"Yep. From valet to FOM, and that's just the beginning. After you get this handled, I have no doubt they'll find a housekeeping department for you to run. What do you think? Wanna open this motherf.u.c.ker with me?"

"Well," I started, leaning back in my seat, rubbing at my eyes. My feet were swollen in my dress shoes, and in the harsh fluorescent lights my eyes burned from constant exposure to cleaning agents. I was, as they say, shot to s.h.i.t. "Virginia?"

"West Virginia. Not going to lie, Tommy, we're a skeleton crew. I am already pulling sixteen-hour days to get this show running, and you will too. But the company will pay your moving costs, and I'll show you how to b.u.mp the numbers to give yourself a thousand or so in your account even after the move. Everyone does it. It's kind of like an unofficial signing bonus. So, my man, want to run my front desk?"

I thought I was going to be sick. I couldn't understand exactly why at the time, but then, as I held the phone to my head, I thought I was going to vomit all over the keyboard, slip out of the chair, pa.s.s out under the desk, and die.

I had taken John's call so late and exhausted it wasn't until halfway through the following day's shift I remembered the job offer. In the bas.e.m.e.nt laundry dump, while I pulled sheet after sheet from the laundry chute, it came upon me like recalling a dream (or more like recalling the taste of a meal on your tongue, the one that made you ill). had taken John's call so late and exhausted it wasn't until halfway through the following day's shift I remembered the job offer. In the bas.e.m.e.nt laundry dump, while I pulled sheet after sheet from the laundry chute, it came upon me like recalling a dream (or more like recalling the taste of a meal on your tongue, the one that made you ill).

I had my jacket off and hung outside the dump room because this was physical and disgusting work. Sometime during the midday rush, when hous.e.m.e.n run through the checkouts to strip the sheets and drop them down the laundry chute, everything had gotten jammed up. The floor of the dump room was half a foot thick with dirty bed linens, robes, and towels, which I scrambled over to get to the mouth of the chute. The chute resembled a frozen white waterfall, a cone of linens rising up to the metal tube. When I tugged at a robe hanging halfway out, another spray of linens came down to jam the hole and freeze the fall again.

My hands were uncomfortably hot because I was wearing latex gloves. Why gloves? Because this was a never-ending pile of nastiness. The laundry department has a runner responsible for keeping up with this chute and separating the items into large blue bins for washing: one for robes, one for sheets, one for towels, and so on. Apparently, according to the laundry manager, the runner had been fired that morning. The manager had been inspecting the linen closets, trying to get an idea of what linens the day would call for most, when he saw a pair of black Nikes sticking out from the side of a metal shelving unit. A sheet had been draped over the entire front of the unit, and when he detached it, he found his runner asleep on a row of freshly stacked king sheets, even a pillow under his head. The runner awoke to an execution-style firing. A gentle shake of his shoulder and just as he came to, just as his pupils dilated, "You're fired, Jamal. Get out. Now." Two deadly sins of the hotel business: stealing and sleeping on the job. You can't fight those sins. You will be fired.

As exciting as finding that pair of floating Nikes was to the laundry manager, he failed to communicate to my my department that department that his his department was currently without a runner. How were we finally alerted to this problem? A houseman, stripping rooms on 10, had opened the chute and found it packed and rising up above his tenth-floor drop slot. Ten minutes later the whole beast was jammed up all the way to 15, just packed full of dirty linen. And hous.e.m.e.n on 16 and above were still making it rain sheets. So now here I was, at the very bottom of it all, yanking at soiled linen. department was currently without a runner. How were we finally alerted to this problem? A houseman, stripping rooms on 10, had opened the chute and found it packed and rising up above his tenth-floor drop slot. Ten minutes later the whole beast was jammed up all the way to 15, just packed full of dirty linen. And hous.e.m.e.n on 16 and above were still making it rain sheets. So now here I was, at the very bottom of it all, yanking at soiled linen.

I focused on not touching my face, trying not to instinctively wipe the dripping sweat from my forehead. As I grunted and pulled hard at a sheet, the flow opened, and I hopped back to let the mouth expunge another floor or so of linens, backing up to let the pile spread. Taking a moment to rest, I scanned the billowy off-white pile I stood on, now almost two feet thick. In the mix I saw spots of red (blood) and slimy latex condoms hiding among the folds like greasy snakes (yep).

