me anytime, and I'll give you hotel money to wash a car, change a tire, or buy them a CD you know they'd like for the drive home. Anything you think of, you can come to me."

"Well, G.o.dd.a.m.n."

The day before the grand opening the hotel closed off a block of Chartres Street (p.r.o.nounced "Chart-ers," by the way, completely disregarding the obvious Frenchness of the word; we also p.r.o.nounce the street Calliope like "Cal-e-ope"; Burgundy comes out not like the color but "Ber-GUN-dy," and just try to stutter out Tchoupitoulas Street or Natchitoches even close to correctly). We were collected into parade groups, our new managers holding up large, well-made signs indicating our departments. Front desk. Valet. Laundry. Sales and marketing. Bellmen. Doormen. Food and beverage. And housekeeping of course, by far the largest group, about 150 black ladies dressed as if they were going to a club. The valets hung together in a small clot, not saying much to each other, looking up at the finished, renovated hotel.

The vibe was celebratory and overwhelmingly positive. We were let in, one department after the other, and we hustled up a stairwell lined with managers clapping and cheering as if we were the G.o.dd.a.m.n New Orleans Saints. They threw confetti, smacked us on the back, and screamed in an orgy of goodwill and excitement. By the time we crested the third floor and poured into the grand banquet hall, every single one of us had huge, marvelously sincere smiles stuck hard on our faces. And we held those smiles as we took turns shaking the general manager's hand, who, no s.h.i.t, wore a crown of laurel leaves. As a joke, I suppose.

"I'm Charles Daniels. Please, call me Chuck."

"All right, then, Chuck," Perry said in front of me and waited while Mr. Daniels located the gold-plated name tag that read "Perry" from the banquet table beside him.

Mr. Daniels didn't go so far as to pin on pin on the name tag, the name tag, anoint us anoint us, as it were. But we were in such a rapturous state during the event I believe we would have readily kneeled before him and let him pin it to our naked flesh.

And then there was an open bar open bar. Not sure where they shipped in this opening team from; they certainly weren't locals. Neither was I, but I'd spent my young life traveling, moving so often I'd learned the skill (and believe me it is an incredibly useful skill) of a.s.similating into any new culture, whatever that culture may be. I am a shape-shifter in that way. And as I approached my four-year anniversary in Louisiana, just about my longest stretch anywhere, New Orleans had already become the closest thing to a home I'd ever had. And the open bar was a nod to this town, a town that runs on alcohol, and much appreciated. This is a city where you can find drink specials on Christmas morning. Not that you could find me on Bourbon Street Christmas morning; I didn't drink at the time. I stayed sober all through college while pursuing my degree and hadn't had a drop since I was fifteen and used to take shots of Jack Daniel's in my bas.e.m.e.nt during school lunch. But an open bar in New Orleans? People got tore up tore up. Housekeeping got tore up tore up.

Now that it was revealed which department we fell into, we tended to group up for the party, getting to know each other.

"Dig this general manager. He look like a slave owner with that headpiece," Walter said.

"Nah," Perry said. "Chuck a cool motherf.u.c.ker. You just enjoy that free drink you got," and then he took a long finishing pull from his own bottle of Heineken.

Everyone was smiling. Everyone was friendly. Everyone had a name tag on. It was like a big crazy family, and we opened tomorrow. We were all in this together, and everyone in that banquet hall, after two weeks of service training, two full paychecks for nothing nothing, couldn't wait to unleash their skills on a real guest. The managers had whipped us into such a frenzy that if any actual guests had wandered into that party, we would have serviced them to death, mauled them, like ravenous service jackals.

Already the hotel had created the possibility of a home for me, a future. It seemed so glamorous, all the linens and chandeliers and sticky pastries. The hotel was beautiful, and I was honored to be a member of the opening team. It was at this very point I realized my life of constant relocation had led me to this nexus of relocation, this palace of the temporal where I could now stand still, the world moving around me, and, conversely, feel grounded. I studied Mr. Daniels as he circulated the party, all conversation politely cutting off when he un.o.btrusively joined a group. That was the position I wanted. That was a life I could own own. And I distinctly felt, because this is exactly what they told us during orientation, that if I performed with dedication and dignity, took the tenets of luxury service to heart, hospitality would open herself up to me and I could find my life within the industry. I wanted to be king. It was possible possible to be king. I swore that day I'd be the general manager of my very own property. to be king. I swore that day I'd be the general manager of my very own property.

This excitement carried over and crashed like a wave on the following day, the day the hotel opened. But before we were able to molest our first guest, we had to sit through the opening ceremony.

One thing about hotels: once they open, they never close.

