"I've never been fired before. What do I do?"

I really sounded, and felt, like a lost little boy at that moment.

"Get your things, turn in your bank, and leave the property."

That sounded easy. It seemed as if that's all there was to it; get your s.h.i.t and go. Things went white for a while as I sat there, Teo staring at me as if we all just found out I had cancer. He looked as if he didn't even want to touch me.

Soon enough, I was helped to my feet by Mike, a big, aggressive security agent.

"Let's go, Tom. You gotta get your stuff and go."

"Am I really terminated? Can I tell people?"

"No, just get your stuff and go. Quietly."

f.u.c.k that. I walked through the lobby with big bad Mike's hand on my elbow, telling everyone, bellmen, doormen, concierge, and guests alike. "I GOT FIRED. MY EMPLOYMENT HAS BEEN TERMINATED. THEY FIRED ME."

And the strange part about it? Everyone thought I was joking. They were all smiling at me, shaking their heads like, "Oh, Tommy. He's so funny."

I told Ben in the back office while cleaning out my mailbox.

"Fired, huh? I get it. Cleaning out your mailbox, right? Your mother."

Twenty minutes later I was pushed out the back employee entrance. They had provided me with two guest laundry bags to shove all my s.h.i.t in. Almost a decade's worth of detritus: letters, photographs, pins and pens, a book about Bob Dylan the Gray Wolf tried to force me to read, deodorant, a bunch of socks-a life's worth of what now looked distinctly like garbage garbage stuffed into two hotel laundry bags. stuffed into two hotel laundry bags.

It was Friday, 5:30 p.m. Happy hour.

I dragged the bags across the street to a bar on Ninth Avenue. I had pa.s.sed this stupid-looking bar before and after every single shift I had ever worked at the Bellevue and never once stepped inside. We certainly drank in the area but never here because this place was for tourists. But that's where I went. Maybe because it was closest; that was definitely one alluring factor about it that afternoon. Maybe I went there because I knew, without a doubt, I wouldn't run into any co-workers. It was filled with tourists and strangers, a new environment. I took a stool at the bar, right across from the hotel, a nice view directly into the lobby, set a laundry bag on either side of the stool, and ordered a shot of tequila and a beer. f.u.c.k me.

One tequila in me and half the beer to wash it down. That was step one. I had to accomplish step one before even beginning step two, which was to order another round and drink that. Step three was to start thinking again, to start processing. My whole life was shifting, like a fortress coming down into the ocean, everything was sliding and cracking open, and the noise and movement was tremendous, deafening. There was a lot of dust. I poured another shot and another beer onto the dust and waited for the whole mess to slide into the ocean so I could sit in silence and figure out something, anything, get a fresh look at the new landscape.

On one side my heart grew strangely light. I thought about the depravity, the hustling, the utter childishness of the hotel, the managers, the fighting, the faxes. I was free from having to raise my hand to go to the bathroom, free from whispering to hookers and trophy wives, free from guests coming down with Ziploc bags, claiming they found a bedbug, though the only thing in the bag was a sunflower seed sh.e.l.l. I no longer had to wear a name tag. My name tag was somewhere at the bottom of a laundry bag. Garbage. Buried garbage.

On the other hand, despite happy hour, right off Times Square a shot and a beer came to fourteen dollars, and I'd failed to hustle any cash that Friday. I only had a five-dollar bill in my wallet. My cash-hustling days were done done. I brought out my debit card and, shamefully, started a tab.

That was the first real ramification: someone had poked a hole in my money balloon. It was no longer filling; it was now hissing, shrinking, floating back down to earth.

But I had plenty of escape money.

In a way, I'd mastered New York City, come here with nothing and had my way with the city, that nasty, thieving wh.o.r.e: I had stolen thousands from her tiny wh.o.r.e purse, and now it was time to move on.

I thought about Julie and Los Angeles. I thought about the Bekkers and their villa in Cape Town. I thought about Julie in Cape Town.