This wasn't the first time I'd found myself in the s.h.i.t pit. Items lost in the rooms were also under my jurisdiction. A guest's first instinct, since the beginning of hoteldom, all the way back to the nineteenth century, is to immediately a.s.sume the housekeeper is a thief. I cannot stand that. These ladies need their jobs, and never once have I witnessed a situation where a housekeeper put her job at stake for one earring. Usually, the guest lost it, or maybe left it buried in the bed linens, and once the sheets got dumped, I would be sent down here to sort through the pile until I found it. Or didn't. Mostly didn't. I wish I could offer advice on locating lost items, but it's a big world, it's a big hotel; earrings are grains of sand, and white pajama pants are water in the ocean. Utilizing the drawers in the room instead of flinging off your clothes like an excited five-year-old might help. Using the in-room safe for sentimental items instead of tossing valuables over your shoulder like lucky grains of salt, also a good idea. Messiness Messiness looks like looks like trash trash to housekeepers, so keep papers in a folder or tucked in a briefcase. A hotel room seems to feel like home, that's the plan, but you are not at home. You are in flux. You are in a private/public s.p.a.ce. Act accordingly and keep organized. to housekeepers, so keep papers in a folder or tucked in a briefcase. A hotel room seems to feel like home, that's the plan, but you are not at home. You are in flux. You are in a private/public s.p.a.ce. Act accordingly and keep organized.

Catching my breath, I leaned against the far wall from the mouth of the chute, trying to balance on the pile, my dress shoes sinking in, and that's when I remembered John's phone call. Again, an unexplainable nausea overtook me. What was this feeling? Why was my stomach churning and my heart shuddering? Was it the disgusting scent of soiled linens? No. I was terrified. Of work. Of more uninterrupted, thankless work. Hour after hour on my feet and talking. Scheduling, purchasing, cleaning, hiring, firing, and constant door knocking ("Good morning, this is housekeeping." "Good morning, this is housekeeping." "Good afternoon, housekeeping." "Good afternoon, housekeeping." "Good evening, housekeeping." "Good evening, housekeeping").

Perhaps now is also the best point to mention that this business, the one that currently has me standing on a pile of dirty sheets and blood-borne pathogens, does not pay exceedingly well. At the front desk I made a generous hourly wage and found myself with a close-to-normal amount of free time. Sure, I worked Thanksgiving afternoon and Christmas morning, but I had two days off a week and money to blow. It's actually mid-management that doesn't pay. My weekly housekeeping checks only beat my front desk checks by about the cost of a decent dinner* (*wine and tip not included). However, in management, I hadn't worked less than an eleven-hour shift in three months. Calculated to a rough hourly wage, that put me earning 60 percent less an hour compared to what I made at the desk. That's why "salary positions" are often jokingly referred to as "slavery positions." But being at work all the time had one monetary advantage: my bank account was, in casual terms, dusty. My money sat there collecting dust. I made deposits and no withdrawals. I hadn't bought anything other than well whiskey in months. I ate every meal in the employee cafeteria, which, though disgusting in practice, was cost-effective. I was never home. I was never out. I was simply on my way to or from work. Or sleeping during my day off, unable to rouse myself to do s.h.i.t. The idea of walking and talking during my day off seemed excessive, and so there it was in my dusty, untouched bank account: thousands and thousands of dollars.

West Virginia.

I gave one more halfhearted tug at a pillowcase and staggered out of the dump room, snapping off the latex gloves and slinging my jacket over my wet back. I found Terrance in the manager's office, eating a greasy double burger.

With a mouth full of wet meat he said, "This computer is broken. Look here. The arrow on the screen moves backward, and the b.u.t.tons aren't even clicking," and then he grabbed the mouse and started smashing it. I saw the cord snaking out from beneath his wrist. His hand moved toward the phone, to call the IT department, I a.s.sumed.

"Wait, you're just holding it upside down. The cord should come out from the top. That's why it's moving funny and you can't click."

"What? Oh. s.h.i.t. You know, maybe you should get a job in IT, Tommy. How about that for an idea?"

"Because I know how to use a mouse?"

"Don't get smart with me. I've seen you. You know computers. And you ain't cut out for this work down here. You don't have it in you."

"Meaning I haven't been doing a good job?"

"The staff likes you, but that's it."

"That's it?"

He took a second to look me right in the eye. "Basically."