I don't mean they never go out of business; certainly they do. But the fact that a hotel could fail to be profitable astounds me. Why? The average cost to turn over a room, keep it operational per day, is between thirty and forty dollars. If you're paying less than thirty dollars a night at a hotel/motel, I'd wager the cost to flip that that room runs close to five dollars. Which makes me want to take a shower. At home. That forty-dollar turnover cost includes cleaning supplies, electricity, and hourly wage for housekeepers, minibar attendants, front desk agents (and all other employees needed to operate a room), as well as the cost of laundering the sheets. Everything. Compare that with an average room rate, and you can see why it's a profitable business, one with a long history, going back to Mary and Joseph running up against a sold-out situation at the inn, forcing him to bed his pregnant wife in a dirty-a.s.s manger. room runs close to five dollars. Which makes me want to take a shower. At home. That forty-dollar turnover cost includes cleaning supplies, electricity, and hourly wage for housekeepers, minibar attendants, front desk agents (and all other employees needed to operate a room), as well as the cost of laundering the sheets. Everything. Compare that with an average room rate, and you can see why it's a profitable business, one with a long history, going back to Mary and Joseph running up against a sold-out situation at the inn, forcing him to bed his pregnant wife in a dirty-a.s.s manger.

The word "hotel" itself was appropriated from the French around 1765. Across the ocean, a hotel, or hotel hotel, referred not to public lodging but instead to a large government building, the house of a n.o.bleman, or any such place where people gathered but no nightly accommodation was offered. America, at the time, was filled with grimy little inns and taverns, which provided beds for travelers and also functioned as a town's s.h.i.tty dive bar. Having a monopoly on the alcohol game was a boon, one given to tavern keepers in grat.i.tude for putting up travelers, something no one wanted any part of. It wasn't until George Washington decided to embark on the first presidential tour of his new kingdom that spotlights began to shine on these public houses of grossness. In order to present himself as a man of the people, he turned down offers to stay with a.s.sociates and wealthy friends, instead lodging himself in tavern after tavern, sniffing at room after room, frowning at bed after bed. For the first time in American history, townships were ashamed ashamed of their manner of accommodating travelers. The country was unified and expanding. Something had to be done about our system of lodging. of their manner of accommodating travelers. The country was unified and expanding. Something had to be done about our system of lodging.

So, in 1794, someone, some a.s.shole, built the very first "hotel" in New York City: a 137-room job on Broadway, right there in lower Manhattan. It was the first structure built with the intention of being a "hotel," a word that was quickly replacing the terms "inn" and "tavern," even if it only meant that swarthy innkeepers were painting the word "Hotel" onto their c.r.a.ppy signs but still sloshing out the booze and making travelers sleep right next to each other in bug-ridden squalor. The first big hotels failed monetarily or burned to the ground or both. It wasn't until railroad lines were getting st.i.tched across America's expanding fabric that hotels, big and small, began to prosper and offer people like me jobs.

So, profitability aside, what I am referring to here is not the fact that once a hotel opens it will never close (or be burned to the ground!) but that once we cut the ribbon on the hotel, once we opened the lobby doors, they never closed again. In fact, they unchained them because they were built without locks, as almost all hotel lobby doors are. Three o'clock in the morning-open. Christmas Eve, 3:00 a.m.-open. Blackout-open. World War Whatever-open (with a price hike).

The mayor was kind enough to attend the opening ceremony, going down the line of sharp-dressed employees and shaking hands (or giving elaborate daps, depending on ethnicity). And then in came the public, and there we stood, smiling, proud, ready. The locals poured into the Bistro Lounge, strolled through the lobby as if it were a museum of cla.s.sical art, put handprints on fresh gla.s.s doors, and began to scuff, mark, and mar the pristine landscape, putting their a.s.ses in chairs, creasing and bending the leather, sc.r.a.ping and marking the cutlery as they bit down hard on steak-tipped forks.

For a long while at the valet stand, well, we didn't have s.h.i.t to do. We stood those first few hours, feet spread and planted at shoulder width, arms behind our backs with our hands clasped, as we were taught to stand. Then we began to shift on our feet. Then we began to talk quietly out of the sides of our mouths. Then to turn our heads and talk openly at a normal volume. Then to go to the back office to check our cell phones. Not Perry, though: he remained at his post, and the most he did was shake his head when everyone started to get restless.

"We ain't making no d.a.m.n money," Keith said, swinging his fists at his sides, directing the comment at Perry, who had somehow become the de facto leader: not simply because Perry was older, though he had a good five years over everyone else on the line, but because of something in his calmness, the way he held his lean body still, the way his eyes were so white and his face so black and all of him so G.o.dd.a.m.n calm and cool.

"This day-one day-one s.h.i.t, Keith. Relax yourself." s.h.i.t, Keith. Relax yourself."