If I recall correctly, I hadn't wanted this job to begin with, right? Now I was forced to make a change, a good change. I had had five beers and five shots, and you know what? I felt pretty d.a.m.n good pretty d.a.m.n good. I brought out my phone and put it next to my beer, perhaps to browse for international flights. Maybe I was just drunk (I was absolutely drunk), but I couldn't help thinking: Even in this cold, touristy, expensive bar the sun was shining on me. Summer may be dying here in New York, and snow was on the way, but halfway across the world, on another continent, spring was approaching. Everything good was making preparations to bloom.

"WELCOME TO THE FRONT DESK: CHECKING OUT?"

Did I make it out? Am I writing this on a mosquito-netted porch while a thick red sun sets over Africa, a book on the table next to me, its pages shifting gently in the warm, fragrant jungle breeze? Sorry, dear guests. I'm in Bushwick, Brooklyn. I'm wearing a name tag while typing. I'm gonna be thirty minutes late for my morning shift.

Again, it was that d.a.m.n yellow union card. All weekend, once the news circulated that I'd been fired, my phone exploded with texts and voice mails from co-workers. About 95 percent of them were total insincere horses.h.i.t. You see, I'd been holding down my seniority for years, and at the time of my firing I was almost at the very top. That gave me weekends off. That gave me Christmas off. And that that gave me a huge target on my back from everyone below me who figured, as a single white male with zero children, I didn't deserve a G.o.dd.a.m.n gave me a huge target on my back from everyone below me who figured, as a single white male with zero children, I didn't deserve a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing thing, especially not Christmas off. When the news. .h.i.t that the number three in seniority was gone, everyone flocked to the back office to look at the schedule, ready to pick apart my shifts like vultures, ripping at the fleshy Sundays off and screeching and pecking at my morning shifts. They called their husbands and said something wonderful had happened. Then they called me and said they couldn't believe something so terrible had happened.

But those were just the desk people. The bellmen and doormen were, if I may say, pretty unhappy about the turn of events. Some of the sentiment was based on honest friendship. But most of it was due to the fact that I was efficient and I earned for them. While other agents would take fifteen minutes for a simple check-in, irritating the guests in line, which, in turn, directly affected the size of a tip, I was handing out fronts and ushering in guests like a traffic cop, just running them through with a wave of my arm like, "Go, go, go!"

In fact, one voice mail, one of the greatest of my life, came from Mario the doorman an hour after I was fired and went pretty much like this, but, you know, in a grimy Italian New York accent: "You see what happens? You see what happens when you take twenty bucks from me? You little f.u.c.k, you. Don't worry about a thing. My boys at the union will have you back on Tuesday, kid. And don't get too whacked-out over the weekend, you little f.u.c.k, you."

Okay, so that was maybe the sweetest voice mail I'd ever received. If you don't understand at all why that voice mail is sweet, then perhaps, in a certain way, I have failed in these pages.

The comment about the twenty I allegedly took from him concerned an event that occurred a week prior to the letter incident. A rock band, as they are known to do, tipped out Mario $500 Bennys in cash, as opposed to charging it to an account where it gets taxed (imagine how much they hate that). It was then Mario's responsibility to divide up the cash among the bell and door staff working. He spread the hundreds out to the three working desk agents to break down and came back later to collect the twenties for the boys, just grabbing the stacks and heading back outside. As he pa.s.sed them out, getting rid of more and more bills and getting it down to just his share, he found that after he paid out the last bellman, his own cut was twenty short. The math hadn't worked. First thing he did was. .h.i.t up all the bellmen and doormen and see if he overpaid. He didn't. Then he came to the desk and stared us all down. One of us, he thought, shorted him on the change. How did he decide it was me? That was part of the joke. He knew I was the only one only one who would who would never never cheat him. cheat him.

