"What you drankin', Tommy?" Sanford asked.

"Just a soda or something. I don't drink."

"You never drank? Ever?"

"I feel sorry for people who don't drink," Gordon drawled out. "When they get up in the morning, that's the best they will feel all day. Frank Sinatra."

"I did when I was younger. In high school."

"Word? What'd you drink then?"

"Whiskey."

"Jack?"

"Jack."

"There it is. Lisa, angel, four Heinekens, five Abita Ambers, and a shot of Jack for my boy here. This dude is on the up-and-up."

There it was before me. I had only one option. A lifting of the gla.s.ses and then down it went, hot and nice.

"Nah, nah. I know I didn't just see that that s.h.i.t. Tommy, you had you a shot right there? That was Dr Pepper?" Perry asked, striding in from the street, sitting down on a stool next to me. He didn't even have to look at the bartender: she opened two Heinekens and put them both before him immediately. s.h.i.t. Tommy, you had you a shot right there? That was Dr Pepper?" Perry asked, striding in from the street, sitting down on a stool next to me. He didn't even have to look at the bartender: she opened two Heinekens and put them both before him immediately.

"Whoa." My breath was still choked with burn. "Yep."

"Yeah, then you drinking one with me too." And with that another was served up, and I took that one down out of respect for Perry.

It was almost Mardi Gras, f.u.c.k it.

Later, I sat down drunk on the corner of Carondelet and Ca.n.a.l Streets, listening for the rumble of the streetcar that would take me back uptown to my apartment, watching the evening sun bleed from the streets, the city shifting into night, when it truly became New Orleans: the music, the constant festival, the smell of late evening dinners pouring out, layering the beer-soaked streets, prost.i.tutes, clubs with DJs, rowdy gay bars, dirty strip clubs, the insane out for a walk, college students vomiting in trash cans, daiquiri bars lit up like supermarkets, washing-machine-sized mixers built into the wall spinning every color of daiquiri, lone trumpet players, grown women crying, clawing at men in suits, portrait painters, spangers (spare change beggars), gutter punks with dogs, kids tap-dancing with spinning bike wheels on their heads, the golden cowboy frozen on a milk crate, his golden gun pointed at a child in the crowd, fortune-tellers, psycho preachers, mumblers, fighters, rock-faced college boys out for a date rape, club chicks wearing silver miniskirts, horse-drawn carriages, plastic cups piling against the high curbs of Bourbon Street, jazz music pressing up against rock-and-roll cover bands, murderers, scam artists, hippies selling anything, magic shows and people on unicycles, flying c.o.c.kroaches the size of pocket rockets, rats without fear, men in drag, business execs wandering drunk in packs, deciding not to tell their wives, s.l.u.ts sucking d.i.c.k on open balconies, cops on horseback looking down blouses, cars wading across the river of drunks on Bourbon Street, the people screaming at them, pouring drinks on the hood, putting their a.s.ses to the window, whole bars of people laughing, shot girls with test tubes of neon-colored booze, bouncers dragging skinny white boys out by their necks, college girls rubbing each other's backs after vomiting tequila, T-shirts, drinks sold in a green two-foot tube with a small souvenir grenade in the bottom, people stumbling, tripping, falling, laughing on the sidewalk in the filth, laughing too hard to stand back up, thin rivers of p.i.s.s leaking out from corners, brides with dirty dresses, men in G-strings, mangy dogs, balloon animals, camcorders, twenty-four-hour 3-4-1, free admission, amateur night, black-eyed strippers, drunk bicyclers, clouds of termites like brown mist surrounding streetlamps, ventriloquists, bikers, people sitting on mailboxes, coffee with chicory, soul singers, the shoeless, the drunks, the blissful, the ignorant, the beaten, the a.s.sholes, the cheaters, the douche bags, the comedians, the holy, the broken, the affluent, the beggars, the forgotten, and the soft spring air pregnant with every scent created by such a town.

The next morning, after my immaculate liver processed the whiskey like water, I awoke refreshed and ready to work through Mardi Gras at the hotel. There were plenty of call-outs, plenty of extra shifts available; front desk agents with less pristine livers were left bedridden, or they deliberately called in sick to catch their favorite parades. Or ride in them-even Perry Perry called out to hold his position in the Zulu Parade, promising to hand me down a coveted painted coconut if I could find him on the float, which I failed to do, since I was working doubles to make sure our desk was adequately staffed. called out to hold his position in the Zulu Parade, promising to hand me down a coveted painted coconut if I could find him on the float, which I failed to do, since I was working doubles to make sure our desk was adequately staffed.

