Clearly, the relaxed atmosphere of the Bellevue was beginning to take a firm hold. There was no focus on verbiage here, not even a focus on AAA.

AAA are the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who hand out the diamond ratings. There was the Mobil "star" rating as well, but no one in the heads-in-beds game really paid the stars any mind, and now it's defunct. But for a luxury property, that fifth and final diamond is elusive and very celebrated. It can drive in tons of new business and create a huge jump in RevPAR (meaning revenue per available room. Basically, you take the average daily room rate, or ADR, and multiply it by rooms occupied that given night or month, and then, like, whatever whatever, you can totally figure out how much money you're making). They would torture us weekly in New Orleans, warning us that the AAA inspector was coming, unannounced of course, and management would try to guess which potential arrivals it might be, using various telltale clues: usually a two-to-three-night stay, booked through the property (not Hotels.com or Expedia, since the reservations agents are on the chopping block as well), most likely it will be the first time the guest's name will appear in the system, with perhaps a dinner reservation already booked in the restaurant. Some guests got treated like the king of Persia only because they had "POSSIBLE AAA INSPECTOR" tattooed all over their reservations. Inspectors always take a bellman and always order room service and usually complain about the first room and so on, always taking names. Upon departure, once the agent hands the inspector a final checkout folio, he will do a cute little move where he walks away and then walks right back, hits you with that AAA business card, and requests to see the GM. At this point, it's basically as if a bomb siren goes off in the building: people start to go ape s.h.i.t ape s.h.i.t. The inspector will then take a tour of up to five random Vacant Clean rooms, with the GM in tow, s...o...b..ring to kiss a.s.s and internally s.h.i.tting himself, while playing it cool, even though every time he slides a key into a vacant he is terrified there will be a fatally wounded hooker bleeding on the duvet or a minibar mole enjoying consensual s.e.x with a housekeeper.

A few weeks after the AAA visit, the inspector will send a detailed detailed report on his stay, with names and, if you can believe it, even bits of dialogue between him and various members of the staff (as if he's William f.u.c.king ShAAAkespeare). All it takes is one housekeeper on a cell phone or one call to the desk where the guest's name wasn't used to blow the whole thing, and then everyone knows exactly who let the team down. You can lose it by setting the inspector's CC or folio on the desk for him to pick up, instead of placing it directly into his hands. You've got to put everything right into his hands. That is stress you can report on his stay, with names and, if you can believe it, even bits of dialogue between him and various members of the staff (as if he's William f.u.c.king ShAAAkespeare). All it takes is one housekeeper on a cell phone or one call to the desk where the guest's name wasn't used to blow the whole thing, and then everyone knows exactly who let the team down. You can lose it by setting the inspector's CC or folio on the desk for him to pick up, instead of placing it directly into his hands. You've got to put everything right into his hands. That is stress you can taste taste.

But the Bellevue? This hotel couldn't seem to be bothered. First of all, let's be honest, the place was worn down. We didn't even have Wi-Fi in the rooms yet. You had to request a room with a DSL cable installed, and then there was an accompanying charge. Even cheap roadside motels were boasting that every room had comp Wi-Fi. You could already bring your laptop into any McDonald's and surf the Net in the dirty bathrooms if, you know, you wanted wanted to. to.

I recall checking in a famous musician, a true innovator of punk and hardcore, very respected in his own community and beyond, though as far as celebrity status he might have slipped by. But I caught him and immediately upgraded him to a room with a view of Central Park (oh yeah, we got those, and later, for me, they will come in handy). He seemed as grateful as I could expect. However, he came down five minutes later and said he must have Internet. I told him about the park view and that if I moved him to DSL it would not have that view.

"I need Internet," he said.

"Understood. And, hey, you can also just go to www dot central park dot com and check out the view on the Web site. It's just as good, right?" Dead silence on that joke.

Lotta punk. Lotta hardcore. Not a lot of giggling.