At that moment, still mentally avoiding touching my face, I hated the hospitality business. I hated all of it: servicing overprivileged, whiny guests, the short pay for long hours, dealing with this p.r.i.c.k who couldn't operate a mouse and constantly insulted my work. And here I was on the cusp of digging myself deeper, moving to a state I had no interest in, so that eventually I could run a hotel in a city I might have no interest in. I wouldn't have time to take a s.h.i.t take a s.h.i.t in West Virginia while opening the property, much less spend the money I was making, money I was currently making for, apparently, no reason. The business had even eliminated my desire to spend any of it. I saw what the other managers bought with their money: mostly finding a nicer apartment and furnishing it heavily with a nice couch and fancy throw pillows, though they, like me, were only home to sleep. What was all of this about? in West Virginia while opening the property, much less spend the money I was making, money I was currently making for, apparently, no reason. The business had even eliminated my desire to spend any of it. I saw what the other managers bought with their money: mostly finding a nicer apartment and furnishing it heavily with a nice couch and fancy throw pillows, though they, like me, were only home to sleep. What was all of this about?

The bottom dropped out of my tiny world, and I staggered out of the housekeeping office, up the stairs to the employee exit, and back around to the garage. I sat myself on a bench in the porte cochere and stared at the white marble fountain, trying to calm my erratic breathing. I thought about happiness, about what would make me happy. Not working so much. Travel. There it was: travel. For a man like me, someone who made friends in fifth grade only to lose them in sixth grade and, in another state, make new ones to lose in seventh grade, I could no longer deny my addiction to relocation. I wondered how I'd even lasted so long in New Orleans. But then, as I said, this business is like a methadone clinic for the travel addicted. I changed everything by simply moving departments, and no matter what, in whatever department, the guests were always changing. But that wasn't traveling: it was like watching the Travel Channel. And I didn't have much hope that West Virginia would feel like an adventure. That would feel like erasure. I needed a solid hit to the vein. I had to move and I had to move now and I had to move someplace absolutely crazy.

"d.a.m.n, son. Looking all f.u.c.ked-up, you. And sitting on a bench like he a guest. Stand on up, Tommy. Let's take a break real quick, heard? Get up, let's go."

"Where we going?"

"To a bar, ma'f.u.c.ker. Stand up."

Perry walked me to the Alibi and sat me down on a stool. I tried to order a whiskey, but he forced me to drink a Heineken with him. n.o.body forced me to drink the next three, though.

"Virginia? Please Please. What you gonna do in Virginia?"

"West Virginia. Work, I guess. Opening a hotel...that'll probably be sixteen-hour days."

"How's the money?"

"Prolly not that good."

"d.a.m.n. You trying to be a GM, Tommy?"

"Shouldn't I?"

"You too cool too cool to be a GM. Anyway, they look happy to you?" to be a GM. Anyway, they look happy to you?"

"They look paid."

"You wanna get paid, go be a bellman. Now, those dudes get paid and don't do s.h.i.t."

"I need a change, Perry. I have to go someplace new."

"What's wrong with New Orleans? Best city in the world."

"You been around enough to know?"

"Tommy, I ain't even been to Houston, Texas. That don't make me wrong, though."

The next morning I gave my two weeks' notice at the hotel. I'd saved fifteen thousand dollars, and my top was ready to spin. I was going to get rid of all my useless throw pillows, pack one single bag, and move to Europe.

That should do it. Right in the vein.

I told the ladies the following day at the 8:30 a.m. meeting. Some of them actually cried. The hous.e.m.e.n were all happy for me. Roy labored up and put his hand out for me to shake. He moved it up and down awkwardly and then teared up, and I started to get emotional. Nancy waited her turn to speak to me and said protective, motherly phrases: to make sure I eat enough and be careful over there. Terrance, of course, interrupted the flurry of positive humanity to tell the ladies to get upstairs and remind them that their jobs were "Very. Easy."

There is nothing nothing easy about housekeeping. There is nothing easy about housekeeping. There is nothing easy easy about dealing with other people's filth and having to get on your knees to do it. There is nothing easy about scouring and spraying and polishing and getting on all fours to make sure there isn't a p.o.r.no mag under the bed skirt (previously, I didn't even know what a bed skirt about dealing with other people's filth and having to get on your knees to do it. There is nothing easy about scouring and spraying and polishing and getting on all fours to make sure there isn't a p.o.r.no mag under the bed skirt (previously, I didn't even know what a bed skirt was was much less how surprisingly much less how surprisingly not easy not easy it is to make it hang perfectly). There is nothing easy about being s.e.xually hara.s.sed by guests. There is nothing easy about scrubbing a toilet on Christmas morning, believe me. And there is certainly nothing easy about hearing your boss tell you every morning that your job is very easy when it motherf.u.c.king it is to make it hang perfectly). There is nothing easy about being s.e.xually hara.s.sed by guests. There is nothing easy about scrubbing a toilet on Christmas morning, believe me. And there is certainly nothing easy about hearing your boss tell you every morning that your job is very easy when it motherf.u.c.king isn't isn't.