I worked on and on at that front desk. I turned down tips to prove my level of commitment. Turned down tips? I know, a minute ago I was b.i.t.c.hing about the wooden tumor. Now, if I escorted a guest to the elevators, taking the time to personally walk him or her across the lobby, and was presented with a five-dollar bill for my service, I would bow and say, "Please. It's my pleasure," and walk off, leaving the guest with tip in hand and mouth hanging open. That guest will be a loyal customer for life. How does that help me? Well...it doesn't. However, I was simply and happily following the company mandate, which demands that I escort. The policy at my hotel was that employees should never point or give directions; they should walk guests to their destination. Hotels are not the only business that secretly implement this policy. Ask any salesperson in Nordstrom where the ladies' shoe department is. You will take him or her, like a dog, on a walk.

But it wasn't all great shifts and great service. It's a hotel, after all: I was learning quickly that s.h.i.t goes horribly wrong.

I certainly recall the first guest I ever walked. The term "walking a guest" sends shivers down any GM's spine, and multiple front desk agent spines as well. Often (okay, always always) hotels will overbook whenever possible. The average no-show rate (guests who cancel last minute or simply fail to arrive) is 10 percent, daily. Accordingly, the sales department and reservations are encouraged to book the property to 110 percent capacity, in the hopes that with cancellations and no-shows they will fill every room in the hotel. Putting a head in every bed is called a "perfect sell," and it's not easy to accomplish. After clocking out at 11:00 p.m. and leaving the hotel with only five rooms vacant but ten remaining arrivals, you come in the next morning and ask, "What happened?"

"Perfect sell."

"No s.h.i.t!?"

But what happens when the numbers game doesn't play in the hotel's favor? Someone gets walked.

Now, a man in my current financial position, a man clocking in and out for a living, would consider getting walked to be a wonderful surprise. Sure, I planned to stay at Hotel A, but Hotel A blew it and overbooked. Management saw the ship sinking around 5:00 p.m. and started calling other comparable hotels in the area, securing rooms under the name Hotel A TBD. So, yeah, Hotel A made a mess, but they will pay for my entire night's room and tax pay for my entire night's room and tax (plus one phone call-how cute is that?) and certainly arrange or pay for transportation, even if it's just down the block. (plus one phone call-how cute is that?) and certainly arrange or pay for transportation, even if it's just down the block.

I was once in Boston, during marathon weekend, and when I arrived at my hotel and announced my name at the desk, the agent froze, terrified. She stammered, "Oh, Mr. Jacobs. Oh. Please. Please, just wait here a moment." A manager (easy to spot; different suit, different tie, surname on the name tag) came out from the back office sporting one h.e.l.l of a frown, holding a folded piece of paper in his hands as if it were my grandmother's death certificate. I knew what it was: the letter I was going to hand to the front desk. The front desk of Hotel B, where I was headed.

"Are you guys walking me?" I asked enthusiastically. That reaction really really threw them. They must have thought I was psychotic. threw them. They must have thought I was psychotic.

"Oh, well...yes."

"Relax. I work the front desk. It's all good." Their faces instantly drained of all that fear and trepidation. Plus they gave me twenty for cab fare. And I walked. I saved $350 on the room rate, and that twenty bought drinks in the lobby bar of Hotel B. Well, it bought a a drink in Hotel B; the c.o.c.ktail prices were absurd. Hotel B is ridiculously overpriced. drink in Hotel B; the c.o.c.ktail prices were absurd. Hotel B is ridiculously overpriced.

However, that is a man in my financial situation. Why was all that fear and trepidation in their Bostonian front desk eyes?

Because motherf.u.c.kers go ape s.h.i.t when you walk them motherf.u.c.kers go ape s.h.i.t when you walk them. They are incredulous incredulous. They cry cry. Honestly, never in their lives has anything like this ever happened to them, ever. Meanwhile, they are one of ten walks for me tonight, and tomorrow is looking like another night "front row at the s.h.i.t show."