In the Bellevue's defense, there were many reasons it needn't bother to troll like a wh.o.r.e for that fifth diamond. A suspicious lack of Internet was just the beginning. The Bellevue, actually giving it a leg up on the majority of New York hotels, did in fact have have a swimming pool. There's a long list of necessary features to achieve that fifth diamond, and a swimming pool is one of them. However, full spa on premises is another requirement. That we didn't have. And the requirements only get more absurd from there (including a minimum allowed size for both the television and, insanely, the length of the dead bolt). I suppose that was one reason why the staff was so lax. a swimming pool. There's a long list of necessary features to achieve that fifth diamond, and a swimming pool is one of them. However, full spa on premises is another requirement. That we didn't have. And the requirements only get more absurd from there (including a minimum allowed size for both the television and, insanely, the length of the dead bolt). I suppose that was one reason why the staff was so lax. That That and the fact that it seemed the management company was done with the hotel. They were not spending dollar one on renovation, and the clientele was starting to notice. Our TV screens were, frankly, just not flat enough. and the fact that it seemed the management company was done with the hotel. They were not spending dollar one on renovation, and the clientele was starting to notice. Our TV screens were, frankly, just not flat enough.

That's what allowed Kayla and me to prop our elbows up on the desk and say, "f.u.c.king look at this f.u.c.king guy right here here. f.u.c.k."

No one seemed to bother themselves about anything, not even our GM. His name was Shawn Reed, and, as Ben put it, "The man is a filthy alcoholic. Filthy," and then, after his typical rea.s.suring hand motion, like a horizontal karate chop, "Great guy, though."

Reed only asked me one question. Not that he only spoke to me once, but he only asked me just the one question and would ask it every time I saw him. He'd careen down the hallway connecting the elevators to the lobby, his body at a full fast tilt, his hair greased and dyed s.p.a.ce black (earning him the nickname "Just for Men"), right hand always in right pocket, and, you know, drunk. He would touch his free left hand on the desk, like a bird landing briefly on a branch, and clear his throat to quickly ask the same thing every time: "So, hem, what's the occupancy tonight?"

"Running at 73 percent, sir."

Another clearing of the throat or some pressurized release of air, like a bus settling to a stop, then his hand would take off again, fly back into a pocket, and he'd beeline to the lobby bar.

"Right to the booze," Ben said.

"He might be asking about business in there, Ben. Like, how many bookings for lunch."

"Tom, he's asking for scotch on the rocks in a to-go coffee cup. Look, there, he's got it."

I suppose it could have been coffee. But it wasn't.

"This place is a mess," I concluded.

The Gray Wolf looked up while wrapping claim checks around a cartful of luggage and came over to the desk quickly.

"Judge him all day, Tom. But, Ben, you remember Just for Men during the blackout? I stopped judging him after that."

"What happened?"

"He handled business," Ben said. "The minute the city lost power, that man dove headfirst into action. He issued flashlights to all the staff, sent us off to help guests walk down or up the stairs, brought blankets and rollaways down to the lobby, served coffee and orange juice, called the hotel across the street and demanded they open their loading dock and turn on the generator lights, which flooded our lobby with light. He took care of everything."

"You guys stayed at the hotel?"

"d.a.m.n right we did. Remember, Wolf? We slept in the lobby and escorted guests up and down sixty flights of stairs using flashlights. Reed was in control the entire time, nice and lubricated. He never left the lobby, and he never slept. El Salvaje El Salvaje slept, though. You remember him snoring that night? The guests who felt better sleeping on rollaways in the lobby couldn't believe the sound of it. He didn't even have a cot or blankets; he just rolled up against the front desk like a fat homeless man and pa.s.sed out snoring." slept, though. You remember him snoring that night? The guests who felt better sleeping on rollaways in the lobby couldn't believe the sound of it. He didn't even have a cot or blankets; he just rolled up against the front desk like a fat homeless man and pa.s.sed out snoring."

At this point a busload of Italians started pouring into the lobby, gesticulating and bellowing to each other while the tour operator tried to gesticulate and bellow louder, herding them toward the front desk.

Eduardo the doorman pushed his way into the lobby. He had a thing for tourists: one night I showed up late to the pub, and two minutes earlier Eduardo had knocked out a tourist with a napkin dispenser. As I walked in, the whole hotel crew was being ejected from the pub.

"What'd I miss? What'd I miss?" I asked.

"Everything," Ben said, emptying the rest of his pint gla.s.s and slamming it down on the bar.