Mario had even run tests on me during my first year. A bellman is supposed supposed to be in the lobby, hence when he pa.s.ses you a stack to turn into a brick he can, and certainly will, loom over you and supervise the count. Conversely, a doorman, with his big coat and silly hat, isn't really supposed to be loitering in the lobby. He's an outdoor creature. So when he wants a stack converted, he has to leave it with me and come back later to pick up the dirty dancer. The first time Mario handed me a stack to convert, my count was $105. I handed him back a brick and a fiver, and he said, "Oh, s.h.i.t. Must have counted wrong." No problem, I said. Two weeks later he handed me $102 and then the next month $105 again. I always, always returned the overage and thought to myself: "This dude can't count for s.h.i.t." I would never have known what he was doing if it hadn't been for the first time he handed me an even $100 and when I pa.s.sed him back a crisp slice he looked me in the eye and said, "You're a good kid." All of those off counts had been a test. to be in the lobby, hence when he pa.s.ses you a stack to turn into a brick he can, and certainly will, loom over you and supervise the count. Conversely, a doorman, with his big coat and silly hat, isn't really supposed to be loitering in the lobby. He's an outdoor creature. So when he wants a stack converted, he has to leave it with me and come back later to pick up the dirty dancer. The first time Mario handed me a stack to convert, my count was $105. I handed him back a brick and a fiver, and he said, "Oh, s.h.i.t. Must have counted wrong." No problem, I said. Two weeks later he handed me $102 and then the next month $105 again. I always, always returned the overage and thought to myself: "This dude can't count for s.h.i.t." I would never have known what he was doing if it hadn't been for the first time he handed me an even $100 and when I pa.s.sed him back a crisp slice he looked me in the eye and said, "You're a good kid." All of those off counts had been a test.

So Mario knew I would never steal from him, and he chose to joke out his anger on me because all the other desk agents would take him to HR for even accusing them of stealing and then, on top of that that, point out to HR that breaking those bills isn't a desk agent's job and his choosing to put us in that position depleted our banks and made it difficult to provide change for the customers when that's actually why we have the banks and...blah blah blah bulls.h.i.t bulls.h.i.t. You see how exhausting it was just reading that? Imagine a tough-a.s.s Italian New Yorker having to sit through that childish tantrum in HR. It was just easier for him to spend the next week saying, "Tommy, you s.h.i.tty little thief. I need my twenty by sundown, or I'll break your s.h.i.tty little legs."

"And don't get too whacked-out over the weekend, you little f.u.c.k, you."

I failed to take his advice on that one. Those happy hour drinks propelled me back to Brooklyn, to drop off my life garbage, and then right back out the door. I suppose the Mafia tones present in his voice mail put me in the mood to walk into a Mafia bar, one close to my apartment that I'd always wanted to enter but never entered because it looks like the place they will kill you for entering. But I was drunk, so I did it.

Yeah, it was uncomfortable for the first few drinks, but since I was tipping more than properly, the bartender came over and asked me about my Friday. I said I'd been fired. He said he was real sorry, kid. I said I was a dues-paying union member.

That he liked. He said, "No s.h.i.t? Well, friend, sorry about your troubles. Here's a whiskey on me, and let me know if you want to blast off, okay, friend?"

"I will, thank you," I said, taking down the whiskey. As far as "blasting off," I didn't know what the h.e.l.l he was talking about.

Two more rounds and he came back and put something beside my beer. A tiny baggy. A tiny baggy filled with white powder.

Now, I know. I know know. Never touched the stuff. Ever. Been surrounded by it plenty of times. In fact, I sat in the very back of the historic Ziegfeld Theatre in midtown with a few bellmen, watching a special screening of the New York cla.s.sic Sat.u.r.day Night Fever Sat.u.r.day Night Fever, and while everyone else got skied up, rubbing their noses and laughing their a.s.ses off, I just stuck to the bottle of vodka we were pa.s.sing around. I had too much to lose then.

Now I had nothing to lose. I sent out a call to Julie but, sadly, I hadn't heard a word. So I pushed back my stool and went to the bathroom.

Blast off.

Thirty-one years old and doing key b.u.mps of c.o.ke for the first time, alone, in a Mafia bathroom. I would have done it off my hotel bank key, for style, but I had turned that in along with my bank and everything else that symbolized my entire New York life up to that point.

I looked at myself in the mirror, lowering my apartment key from my face. Even for this, for this for this, I blame the G.o.dd.a.m.n hotel business.

Next day I felt, well, horrible. My phone kept ringing with false condolences, and I wasn't picking up. I wasn't responding to anyone. The plan was currently to sit in my apartment alone and be alone and stay alone and then, way later, figure something out. Maybe in like two weeks.