"s.h.i.t, I needs money. We got that full wage last two weeks, but now we on that hourly wage adjusted for tips, ya heard me? I mean, we ain't even seen a car and-"

"Y'all tighten up. Chuck coming through."

And we did. But not just for Perry. Mr. Daniels had an absolutely presidential charisma. I wanted wanted to work for him. We all did. He came out through the lobby doors into the porte cochere ("fancy word for covered driveway, s.h.i.t") and walked down the line, rattling off each of our names like an old friend. But then he stopped, as if he'd forgotten something, and walked back to stand before us on the tiled driveway, the soft rush of the marble water fountain pulsing behind him in the cavern of the porte cochere. to work for him. We all did. He came out through the lobby doors into the porte cochere ("fancy word for covered driveway, s.h.i.t") and walked down the line, rattling off each of our names like an old friend. But then he stopped, as if he'd forgotten something, and walked back to stand before us on the tiled driveway, the soft rush of the marble water fountain pulsing behind him in the cavern of the porte cochere.

"A bit overstaffed, it seems? Gentlemen, I hate to say it, but when a property opens, especially one as ill.u.s.trious as ours, known for service, well, we have to overstaff for the first few weeks. You see, people come here, and they want to see see the service. They actually want to the service. They actually want to see see a bunch of employees standing around doing nothing. It's sad but true, believe me. And that's all well and good for the front desk, collecting a full wage regardless, but much harder on people who depend on proper staffing and tips, such as yourselves. Men, I'll be honest. It's going to take some time for our occupancy to build. However, we already have some meetings and parties booked, transient business, some that'll bring 150 cars in and out on the same night. So we can look forward to those. In the meantime, I'll have accounting up your wages to non-tipped status until business starts booming. Which it will, believe me. How's that sound? Also, we will be selecting a valet captain at the end of the month for those who are interested and worthy. Perks include an hourly wage b.u.mp and the best shifts. Hang in there, gentlemen. Coincidentally, you look fantastic." He slapped Keith on the arm and walked off into the garage. a bunch of employees standing around doing nothing. It's sad but true, believe me. And that's all well and good for the front desk, collecting a full wage regardless, but much harder on people who depend on proper staffing and tips, such as yourselves. Men, I'll be honest. It's going to take some time for our occupancy to build. However, we already have some meetings and parties booked, transient business, some that'll bring 150 cars in and out on the same night. So we can look forward to those. In the meantime, I'll have accounting up your wages to non-tipped status until business starts booming. Which it will, believe me. How's that sound? Also, we will be selecting a valet captain at the end of the month for those who are interested and worthy. Perks include an hourly wage b.u.mp and the best shifts. Hang in there, gentlemen. Coincidentally, you look fantastic." He slapped Keith on the arm and walked off into the garage.

"That's my boy boy right there," Perry said, relocking his hands behind his back and smiling at the fountain across the driveway. right there," Perry said, relocking his hands behind his back and smiling at the fountain across the driveway.

Perry was elected valet captain, zero resistance.

After a month, all of Mr. Daniels's predictions played out: occupancy picked up, filling the garage with luxury vehicles and our pockets with ones. The elite New Orleans social scene also played a role, holding banquets, b.a.l.l.s, and charity affairs in our meeting s.p.a.ces, causing tremendous, short-spurt traffic influxes, then again a flurry of tickets coming out at the party's end. When it came to the social scene, a man we named the General quickly became our favorite guest. His chauffeur would pull him up in a canary-yellow Bentley, impossible to miss. Whichever valet was at the head of the line would stand off to the side of the Bentley as the doorman opened the door. The General, poor of hearing, poor of sight, his seersucker suit riddled and blotched with military medals (hence the name), would tilt up his chin and peer through his cataracts, looking for anyone willing to a.s.sist him with anything. His liver-spotted hand always held a stack of fresh, sticky two-dollar bills. The valet would post up beside his vehicle, as if intending to park it (even though the chauffeur would rather let us p.i.s.s on his shoes than let us touch the interior of the Bentley), and the General would peer hard at the parker, mumble something militaristic, and rip off a two-dollar bill for him. All we had to do was insinuate insinuate we were helping, and we'd get tipped. Press an elevator b.u.t.ton, hold a door. s.h.i.t, perform a sweeping hand motion as if to usher him along the way, and there was a two-dollar bill coming. Not to mention his vision was so bad you could follow him, executing multiple amped-up, essentially useless functions, and come back to the valet line with ten or more fresh, sticky bills. we were helping, and we'd get tipped. Press an elevator b.u.t.ton, hold a door. s.h.i.t, perform a sweeping hand motion as if to usher him along the way, and there was a two-dollar bill coming. Not to mention his vision was so bad you could follow him, executing multiple amped-up, essentially useless functions, and come back to the valet line with ten or more fresh, sticky bills.