But now, as Eduardo walked up to my desk, his mustachioed face was strained with irritation, which in his case looked like an insane smile. Basically, all of his expressions (sad, bitter, happy, distressed, confused) looked like a psychotic smile. His accent, because of the growl, was on the far border of understandable, and for some reason his hands were always dirty, fingernails bruised black and rimmed with irritated red.

"This group here, anyone say about this group? That bus is blocking my street. Where is the GM?"

Eduardo always threatened to take his troubles all the way to the top. Even he he knew it was hilarious. If there were no cups by the watercooler, he would say, "You know, this is bulls.h.i.t. I will have a serious talk with the GM. No cups." He would say this with a smile, the same full-on crazy smile he would give to guests while he waited for a tip, leaning his thick black mustache actually knew it was hilarious. If there were no cups by the watercooler, he would say, "You know, this is bulls.h.i.t. I will have a serious talk with the GM. No cups." He would say this with a smile, the same full-on crazy smile he would give to guests while he waited for a tip, leaning his thick black mustache actually into into their conversation and grinning like a madman until they grew so uncomfortable they would tip him just to make him go back outside. Then the guests would turn to me and complain about his insistence. Complain to me! I loved Eddie. I worked with him every day, and I was going to see this guest for another thirty seconds and then probably never again. Of course, I wanted the guest to be comfortable, and often, when an employee lingers for a tip, their conversation and grinning like a madman until they grew so uncomfortable they would tip him just to make him go back outside. Then the guests would turn to me and complain about his insistence. Complain to me! I loved Eddie. I worked with him every day, and I was going to see this guest for another thirty seconds and then probably never again. Of course, I wanted the guest to be comfortable, and often, when an employee lingers for a tip, everyone everyone gets uncomfortable. But I had watched Eddie load up that cart, heaving to get the final hard sh.e.l.l tucked tight, and it's fine if a guest doesn't want to tip, but why turn to me as if I'll agree? I don't agree. I think Eddie deserved a tip. Or at least a thank-you, an acknowledgment. Instead, some guests try to pretend he doesn't even exist. That's why he'll jam his mustache into your conversation: to make you acknowledge his existence, if only with a thank-you. gets uncomfortable. But I had watched Eddie load up that cart, heaving to get the final hard sh.e.l.l tucked tight, and it's fine if a guest doesn't want to tip, but why turn to me as if I'll agree? I don't agree. I think Eddie deserved a tip. Or at least a thank-you, an acknowledgment. Instead, some guests try to pretend he doesn't even exist. That's why he'll jam his mustache into your conversation: to make you acknowledge his existence, if only with a thank-you.

"No cups, Tom? Are we dogs? I should use my hands to drink?"

"Don't drink from your hands, Eddie, please. Not your hands. It's not safe."

But now he was furious about this pop-up group, a busload of Italians with a busload of luggage that had to be tagged and stored in the lobby until the bellmen could sort through it and deliver the bags. These guests would never tip, but that wasn't actually a problem, because porterage was included, usually three to five dollars a bag, both going in and going out, split among all the bellmen and doormen equally. Maybe Reed had even seen the bus pull up and eject a stream of Italians. He probably raised a s.p.a.ce-black eyebrow, took a pull from his to-go scotch, and got the h.e.l.l out of midtown. But it certainly would have helped if the staff had been made aware of the Italian a.s.sault. The other doorman working with Eddie was at the pub next door, "taking a union break," and it was just Kayla and I at the desk, no manager. Kayla's attention was usurped by her computer, which was illegally logged in to a Web site called Mi Gente, or "My People," "My People," basically the Hispanic Facebook. basically the Hispanic Facebook.

This wasn't New Orleans. This wasn't a delicate situation. I put my fists on the desk and shouted: "I need CREDIT CARDS. People, put your Pa.s.sPORTS AWAY. This is not CUSTOMS CUSTOMS. Credit cards ONLY." The whole lobby was a sea of red pa.s.sports, and technically I was obligated to check an ID with every CC transaction, but in this case I knew the best course of action, even if management didn't agree, was to get the group out of the d.a.m.n lobby immediately. Clear the room. Any guests who walked in during the onslaught would feel as if they were in a Rome train station, not a luxury property.