"I will never stay here again, ever."

These people just saved five hundred dollars, and they are irate irate.

(That word was invented for the hospitality business: "irate.") It was a j.a.panese couple who broke my walk cherry. And there wasn't much foreplay or romance.

"Mr. Umagawa, I am terribly sorry about putting you in this position. But we have secured alternate lodging for you at the Ritz-Carlton. It is four blocks away, and we will be taking care of the full cost of your room."

"No. No No. NO. We have contract. You must honor contract honor contract."

At this point his wife started yelling at me, loudly. Andy was working the desk beside me, watching it all go down. Soon after, this incident became a famous anecdote, one he'd be asked to re-create in the employee cafeteria.

"So she starts screaming, right? Half j.a.panese, half English until she boils it down to the phrase 'We sleep on floor! We SLEEP RIGHT HERE ON FLOOR. WE SLEEP ON FLOOR.' At which point the husband, who is doing deep-breathing exercises, draws his hand slowly in front of his wife, silencing her immediately with this tiny little gesture. He started to talk about the con track again, you know, honoring the con track. Your boy Tommy here just kept his head swiveling from one to the other, 'CONTRACK.' 'WE SWEEP RYE HEE ON FROOR.' 'YOU HONOR CONTRACK!' 'WE SWEEP ON FROOR!'"

When Trish finally came out and saw the miserable scene in the lobby, she quieted them down and gave them a room. At Hotel A, our hotel.

Yep. You might have used this argument yourself, because I've heard it an infinite number of times: "Come on, you're telling me there isn't one single empty room in this hotel? It's not even 5:00 p.m., and you are seriously telling me there is not one single G.o.dd.a.m.n room in this G.o.dd.a.m.n hotel? Do not bulls.h.i.t me...Tommy."

Notice the use of the name there at the end, the way he paused and fished it off my name tag? A real jerk move. As I said, we get to see how people treat their servants, and it's rarely attractive. But he is right. I have twenty-five vacant rooms at my disposal. Why is a.s.shole A getting walked to Hotel B? Many reasons: 1. He booked Expedia, hence he has a deeply discounted rate, hence he is less important.2. We checked: he never stayed here before and might never visit the city again, even without this earth-shattering catastrophic event he is experiencing.3. He's a one-nighter. You walk a two-nighter, then you have to bring him back the next day, and there is nothing easy or pleasant about that for anyone. He will walk around like a martyr, like Jesus let off the cross.4. And this one is so much more important than all the others: he is acting like a d.i.c.k about it. I can break; I can make the call and say, "Sir, I understand, perhaps I could put you in a twin-bed room tonight; would that be okay?" But I'm not going to. He is spitting all over my desk. He's using profanity.

"I will never f.u.c.king stay here again, do you know that?"

"Sir, blow me. Please, f.u.c.k yourself hard, and never come back," I said, with my red light on of course. And then out loud I said, "I am incredibly sorry, sir. I want to personally apologize, and if you do return, I promise we will take extra-special care of your reservation and ensure you are upgraded." (We say we will do this, but we won't. We will forget. But we will certainly be reminded of our past transgression. A Jesus let off the cross loves to constantly bring up "the cross.") Each walk was a little nightmare for me. I mean, I was turning down tips. I wanted to do nothing but please these guests. And here they were screaming in my face. It was terrible.

Little did I know, a few years later, in another city, I would walk fifteen people at one time. And I would start it off like this: "OKAY. PEOPLE. EVERYONE QUIET DOWN DOWN AND AND LISTEN UP LISTEN UP."

But at this hotel, though I had no comparison at the time, things were relatively calm. We didn't often overbook, and perhaps the southern location had a calming effect on most of our guests.

Our southern location also drew a few celebrities, providing me with my first celebrity encounters, if you can call them encounters.

"Paul McCartney is onstage with Clarence. He's doing Beatles songs for heaven's sake!" Gordon the bellman said, eyes wide.