Just tell me why, Tommy?"

"Well, Mr. Daniels, I've never been to Europe, and I plan to move there. To Paris."

"You're going to move to Paris? To work?"

"No, just spend the money I've saved, get an apartment, read novels, maybe write one, drink, travel. See some of the Continent if I can."

"Well," he whispered and looked down at his desk. "I've heard plenty of reasons for leaving this gig. Mostly, someone wants to whack out a kid. But I'll tell you one thing. I like your reason." He paused and pointed a finger at me. "Your reason has b.a.l.l.s. Get over there and sop it up."

"Do what?"

"Yeah, that sounded disgusting, sorry. What I mean is this: Usually I would try to talk someone out of leaving. I might offer more money or give them a paid vacation to one of our other properties so they can press the reset b.u.t.ton. But in this case, I think you know exactly what you're doing here. Go do it. You call me if you ever need anything. Anything at all."

That was the last time I ever spoke to Mr. Daniels.

The day after I wrapped up my two weeks, Perry drove over to my apartment in his brand-new truck. It was a calm Sat.u.r.day morning. Before heading out, we sat in the sun on the lowered back tailgate and drank beer from the side coolers built into the car, over the wheel well. I think the side coolers were for, I don't know, fishing bait fishing bait, but Perry always had them full of ice and beer. The radio was on nice and loud. We had ourselves a few and listened to Trick Daddy, watching the uptown morning come on.

In the cab of the truck was a bottle of Crown Royal. We started tipping that up and rolling back to his side of town because Perry said he needed a fresh cut. The barbershop was, essentially, a shotgun apartment, and the barber chairs were just regular banquet chairs (probably even stolen from a hotel). It was like a house party inside. One dude kept falling asleep in his chair, like a crackhead (because he actually was was a crackhead), messing up his own haircut every time he nodded out, his beer drooping dangerously between his knees. They gave us some free barbecue ribs, and we kept on hitting the Crown, sharing some with Perry's barber, Henry, who looked drunk already. Henry kept pausing the haircut to talk about how every man needs a wife, a boo, and a freak. a crackhead), messing up his own haircut every time he nodded out, his beer drooping dangerously between his knees. They gave us some free barbecue ribs, and we kept on hitting the Crown, sharing some with Perry's barber, Henry, who looked drunk already. Henry kept pausing the haircut to talk about how every man needs a wife, a boo, and a freak.

"Wife, you got that for life. Never let that woman leave you. She raising your children. The boo, she talk all day, maybe you leave some clothes over at her apartment, maybe put in some toward rent, and she'll talk s.h.i.t all day about you leaving your wife, but you and she both know that s.h.i.t won't never happen never happen. Now, the freak? She don't say nothing. You don't buy her nothing. You just get in there, get your d.i.c.k sucked, and get out. But the wife, you cherish that. Still and all, though, a man needs all three, yerd me?"

We stopped by the dry cleaner, picking up two shirts-one for me and one for Perry. My shirt, extremely oversized, was brown silk with a teddy bear DJ airbrushed on it, his teddy bear paws scratching some turntables, his teddy bear eyes bloodshot, from teddy bear marijuana, I presumed.

"Where I'm taking you, Tommy, you got to look a certain way. Otherwise those ma'f.u.c.kers'll put a bullet in your white a.s.s."

We both laughed hard as I b.u.t.toned it up, too drunk to care how ridiculous I looked, plus it was already dark, and we got back in the truck. We drove farther away from anything I'd seen, and the bottle of Crown was finished by the time we made it to the club, where most of the valet department, all of the hous.e.m.e.n, and more than half of the housekeeping ladies were already inside drinking and dancing. We drank thug pa.s.sions (Alize and champagne; cla.s.sy as f.u.c.k, basically), and there was even a cake for me, which read, "Bon Voyage Mr. Tommy," the "Mr." coupled with my first name being a common form of respect in New Orleans (Ms. Trish, Mr. Terrance, and so on). It was so sweet and crazy, and all the ladies had their hair done and wore the same club clothes they always wore to work. I danced and said good-bye to everyone, giving and getting sweaty hugs, and some people got sick in the bathroom or outside the club but still came back in and kept going.