To be honest, I never check IDs. But it's policy. Another policy is to research if guests have had previous bookings and, if so, "welcome them back." These two policies working together at the same time killed me. The hotel wanted me to say "Welcome back!! It's a pleasure to have you with us again!!" and then, just as that warm feeling of being recognized spreads over the guest's face, I was supposed to demand identification like some hard-a.s.s cop. I thought that kind of spoiled the soup, and though credit card fraud is a viable concern, I personally decided that if out of 100,000 guests whom I made feel welcome there came one credit card fraud, I felt it was still landing in favor of the hotel and our customers. Plus checking IDs slows down the check-in process. And also it's annoying, and I don't want to do it.

So Kayla and I banged out the Italians, doling out all of our least desirable rooms to the group because the language barrier would obliterate 97 percent of the guests' ability to complain effectively-a great way to get rid of the smoking rooms and the noisy rooms next to the elevators and ice machines. Often, as was the case here, the worst rooms are given to very specific guests for very specific reasons. There are larger factors, such as being part of a huge faceless group, that might make a guest more likely to receive one of the poorer rooms. Reservations made through Internet discount sites are almost always slated for our worst rooms. Wondering why? Does this seem unfair? Let me try to explain this decision from a hotelier's point of view. First of all, we cull the least amount of profit from these reservations. In a capitalistic business environment, that should be explanation enough. The guest pays the Internet site a specific rate, and then the hotel charges the Internet company an even lower rate. Here is a possible price breakdown: We, the hotel, are selling at $500. Expedia is offering a rate at our property online (which it reserves in bulk) for $399, which the guest books and prepays. When the guest arrives, he will never see a rate on his folio, because we are going to charge Expedia directly, which is a low, low rate of $199. Why would we sell so cheap in bulk? No matter what, it does benefit the hotel to put a head in every bed, despite a deep discount, since, first of all, $199 is better than a vacant room and, second of all, we are counting on guests dining at the property, ordering late-night room service, minibar, movies, and drinks in the lounge. So less profit equals less priority. But why do we then slate Expedia guests for our worst rooms? Well, honestly, those guests didn't really choose choose our property based on quality; they chose based on our property based on quality; they chose based on value value. We were at the top of a list sorted by price. They were instructed to book here. But the guest behind them in line, the one with a heavy $500 rate, she selected selected this hotel. When she comes to New York, she goes onto this hotel. When she comes to New York, she goes onto our our Web site to see what's available, as opposed to a cheap rate being pushed in her face and all of a sudden she finds herself in some random hotel in Tribeca with a discounted rate. So, since we have no reason to a.s.sume Internet guests will ever book with us again, unless our discount is presented to them, it truly makes business sense to save our best rooms for guests who book here of their own volition. Web site to see what's available, as opposed to a cheap rate being pushed in her face and all of a sudden she finds herself in some random hotel in Tribeca with a discounted rate. So, since we have no reason to a.s.sume Internet guests will ever book with us again, unless our discount is presented to them, it truly makes business sense to save our best rooms for guests who book here of their own volition.

And there is always, always always a better room. a better room.

Am I suggesting that every time you book through Hotels.com or Expedia you will get a bad room? Certainly not. But your chances are increased. Are there ways to separate yourself from the discount pack and ensure a good room? Yes! The first step would be to call the property directly once the booking has been made and speak to a front desk agent. Immediately, you are no longer part of the discount-seeking ma.s.ses. You are now the person on the phone who is coming in next week and wants to know what type of room you have booked. The agent can prea.s.sign you a nice room, and you can be confident that due attention has been paid. But, a word of warning, that is one week out, and as your special day arrives, VIPs and full-rate guests are also looking for good rooms, and if one is not immediately available, it can and will will be taken from you. So now what, eh? That's where it comes down to your direct interaction with your personal front desk agent at check in. Kindness, being polite, and expressing a positive desire for a nice room can once again shift your c.r.a.ppy discount reservation into a corner suite, and off you go. be taken from you. So now what, eh? That's where it comes down to your direct interaction with your personal front desk agent at check in. Kindness, being polite, and expressing a positive desire for a nice room can once again shift your c.r.a.ppy discount reservation into a corner suite, and off you go.

Not good at being kind, polite, and expressing positivity? You don't have to do that either.

Just hand over a twenty at check-in and say, "Give me something nice."