Not that we needed bigger pockets to fit all the money. I learned something indisputable about any valet-parking position: the job kind of blows.

Imagine a dark, stuffy, sweltering ten-floor parking garage with no elevator, New Orleans summer heat licking at your neck with a fat wet tongue as you run up ten flights, walk along Level 10 holding the keys up above your head, sweat dripping down your arm, mashing the lock b.u.t.ton so the car yelps, helping you locate it. Slip in wet, learn the vehicle, lights on, AC on, throw it in reverse, flop that wet arm over the leather pa.s.senger side headrest, and back up, AC only blowing heat on your sweating face, reversing quickly before-s.h.i.t, BRAKE-Keith tears by in a Porsche going G.o.dd.a.m.n ninety, the tires screaming, hip-hop from a local station shaking the whole garage level. Now you're sweating even more from fear fear, from almost smashing together two seventy-five-thousand-dollar vehicles, but the AC is beginning to work, and, who knows, this is a Mercedes-Benz S500, get it down safe, and all this sweat and fear might be worth it. Now my my tires are screaming because I'm taking the turns like a maniac, flying down the level ramps so fast my stomach drops (and so does the front end, right into the concrete, but who cares-that's internal and nonvisual damage), gunning it on the straightaways, turning up the Vivaldi loud because it makes my reckless driving seem beautiful, and sc.r.a.ping the front end again coming down a ramp (Level 7, something about Level 7, the s.h.i.t always bottoms out), but I don't hear the sc.r.a.pe, just feel it, because Vivaldi's tires are screaming because I'm taking the turns like a maniac, flying down the level ramps so fast my stomach drops (and so does the front end, right into the concrete, but who cares-that's internal and nonvisual damage), gunning it on the straightaways, turning up the Vivaldi loud because it makes my reckless driving seem beautiful, and sc.r.a.ping the front end again coming down a ramp (Level 7, something about Level 7, the s.h.i.t always bottoms out), but I don't hear the sc.r.a.pe, just feel it, because Vivaldi's Four Seasons Four Seasons is is blasting blasting, and then-f.u.c.k, BRAKE-there I am b.u.mper to b.u.mper, my Benzo just about underneath a mammoth black Escalade, its headlights burning my eyes like the end of a white tunnel I almost died inside, Perry perched in the driver's seat, laughing, pointing his long finger at me, so I reverse hard, bringing the back end of the Benzo right up against the wall, maybe some contact there, but nothing that'll be discovered before leaving the hotel. Perry pulls up alongside and lowers the automatic window. "Used to have me one of these big b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Back when I moved bricks. Get on down there, Tommy, the Zulu Krewe is wrapping up their ball, and Keith and Walter are stealing all the tickets. That s.h.i.thead Walter be pulling three tickets at a time. He playing with the wrong motherf.u.c.ker." And then I pull forward, our two vehicles an inch apart, his side mirror going right over the top of my Benz, and then I gas the f.u.c.k out of it, tires screaming, taking it down the last ramp going thirty and then braking it down to five, rolling out of the dark garage ever so slowly, with such care and attention that I have time to make eye contact with my customer, his face crunched with concern for his vehicle.

"Here you are, sir. Enjoy your evening."

"Hm," he says and pushes past me, no intention of tipping, but I smile and close the door softly for him, my eyes already on the valet counter for my next ticket. There it is: another G.o.dd.a.m.n tenth-floor ticket. Not only is Walter tripling up on tickets; he's handpicking them by floor to minimize running. Another Mercedes-Benz S500. Time to run.

Okay, listen up. We are getting complaints, gentlemen. No more tire squealing. I understand y'all are trying to do your job quickly, but that garage is like an amplifier, and if you burn tire on 10, we hear it down here. How do you think that makes our guests feel, listening to crazy peel outs while waiting for their cars to come down? No more burns. Take it slow. Number two: do not change the radio station. We're getting complaints that when guests leave and turn on the radio, it's blasting Hot 93. These guests have no interest in listening to Cash Money Millionaires." We all took a second to laugh there. "Do not touch the radio. Do not change the seat alignment. Easy, right? Big night tonight, mayor's having another charity dinner, two hundred in and out by 10:00 p.m. ALSO, if you get a hotel overnight valet ticket coming in, park it on 10, DON'T BE LAZY AND PARK IT ON 2. All that means is you'll be running up to 10 all night for these transient party guests. You see an overnight ticket, park it all the way up. Because it ain't coming back down tonight. Keith, you hear me? Don't think I don't know what's going on down here, you guys."

That was John, the a.s.sistant front office manager. Bellmen, doormen, front desk, and valet parking all fall under the front office. John had recently been a.s.signed to us to crack down on all the bulls.h.i.t. Without a doubt, bulls.h.i.t was getting ubiquitous down here.