It was five in the morning when Perry drove me home. We each had one more cold beer pinched between our legs, taking slow and unwanted sips.

It was really quiet in the car and really sad. I left New Orleans the next day, flew to Atlanta, and boarded a plane to London.

What can be said about the following year in my life? Very little about hotels. Quite a bit about hostels. The word "hostel" is just one s s away from "hotel." And that away from "hotel." And that s s has got to stand for has got to stand for "sharing." "sharing."

First night in London, on my way to Paris, I stayed at a ma.s.sive s.h.i.thole with the welcoming name of the Generator Generator. The only thing that building could generate was bedbugs and STDs. No room keys, just combination codes for the door locks, and when I opened my door, I found my allocated bed, one of six in the room, occupied by a pa.s.sed-out young lady. Back to the desk, only to be informed that I should wake her and ask her to move. I told him no, give me another bed, and he did. Then off to Paris, where I checked into a tiny s.h.i.thole with the American-friendly name the Woodstock Hostel Woodstock Hostel.

It was a terrible time to be an American abroad. Bush had invaded Iraq, thoroughly displeasing the French, who only grew more indignant as American idiots started ordering freedom toast and freedom fries at Denny's and Waffle Houses across the United States. Trying to find an apartment in Paris was near impossible as an American, even as one who could pay six months' rent in advance in advance. The benefit of getting all the money up front did not seem to outweigh the fact that I was born in the United States of a.s.sholes. So they hung up the phone in my face. Finally, I secured a small apartment in the third arrondiss.e.m.e.nt from an incroyably incroyably drunk landlady who drunk landlady who did did understand the benefit of money up front. I spent half a year walking the city and being roundly ignored by the locals. After an extended trip through Europe, even getting over to Russia, I returned to Paris, immediately repacked my (still just one) suitcase, and moved to Copenhagen, Denmark, a town I had fallen in love with during a brief two-day visit. understand the benefit of money up front. I spent half a year walking the city and being roundly ignored by the locals. After an extended trip through Europe, even getting over to Russia, I returned to Paris, immediately repacked my (still just one) suitcase, and moved to Copenhagen, Denmark, a town I had fallen in love with during a brief two-day visit.

I spent that long summer in Denmark. Though in winter it approaches permanent night (the sky only growing mouse gray for a two-hour span before plunging back into darkness), in the summer the sun sets at 11:30 p.m., only to rise again at 1:30 in the morning. My friends and I (six months in Paris = zero friends / six hours in Copenhagen = ten lifelong friends) would lie in the park, often smoking spliffs or straight hash, and play backgammon until the unbelievably long and luxurious afternoon faded. Then we'd mount our bicycles and ride to the Serne (the Lakes) to watch the sun rise again, the occasion normally calling for another spliff. We went on and on like this. Every afternoon (and it was always always afternoon) we splayed out in some sunshiny park drinking Tuborg beer and rolling in the gra.s.s, pawing at the earth, not doing a d.a.m.n thing. Because there was a national focus on recycling, each beer bottle could be returned for a substantial refund, which in turn created a job for people who'd simply tour the park and, after asking politely, remove your empty bottles for you. Aware that they were, in effect, taking your refund, they would also remove all trash, including bottle caps and cigarette b.u.t.ts, which they got on their knees to pick up. All of this created a wonderful side effect: the parks were always afternoon) we splayed out in some sunshiny park drinking Tuborg beer and rolling in the gra.s.s, pawing at the earth, not doing a d.a.m.n thing. Because there was a national focus on recycling, each beer bottle could be returned for a substantial refund, which in turn created a job for people who'd simply tour the park and, after asking politely, remove your empty bottles for you. Aware that they were, in effect, taking your refund, they would also remove all trash, including bottle caps and cigarette b.u.t.ts, which they got on their knees to pick up. All of this created a wonderful side effect: the parks were always immaculate immaculate. The whole town was immaculate. I saw a production of Hamlet Hamlet put on for free at the foot of a Danish castle. There is nothing rotten in the state of Denmark. Well, the winter, the winter is pretty rotten. put on for free at the foot of a Danish castle. There is nothing rotten in the state of Denmark. Well, the winter, the winter is pretty rotten.