"My boys at the union will have you back on Tuesday, kid."

The union didn't even wait past Monday to ruin my current plan of hiding from life. How? By fighting for my job. A union rep called me at home that Monday, where I sat wearing pajamas and a New Orleans Saints winter hat, listlessly researching Cape Town, and drinking Heineken for breakfast. I learned, squinting at the phone, that apparently I already had an appointment. I was to meet my business rep at the Bellevue, in human resources, 9:00 a.m. tomorrow. Tuesday.

The case against me turned out to be weak. First of all, my delegate stepping down, which I a.s.sumed to be a terrible turn of events, ended up altering the characters involved and turning the scene into a "he said, she said" case with no third-party witnesses. Anything that happened or didn't happen was all opinion without the corroboration of my delegate, the only other party in the room. And Orianna had refused to put her statement in writing. Good girl. Good union girl.

She had had given verbal testimony, however. Bad girl. given verbal testimony, however. Bad girl. Bad union girl Bad union girl. But when my business rep noticed that management had handwritten her verbal testimony to make it look like written testimony, it was thrown out immediately. Suspiciously, Sara and my delegate's testimony had the same handwriting. Management had in fact put words in my delegate's mouth, incriminating words that were now unsubstantiated. Without a valid testimony they didn't have a case at all.

And just like that the G.o.ds in h.e.l.l fired me another name tag.

With a few stipulations.

Clearly, as far as expressions of anger or frustration, it's a zero-tolerance situation: if I drop a pen at the desk, I better have a witness willing to testify I didn't hurl it in a rage. Further, and here is where it gets really, absurdly good, human resources threw in six months of mandatory Anger Management Group Therapy. Every Tuesday, an hour a week, for half a G.o.dd.a.m.n year, plus two private counseling sessions a month. Not to mention a general psych evaluation, which I pa.s.sed with flying colors, thank you very much. They also tacked on a three-week unpaid suspension, trying to starve me out. Those three weeks were like an extended mental leave for me and, coincidentally, gave me the time to embark on this project it seems you might be enjoying, since we are quickly coming to the end.

Anger Management Group Therapy? I need Heads in Beds II Heads in Beds II to cover all of that. to cover all of that.

Surprisingly, no complaints from me. You know how much a movie ticket costs in Manhattan? AMGT, that's my Emmy-winning television. The cla.s.s comprised union hotel workers, only my hotel-motel-trade-union people, half of whom are in "job jeopardy," as I am, and the other half of whom are in what you might call "life jeopardy." Imagine me telling my letter-t.o.s.s.e.r story a semicircle away from the carpet cleaner who just told his his story of...well, you probably couldn't even imagine. But trust me, it is story of...well, you probably couldn't even imagine. But trust me, it is not boring not boring.

So this is me now, head lowered, all "yes, sir" and "no, sir," just like McMurphy in the final pages of Ken Kesey's One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest, minus the friendly Native American willing to hold a pillow over my face until I stop kicking.

I float into work, friendless (my co-workers took me for terminated and had already come to expect my better shifts and holidays off; therefore, my return was unwanted. I can't really blame them for despising me, I guess). I drift into group therapy every week, where my AMGT attendance seniority has now garnered me some respect and the group accepts me.

Do I have increased motivation to perform with excellence at the desk? Yeah, no no. Don't think so. My main focus is simple: Don't get fired Don't get fired.

Dead man clocking in, dead man clocking out.

Oh, hotels.

You made me a wh.o.r.e and then beat me for whorishness. And I cannot seem to leave the business. As I said, the reason any ho stays a ho: it takes a serious motherf.u.c.ker to turn off a money valve.

And unions will not protect our pride; that we must defend on our own.

Those who do not have do not have will always serve will always serve those who do those who do.

Hotel employees: I did this for us.

And you, dear, sweet guests: See you at the reception desk.

(Try not to give me a hard time, okay? I got f.u.c.kin' anger issues.)

Things a Guest Should Never Say

"My credit card declined? That's impossible. Run it again."

Man, don't make me run it again. If your CC declines once once, it will, without question, decline again again. Your card is not a crumpled old dollar, and the banking system is not a stubborn vending machine. That's not how the banking system works. You need to call your bank.