"Cover me," I said and walked around the desk, crossing the lobby to the Bistro Lounge. We'd all seen Paul McCartney come through the lobby (like a canary-yellow Bentley-impossible to miss), and we knew he'd probably get a drink in the Bistro and check out our horn player Clarence, a local musician from the Ninth Ward, backed up by a simple jazz band. Clarence had been garnering recognition and getting good press in the Times-Picayune Times-Picayune. So, sure sure, Paul gravitates to the music, and, fine fine, he grabs a table to take in some of the set. But now he's onstage performing Beatles cla.s.sics with Clarence and the band? I could hear his unmistakable voice clearly as I approached. The entrance was already jammed up, and right in front of the crowd was the a.s.sistant front office manager, John, saying to every employee who approached: "Next employee who pushes their way into the Bistro is fired. Tommy, I will fire you on the spot. Get back to the desk, now now." I did. We all tried to be quiet and hear the performance from across the lobby.

John was very upset at me in particular for attempting to join the crowd. He said that I, above all, should understand that our celebrity visitors might be mobbed by locals but NOT by hotel staff. He was right, but I mean, when something as rare as...Okay, he was right.

For the next two weeks John was disappointed in me. But our relationship only lasted another two weeks. Turns out hotels are like the army. They shipped him out to take over the front desk of a hotel in Cleveland (d.a.m.n). Then they sent my girl Trish to open a new property in Egypt (d.a.m.n!). Now that the hotel was up and running properly, they were shipping out the opening team. We had a new FOM named Chris Bourne, far older than Trish and half the brain. Andy was particularly devastated by this loss.

For his part, Andy turned out to be a decent enough guy. Well, his idiosyncrasies were apparent, unavoidable, and not necessarily endearing endearing, but you know the old saying, at least he wasn't choking co-workers to death. And he did have a decent sense of humor.

After a year we started to loosen up at the desk. It was a Tuesday, just past noon, the fire alarm system running a test, the emergency lights in the lobby flashing, sirens yelping out staccato blasts, when this old man walked up to the desk, concerned, dizzied by the loud sirens, his eyes wide in the flashing lights.

"What's going on? Is there a fire?"

"A fire? No, sir," Andy responded.

"Well, what's all this commotion?"

"Well...Sir...YOU ARE OUR ONE MILLIONTH CUSTOMER!! CONGRATULATIONS! YOUR STAY WILL BE FREE!!!"

Andy also developed a new technique to defuse guests' anger. Dealing with guests' tempers is a big portion of the work at the desk. You can try meekness, but it might fuel their ferocity. You can try pulling back your shoulders with confidence and a.s.suring them you will take care of it ASAP, but that can come off unsympathetic. So Andy developed an experimental method wherein, should a guest approach with a red face, ready to spit with anger all over the desk, well, then, you simply one-up him on the anger.

"I just came back from lunch, and my room has not been cleaned yet cleaned yet. Anyone planning planning on cleaning it!? Is anyone actually on cleaning it!? Is anyone actually working working here!?" here!?"

"WHAT?!" Andy hissed. "I cannot BELIEVE they FAILED TO SERVICE YOUR ROOM, SIR. Jesus F.... NO, no. NO, sir. Trust me, it is NOT OKAY AT ALL. SOMEONE IS GOING TO LOSE THEIR JOB FOR THIS," Andy yelled, jamming his finger down hard on the front desk and ripping the phone receiver from the cradle to dial housekeeping. Andy hissed. "I cannot BELIEVE they FAILED TO SERVICE YOUR ROOM, SIR. Jesus F.... NO, no. NO, sir. Trust me, it is NOT OKAY AT ALL. SOMEONE IS GOING TO LOSE THEIR JOB FOR THIS," Andy yelled, jamming his finger down hard on the front desk and ripping the phone receiver from the cradle to dial housekeeping.

He broke the guest like a pony. The guest waved his hands before the desk and said, "It's not really that bad. Can't we just get it cleaned now? That would be fine."

There are a thousand ways to complain, a thousand ways to have your problems instantly solved. As far as the most effective tactic, would I suggest screaming at an employee? Obviously, I would not.