And then the money, as it has a tendency to do, ran the f.u.c.k out. I had reserved enough for a plane ticket to America and some funds to get back on my feet, but certainly my time overseas, along with my traveler's visa nine months ago, had expired. I couldn't conceive of returning to New Orleans. It would feel like reversing the tape, rewinding the video, as if it would erase all the places I'd seen and the people I'd met. I sat for a long while at the Nyhavn ca.n.a.l, also called the longest bar in the world (where Hans Christian Andersen lived), and got Euro drunk, staring at the colorful spectrum of shoulder-to-shoulder buildings, thinking about what exactly I wanted. And where exactly I wanted to get it.

New York. New York City. There was an option that tightened the sack. Despite all my adolescent relocation, we never moved to any major East Coast hub. Though when I was seventeen, long before I'd moved to New Orleans, I visited New York on a tryst with my first love. We'd driven up from North Carolina, where my family was "stationed" at the time, and stayed exclusively in Times Square, magnetically transfixed to the area by all the lights and movement, neon and action.

I remember checking into the Hotel Edison. While I was asking about the elevators, my bag was basically shoplifted off my shoulder. When I turned to investigate, I was face-to-face with a New York City bellman, who was already talking. He fast-talked us into the elevator, his jaw moving with that New York rhythm and speed, just on and on about whatever, while the two of us, just kids really, held hands in fear and stared up at his square jaw opening crookedly to speak and, above that, his wide, pale forehead corrugated with ma.s.sive pulsing veins, responsible for pumping the blood necessary to keep the jaw working, veins that went straight up to the top of his skull, where they were covered by a p.r.i.c.kly gray crew cut. He chased us into the room with his talking, and I remember the end of his long speech was incredibly abrupt and almost exactly like this: "But, you guys, at least, you know, came here to the city and got to meet a character like me."

And then the deafening silence of the room. The kind of sound vacuum only a hotel room can provide. It was like listening to the mounting hiss of cicadas instantly halt, the kind of smack in the face caused by an explosion of silence.

He was staring right at me, those forehead veins deflating.

Oh, I thought, he wants something from me. Oh! A tip! The moment my wallet came out, it was as if his face switched back on, and he started jawing again. I ripped opened my Velcro wallet and handed him a few ones. Instantly, we were alone in the hotel room, our bags by the door.

I never forgot him. No idea who he was, but now I know who he is is. He used the shock of silence to make it clear to a young person, who normally has no idea what to do in that situation (and neither do some adults in fact), that it was time to tip. That, dear guests, is a true New York City bellman. All over the world, bellmen are serious about a dollar, but in New York everyone is serious about a dollar everyone is serious about a dollar, so that makes the bellmen absolutely psychotic about a dollar.

I lifted myself up off the Nyhavn ca.n.a.l ledge, gave all my empties to the nearest bottle collector, and jumped on a plane to New York City. After a sleepless flight, I found myself entering that city once again. Immediately, one single issue stood out, glaring and omnipresent. I would come to find out that this particular concern, the same one referenced above, was to wake me up in the mornings and put me down at night.

Money.

Money concerns.

Specifically, the lack of it.

I secured a bedroom in a four-room apartment in Brooklyn, in an area then called Bushwick. My rent, though already disgustingly high, was soon to rise when they started calling the neighborhood East Williamsburg and then Williamsburg proper. This was even before the 1980s came back to Williamsburg, when men still wore men's pants. But it was all coming: Style was in the air. Style and bulls.h.i.t. And rent was always due. First month, I had it. Second month, well, I didn't. I borrowed money from my family and went smoothly into debt. It seemed as if New York adored adored poverty because everyone did it so well. poverty because everyone did it so well.

Trust me, I was looking for work. But not hotel work. I had been fast-tracked for a career in hospitality but went AWOL. And though my resume displayed little else, I continued to feel moving on was the right decision, a bullet dodged. Now here I was in New York, and I had my pick of careers. So for three months I tried getting a job doing anything else. Anything Anything. I thought now was the time to parlay whatever I'd learned into another direction, another career.

Wait. What exactly had I learned?