And, no, you can't use my phone.

"They told me I should ask for an upgrade."

Who the f.u.c.k is they? Oh, they they. Well, they they told told me me to remind to remind you you to tip the doorman. to tip the doorman.

"Don't you remember me?"

Let me think about this...average of five hundred guest interactions a day...it's been two years since you stayed with us. So that's a clean quarter of a million quarter of a million separate interactions between now and your last stay. Wait...Wait! No. No, I don't remember you. separate interactions between now and your last stay. Wait...Wait! No. No, I don't remember you.

"Do I really have to show my ID? Ugh, I just checked in an hour ago. It's not my fault you weren't here."

Anger rising. Need to attend Anger Management Group Therapy. How about you just hand over the G.o.dd.a.m.n ID anytime anyone in the world whose job it is to ask for an ID asks for an ID just hand over the G.o.dd.a.m.n ID anytime anyone in the world whose job it is to ask for an ID asks for an ID.

Things a Guest Should Never Do

Do not continue your phone conversation during the entire check-in.

Can you imagine how it feels, as a human, to be part of someone else's effort to mult.i.task? While you say to the phone, "Uh-huh. Yeah. Yeah, well, I told her they wouldn't go for it. I know these people," I get the lift of an eyebrow, side-glances, brief and uninterested head nods thrown in my direction indicating your main focus remains on your call, perhaps a moment where you hold the phone slightly away from your ear to benevolently allow me 5 percent of your attention. That call will end in five minutes. But because you treated me like an automatic check-in machine, this room I'm giving you will plague your whole stay. And also I key bombed you.

Do not snap the credit card down on my desk.

You know this one, where you press the card down with your thumb and use your index finger to bend the front corner of the card up and then release it so it snaps snaps authoritatively and loudly on my desk? You just made me hate you! authoritatively and loudly on my desk? You just made me hate you!

Do not try to describe someone without ethnicity when ethnicity could be key.

"I gave my claim check to a bellman, and he never came back." "What's he look like, so I can go find him?" "Well...he was kind of tall. Not too tall. He...I don't know, I don't think he had facial hair. Maybe mid-thirties. I mean, he was dressed like a bellman, but I guess that doesn't help. Um, well, he was...about as tall as you?" "Ma'am, was he white, black, Asian?" "Oh, well, Asian." "Okay, that was Jeremy. I'll go find out what happened."

Do not make me use your cell phone.

Sometimes it's necessary. Sometimes the person on your phone has the CC info I need or the confirmation number. I just don't want to use your cell phone. But I guess I have to, so, here, give it to me.

Do not bring up the beautiful weather to people stuck inside at work all day.

That's just one tough side effect of working in a business that accommodates people on vacation. Vacationers, G.o.d bless them, sometimes forget that the whole world isn't on vacation too. "Oh. My. G.o.d!! G.o.d!! It is so It is so gorgeous gorgeous in Central Park right now!! Look at it out there!! Just look at it!!" Are you f.u.c.king with me? Look at it? Just look at it? You must be aware that in Central Park right now!! Look at it out there!! Just look at it!!" Are you f.u.c.king with me? Look at it? Just look at it? You must be aware that all I can do is look at it all I can do is look at it, just stare out the lobby doors, and wish to high h.e.l.l I wasn't working. Next time I have a vacation I'm going to come to your office and rub it all over your face.

Do not ask your husband to ask me something when I can hear you asking him to ask me because I am standing right here.

This one kills me. "Oh, honey, ask him for extra towels." Usually, the husband will just turn to me and raise an eyebrow. If I'm feeling slightly confrontational (or froggy, as they sometimes say in New York), I will just stare back at him. I'll make him do it. Come on, honey, ask me.

Do not hold out your hand for the change you're waiting on.

You know, when I am still counting it out but your hand is there, in front of me, floating in the air, waiting while I count, empty, implying impatience, and uselessly rea.s.serting the fact that the money I am counting belongs to you. Relax, buddy. It's coming. You look like a five-year-old with your hand out like that.

Things Every Guest Must Know