Here is what I would would suggest: Before approaching any employee, try to pinpoint exactly what the problem is (You were promised one rate and charged another / A bellman was rude to your wife / Someone must've thought you were finished with the pizza box you left on the floor of the bathroom and threw away the last cold slice), and then, if possible, what solution would make you feel satisfied (Having the rate adjusted to reflect the original booking / Being a.s.sured that the issue will be investigated and the bellman will be spoken to / A pizza slice on the floor? It's gone. Let it GO). Though most complaints suggest: Before approaching any employee, try to pinpoint exactly what the problem is (You were promised one rate and charged another / A bellman was rude to your wife / Someone must've thought you were finished with the pizza box you left on the floor of the bathroom and threw away the last cold slice), and then, if possible, what solution would make you feel satisfied (Having the rate adjusted to reflect the original booking / Being a.s.sured that the issue will be investigated and the bellman will be spoken to / A pizza slice on the floor? It's gone. Let it GO). Though most complaints should should be delivered to the front desk directly, in person or on the phone, keep in mind that most issues you present will not have been caused by the front desk at all. So briefly outline your problem, offer a solution if you have one, and then ask whom you should speak with to have the problem solved. "Should I speak to a manager about this?" "Should I speak to housekeeping about this?" Those are wonderful and beautiful questions to ask. Most of the time the front desk will be able to solve the problem immediately or at least act as proxy and communicate your unrest to the appropriate department or manager. Want to make sure that the agent doesn't nod, say "certainly," and not do a d.a.m.n thing? Get his or her name. Nothing tightens up an employee's throat like being directly identified. You don't have to threaten him or her either, just a nice, casual "Thanks for your help. I'll stop by later to make sure everything has been taken care of. Tommy, right?" Whatever you asked me to do I am DOING it. be delivered to the front desk directly, in person or on the phone, keep in mind that most issues you present will not have been caused by the front desk at all. So briefly outline your problem, offer a solution if you have one, and then ask whom you should speak with to have the problem solved. "Should I speak to a manager about this?" "Should I speak to housekeeping about this?" Those are wonderful and beautiful questions to ask. Most of the time the front desk will be able to solve the problem immediately or at least act as proxy and communicate your unrest to the appropriate department or manager. Want to make sure that the agent doesn't nod, say "certainly," and not do a d.a.m.n thing? Get his or her name. Nothing tightens up an employee's throat like being directly identified. You don't have to threaten him or her either, just a nice, casual "Thanks for your help. I'll stop by later to make sure everything has been taken care of. Tommy, right?" Whatever you asked me to do I am DOING it.

Lastly, let's try to keep fiery anger out of the lobby. Almost 100 percent of the time the person you are punching on had nothing whatsoever to do with your situation. It's a hotel; nothing's personal. Here is a nice rule of thumb we can all try to remember: a person of culture should make every effort to hide his frustration from those who've had nothing to do with its origin. Boom.

But will screaming get you what you want? Well, probably. Even if Andy hadn't broken the guest by one-upping him on intensity, he was still definitely in the process of calling housekeeping to get the room cleaned, obviously calm now that the guest had wandered off. That's when Mark, the youngest bellman, came from the elevators and stood still in the middle of the lobby, looking down at his feet. I'd just given him a checkout, an upper-level luxury suite, and he'd taken a cart, but now here he was, cart-less, breathing hard and looking at the marble lobby floor.

"Mark, what happened? You okay?"

"I can't do this. Anymore. I went to the room you gave me and knocked. This little white girl comes to answer the door, maybe ten years old, wearing a fancy little dress. And so I say, 'Are you ready to check out?' and this tiny girl turns around and says, 'Mommy, Mommy, the servant's here!'"

"Then what?" Gordon asked.

"Then I walked off. I ain't no servant. I'm gonna quit, Gordon. Tommy, I'm quitting." He unpinned his name tag, slid it off his uniform, refastened the pin, and set it on the bell stand. "I'm sorry. Good-bye, you guys. Tell Chuck I'm sorry."

Less than an hour later Chuck wanted to see me. I sat myself down in that same leather chair.

"Tommy, Tommy, Tommy."

"Chuck, Chuck, Chuck."

"Funny. So. What do you think?"

"About what, sir?"

"Your progress."

"I feel I've done well at the desk. I've tried very hard."

"And this business, the hotel business, is it for you? A career man?" He seemed distracted. He was playing with a hotel pen, dismantling it.

"Yes, sir."

"I trust you, Tommy. I'm going to offer you a choice. You're done with the front desk. I heard you've started to loosen up down there, started in with the jokes."

"Oh, well, I hope I haven't-"

"Not to worry. It's natural. You've outgrown the position. So I'd like to offer you two opportunities. Whichever one you want is yours. As you are aware, there is a bellman position recently available. Extremely recently. It's yours if you want it. You are fantastic with the guests. Or."