During this time I was truly scared. Just deep down scared. I felt, though time had certainly pa.s.sed pa.s.sed, I'd gained nothing. I had a philosophy degree that didn't apply to any job, and I'm not even certain the education itself affected me in any real way. (That's not true: it made me smart as f.u.c.k.) But what of actual value had I accomplished since I turned sixteen? Well, I'd done seen some s.h.i.t: Europe, strip clubs, bar bathrooms, c.o.ke parties, a dead homeless man scooped off the street like a hardened piece of dog s.h.i.t, a knife fight, the backstage area, a roulette game in Russia, the hood, the bas.e.m.e.nt, the penthouse, uptown, downtown, and everywhere else. But what was all that? And now here I was in a huge apocalyptic city that certainly failed to notice my arrival and promised to be uninformed of my departure, whether it be by bus or death.

All of that big pile of nothing and still I had to get a d.a.m.n job.

I led a full-on attack on the publishing business. Here were all the publishing houses, encased in huge fortresses all over Manhattan. Surely some of my experience, added to my long-standing love of books, made me an a.s.set to any publishing house. Apparently not. I couldn't even get interviews. I couldn't even get responses that said they didn't want to interview me. I couldn't even get inside the buildings. But sometimes I would stand outside in the cold and look in. That, they allowed me to do.

I was still holed up in the four-bedroom apartment, in what was now officially Williamsburg, Brooklyn, with three female roommates, none of whom I was banging, and as it stood then, I didn't have last, this, or next month's rent, it was dead-cold winter, and I was drinking myself homeless on 99-cent, 24-oz. Coors Original cans.

I would stand at the big front window, like some broke-a.s.s Gatsby, and look down into the building's internal courtyard, not that it was used as a courtyard, more like a trash dump and Grand Central Station for huge city rats. But all of that nastiness was being covered by a thick blanket of white snow, the fat flakes still falling and resting, building. My roommates, to their unmistakable exasperation, could always find me in the large communal loft s.p.a.ce, playing a record, drinking from those tall sickly yellow Coors cans, my forehead pressed against the snowy window, a paper bag filled with empanadas on the couch next to me, the only food in the area I could afford. At first, the dollar-empanada man, operating out of a s.h.i.tty food cart parked next to a s.h.i.tty dollar store, did not recognize me. Then, as my visits grew more frequent, he would reluctantly acknowledge my existence. Later, as it became clear his empanadas were the only thing keeping me alive, well, he felt pity for me, which came out in the form of irritation and then a determined refusal to recognize me once again. Still, G.o.d bless him. He came out even in a blizzard, and he is still there, on the corner of Grand and Humboldt. After eight years he has only raised his prices by a single quarter.

"We'll give you fifteen days to make rent, otherwise you don't get your deposit back and you're out."

This little pay-or-you're-out pep talk was administered by the apartment's ringleader. She was sitting inside a fully erected two-man tent she'd recently set up in the apartment's ample front loft s.p.a.ce. I had to bend down and peer into the tent to receive this information.

"I don't care what your deal is. Fifteen days or you're out. Totally. f.u.c.king. Out."

Jyll. Jyll with a y y. We never got along. She wore all the latest fashions (which, coincidentally, were the latest fashions from two decades ago), and her boyfriend, though older than I, dressed, for some reason, like a British schoolboy with bow ties, sport coats with elbow patches, and khaki shorts above beige socks inside brown wing tips. I disliked her quite a bit, which I also found to be a ubiquitous att.i.tude in New York. In New Orleans people made a determined effort to get along, to find common ground and enjoy each other's company. Here (and, man, would I get good at this) it was easier to just go ahead and, you know, hate hate.

"Can I use the fax machine again, Jyll?"

"No, because it's in my roooom roooom. Ugh. Fine. Two faxes only. Let's go," she said, shimmying out of the tent.

At that moment, the empanada bag almost transparent from grease, the last sip of my tall boy warm and nauseatingly flat, snow still pounding down on the city, I broke. I broke like a little b.i.t.c.h.

Two faxes. Faxed to, yes indeed, two luxury hotels.

Two days later, two interviews.

Once a hotel wh.o.r.e, always a hotel wh.o.r.e.

I had been like some prost.i.tute trying to get a secretarial position, only to have the interviewer come around the desk, get uncomfortably close, maybe lay an inappropriate hand on my knee, and say, "Look. You're a wh.o.r.e. You're a good good wh.o.r.e. Why don't you stop messing around and get back to working the corner, huh? Come on, baby, it can't be that bad, can it?" wh.o.r.e. Why don't you stop messing around and get back to working the corner, huh? Come on, baby, it can't be that bad, can it?"