But after the Italians ran their surprise attack, all we had left left that night were the good rooms. And soon the lobby was quiet once more, the bellmen organizing the luggage according to a rooming list I printed and over-packing the bell carts like slave mules. that night were the good rooms. And soon the lobby was quiet once more, the bellmen organizing the luggage according to a rooming list I printed and over-packing the bell carts like slave mules.

All this we did without the knowledge or a.s.sistance of management. A fifty-room group? The sales department might have informed informed front desk about the bus arrival so we could staff properly. The direct sales contact might have even front desk about the bus arrival so we could staff properly. The direct sales contact might have even visited the lobby visited the lobby to ensure his or her group got in smoothly. Something was truly wrong here, and the disease ran very deep. The Bellevue was the hotel that service forgot, and like a termite infestation the damage was extensive. Nothing less than ripping out the entire foundation would do. The staff consistently set the bar so low that just showing up to work (not even on time) was good enough. to ensure his or her group got in smoothly. Something was truly wrong here, and the disease ran very deep. The Bellevue was the hotel that service forgot, and like a termite infestation the damage was extensive. Nothing less than ripping out the entire foundation would do. The staff consistently set the bar so low that just showing up to work (not even on time) was good enough.

Just when I thought we couldn't be more secure in our laziness, Orianna, part of the "business center" staff, caught me unawares. She snuck up and scared the life out of me. In the men's room.

Orianna was heading the campaign to turn our humble front desk, which included the business center, into union positions. And she was dead serious. She, above everyone else, had two reasons to be. First, her position as "Queen of the Copy Machine" was in danger. Management was sniffing around and realizing they needn't pay someone to sit in the business center all d.a.m.n day when, for the cost of one month's salary, they could install a credit-card-operated copier for the guests to handle their own business and draw in a nice profit on top. Her second reason was infinitely more serious. The full nature of that reason I did not discover until much later.

She followed me like a silent ninja into the men's room, and I jumped, turning to face her, my finger holding my zipper (which was already down). In her hand was a little yellow card, and in her mouth was the word "union."

Why the bathroom? Well, anyone caught trying to form a union on company time or company property was volunteering for instantaneous termination. That was it for you. Get out. However, if, by whatever means inside or outside work, you could get more than 51 percent of the staff to sign a union card, then the union, by law, was able to come inside, right through the lobby doors, and legally protect our right to unionize.

In New Orleans no one was union. Not so in New York. Housekeeping was union. Bellmen and doormen were union. Minibar was union. Room service was union. What did that mean? First of all, no favors. Whereas I was able to beg and plead for extra rooms from my New Orleans housekeeping staff, even pay them cash for the a.s.sistance, that was illegal here at the Bell. Management needed more rooms cleaned? Take someone off layoff and bring her in. No one on layoff? Hire another housekeeper, thus b.u.mping everyone up in seniority and making room for another lady to have Christmas off. Not even union members could do favors for other union members. My previous company touted the policy that each one of us worked in every department. Water on the lobby floor? Mop it up. A room service tray sitting in the hallway, the hollandaise sauce starting to congeal and smell like a dead bird? Take it to the service landing. But not here. Even if a fellow union member from another department was caught moving a room service tray, there were serious consequences. Even if a guest a guest came out into the hall, stood there with arms crossed, and asked me to remove it: I could not touch it. I could only promise to have someone come take care of it. But then, my promise was worth jack s.h.i.t if the man working that floor was on his union-mandated break. I saw all of that as pure nonsense. A license for laziness. Nonsense. came out into the hall, stood there with arms crossed, and asked me to remove it: I could not touch it. I could only promise to have someone come take care of it. But then, my promise was worth jack s.h.i.t if the man working that floor was on his union-mandated break. I saw all of that as pure nonsense. A license for laziness. Nonsense.

"Sign this," Orianna demanded and handed me a yellow card.

"Hey. I was going to urinate right now but..."

"What are you, ten? You can't hold it? Sign this first."

"Well, I'm just not sure about a union, you know? Doesn't it breed laziness?"

"Only if you define laziness as job security."

"That's what I mean. People are so secure in their positions that no one has to do anything."

"Is that an argument against the union? Job security and no one has to do anything. Sounds great. Sign it."

"Aren't unions bad for luxury service?" I asked.

Oh, G.o.d, listen to me go! That company Kool-Aid done f.u.c.ked up my brain juice! I was still putting the hotel first. Which is fine, if the hotel turns around and puts you first. I was pretty certain that wasn't the case here.