"Or?"

"Housekeeping manager. Management, Tommy. Take over the evening position down there. You'd be in charge of turndown, scheduling, purchasing, and a thousand other things. A staff of 150."

That's all I could say: "..."

It was happening: he wanted me to be a manager. I thought back to the party they threw us before the hotel opened. I'd come so far. I didn't have to stop. Now the rungs didn't seem so endless. After housekeeping, perhaps a move to a smaller property to manage the front office, which I already felt would be kind of easy. Then to a larger property to manage the entire housekeeping department. Then I could be a rooms executive, essentially the GM's vice president, overseeing "Rooms Division," which included all of the departments necessary to run a hotel, as opposed to food and beverage, which only dabbled in hotel life when it came to room service. Five to ten years and I could be a GM in any city I chose.

"Let's talk money. Housekeeping means ten-hour shifts or more, on salary. When you break it down hourly, you will make less than you are making now. You'll have to purchase your own suits. The work is physically demanding, the staff is large and can be difficult. It's a very challenging position. Bellman? You'll double your money immediately and keep the eight-hour shifts. Zero responsibility."

"You think I should take the bellman position?"

"Do that, and you'll never be anything else in your life. Hate to say it, but it's true. I've seen it my whole career: Show me a twenty-year-old kid getting his first job as a bellman, and I'll show you a seventy-year-old bellman who started fifty years ago. You grow accustomed to that pay grade, and taking a step forward will always mean cutting your money in half. No one takes that step."

"Housekeeping," I said.

"Housekeeping?"

"I can do it. I want to do it."

"That's my boy." He slapped his hand down on the desk. "You're a manager now. All kinds of things are going to change. The way your friends treat you will change. The way I treat you will change. This is going to be the worst part of your journey by far. Monday morning, nine o'clock managers' meeting in the River View conference room. Show up in a suit and be ready. Let's get it on."

Listen to me, G.o.dd.a.m.n it," Chuck hissed at everyone in the conference room. "Our occupancy is dropping, and we are Chuck hissed at everyone in the conference room. "Our occupancy is dropping, and we are dying dying here. Why? Anyone know why? here. Why? Anyone know why? Because Because, in this city, the only bed with a higher rate per night is New Orleans Charity Hospital. Sales department: We need to drop these rates. We need to GET SOME G.o.dd.a.m.n HEADS IN THESE BEDS. DO ALL OF YOU WANT TO END UP IN G.o.dFORSAKEN CLEVELAND WITH JOHN? Is any of this clear?"

Holy s.h.i.t. Mr. Daniels was going off off. And no one seemed surprised. He stopped speaking and turned his head to the windows. The conference room was on the fifteenth floor, high enough to crest the squat architecture of the French Quarter and offer a view of the Mississippi in the distance, like a fat brown ribbon.

"On a final note," Chuck continued, quieter now, eyes still focused on the Quarter below, "this is Tommy Jacobs, our new p.m. housekeeping manager. Tommy, this is Terrance, the director of housekeeping. He's a sharp kid, Terrance. Watch he doesn't take your job." He leveled his gaze back to the conference table, surrounded by managers from every department in the hotel. These morning meetings, or staff meetings, are designed to get everyone-Christ, I hate myself for even writing this-"on the same page." Here is the opportunity for front office to mention to housekeeping that all the double-bed rooms are booked for the night, hence the ladies need to clean them, or "flip" them, as early as possible. It's also an opportunity for people in the sales department to pretend they know something about the hospitality business, even though they don't. Accounting might take this opportunity to be complainy and say things like, "Um, as we said before, can you guys, uh, maybe complete the voiding process yourselves instead of just moving it to the accounts-refund folio because that kind of makes a mess for us, okay? We said that last week, but it's definitely still happening."

"All right, let's get to it," Chuck said, wrapping up with a deep breath. "Remember: heads in beds. The only thing that matters in this business. Heads in beds."

And with that we stood. After suggesting Terrance tour me around once the housekeepers were settled, Mr. Daniels motioned for me to remain seated. Everyone poured out of the conference room, leaving just the two of us.

"How'd I do?"

"Pretty intimidating, Mr. Daniels."