"Look, they are going to eliminate my position, Tom. If we go union quickly, they will have to find another job for me, even at the desk. Or they have to buy me out based on years worked. I've got plenty of years here, and they won't be able to afford that. Do you want to guess what my rights are when they eliminate my position and I have no union?"

I signed it.

After I took a leak.

"Here you go," I said and handed it to her. "I just hope that-"

"It's signed? Good. Shut your mouth. That's 60 percent of the staff. Manana comenzamos la revolucion Manana comenzamos la revolucion. Congratulations, white boy."

"Thank you."

Sometimes people force you to do the right thing.

For many reasons, joining the union proved incredibly wise. One reason: the economy, years later, would turn to a bag of s.h.i.t. Prior to America's coming recession, hotel job turnover was legendary. It almost wasn't worth shaking a new hand; the person would be a no-call/no-show a week later, just disappear, and someone new would be wearing his or her name tag. I had friends who picked up a desk job only to work a week's worth of overnights. They were just after that one check one check, and then they'd go gamble it away like idiots in Atlantic City. But once CNN started telling everyone there was no money, no jobs, no hope, and we should praise Jesus every day for our shoe-shine positions, our staff hardened up like the marble lobby floor. And our new union kept it solid.

Extreme job turnover never occurs at the bell stand, union or no union. When you are hired as a bellman (unless you can't stomach the position), you go nowhere. You hold down that gig forever, slowly crawling up the ranks to better shifts as older, ancient, sage-like bellmen wander off into the woods to die. Ask a bellman how much he makes a year, just try to get an answer. You won't. Not even their wives know the kind of cash these guys pull in yearly. Not even their wives Not even their wives. Actually, especially not their wives especially not their wives. ("I keep all my big bills, give my wifey the ones." -50 Cent.) I've been friends with bellmen, eaten Thanksgiving dinner with their families, done a bit of jail time with them for smoking a blunt on an Upper West Side street, and you think I know exactly how much cash they clock a year? They roll like doctors, and not just because they wear gloves.

Speaking of doctors, with the union we now had free health care. That is not a situation most people (well, Americans Americans) experience in their lives. That was, coincidentally, Orianna's second reason for pushing so hard for the union: the health care. She had been trying, unsuccessfully, to get pregnant, and she and her husband had reached a dead end. They tried pills, banging around in funny positions, and timing s.e.x to death. The last option was in vitro fertilization. And that ain't cheap. It's also not guaranteed to take hold, and they don't exactly offer refunds or consolation prizes. However, under the umbrella of the union health care, it was completely covered. Something that would have cost her over a third of her yearly salary now came free with union dues. Soon enough, she had a beautiful baby girl.

That's a union baby.

Everything was free. For the cost of the weekly union dues (same price as a Long Island Iced Tea in a midtown bar) I could roll into any union clinic (one for every borough), without an appointment, and see a doctor: get blood work, get scanned, poked, pressed, and comforted without even showing identification. Just rattle off my Social and away I went to the land of free health care. The only time I ever opened my wallet was for medications, and the total never exceeded five dollars.

Despite all of this, another cla.s.s of employee wasn't interested in joining the union one bit. If anyone in the hotel business is arrogant enough to pretend they are not in the hotel business, it's the people who work the concierge desk. Now, I've met a few good ones in my time, but most of them? Free meals at the finest restaurants, comp tickets to everything, heavy cash kickbacks for booking tours, free limos, open-bar invitations: if you mix these up into one c.o.c.ktail and make someone drink it, well, eventually it turns that person into an arrogant, s.h.i.tty elitist. The concierges just kept strutting around in their tiny rat hole, feeling superior to the employees, superior to the guests, even superior to each other. The union umbrella now covered almost the whole lobby, with the exception of their desk by the elevators. Why would they they need a union? They had the keys to the city! That gaggle of idiots would soon learn a serious lesson. need a union? They had the keys to the city! That gaggle of idiots would soon learn a serious lesson.

Unioned up and settled in, just when I thought everything was close to perfect, I was pulled aside by Eduardo the doorman, who laid a dirty hand on my shoulder. "Tommy, you seen the news?" he asked, giving me that bristly mustache smile, this one apparently intended to express concern. "Your town, New Orleans, it flooded, man."

I walked off the desk and headed down to the employee cafeteria. Everyone was watching the news. Everyone. And in a New York hotel that means representatives from every country in the world. The cafeteria is like the UN, languages flying everywhere, a small pocket of Nigerians next to a pocket of Turks. Chinese at the same table as a pair of Bangladeshis. Russians trying to talk louder than the two French cooks across from them. Usually, everyone's at their tables, talking their own languages, but that day everyone was standing, and they were all staring at the impact of Hurricane Katrina. Later we'd watch the tsunami coverage with Indonesians and the earthquake with the j.a.panese. But right now we were watching New Orleans, and New Orleans was underwater.

I hadn't been concerned about all the warnings. During my residency there I had been evacuated over five times, and nothing ever seemed to happen. The twisting top of the storm would always seem to do less damage than predicted or at least veer, like a badly rolled bowling ball, into Texas or Florida. This time it went right down the middle, and all my friends were there or, G.o.d willing, evacuated, and I watched the news for weeks, even though it really didn't help. It certainly felt as if there was nothing I could do to help.

I am so excited to stay here!" she said. am so excited to stay here!" she said.

"One night, checking out tomorrow."

"It's my birthday!"

"Nonsmoking, king bed. I just need a credit card."

"Is it a good room?"

"Yes. How many keys?"

"Can I have four? Hey, Thomas," the guest said, squeezing her t.i.ts together and leaning over the desk. I had recently gotten a new name tag because I had recently and deliberately lost my old name tag. So, technically, I stole it, took the old one home to add to my collection. Not that expanding my tag collection was a supreme joy, but I wanted to force them to carve me a new one. It was time for another change. After all these years on the Bellevue's desk, I requested a tag that read "Thomas." Why? A couple of super-great reasons. First of all, I was tired of guests rattling off my name as if we were friends. Hey, Tom, listen, Tom, I meant to ask you, Tom, would you mind, Tom, good to see you, Tom, I would like to speak to your manager, Tom. They don't know me, even though they love to read off my name as if that makes us friends. Which it doesn't. And no one in my life has ever called me Thomas, not even my mother. So the name tag forced the formality and made them call me Thomas, which I decided was a form of respect. "That's right, guests, it's Thomas Thomas to you." Also, on a parallel note, it helped me determine which managers truly knew me and which ones were just reading the tag. If I corrected you and told you to call me Tom, we became closer. If I told you to call me Tom and you continued to call me Thomas, we became co-workers. If I never bothered to correct you and just let you call me Thomas, I never liked you. to you." Also, on a parallel note, it helped me determine which managers truly knew me and which ones were just reading the tag. If I corrected you and told you to call me Tom, we became closer. If I told you to call me Tom and you continued to call me Thomas, we became co-workers. If I never bothered to correct you and just let you call me Thomas, I never liked you.

The name tag wasn't the only change. With the union backing me up, I'd been front desk long enough to learn a bit about the hustle. I began to notice the cash game and study it, see how it was played. They hired another FNG, a Cuban named Dante, who'd recently been catching some evening shifts. He was new to the Bellevue but clearly not new to the game. He actually brought clients with with him to our hotel. A front desk agent that brings his own guests? Say what? him to our hotel. A front desk agent that brings his own guests? Say what?

The second shift we worked together, he left me alone with a line of guests. While doing all the work myself, I watched him round the desk and pa.s.s a set of keys to a shady individual with a disgusting mustache who was lurking in the corner. Then I saw the handshake, a money shake, like a drug handoff in Tompkins Square Park. I could tell Dante was some kind of sick pro because, while slowly walking back to his terminal, he never even looked into his palm, never checked the bill. Then, when he saw me clocking him, he smiled and made a show of adjusting his tie, straightening the knot, using the motion as cover to slip the bill into his inner coat pocket.

You see something like that, you start taking notes. I would discover later that acting as a guest's single point of contact could be very profitable. Making all future reservations, prea.s.signing the best rooms, supervising the bill, and essentially being a private concierge could put you where Dante was: in the corner getting tipped for services no one had even seen him perform.

There was cash floating around out there, and I was trying to learn how to float some of it into my pocket. I certainly wasn't a pro yet.

And it wasn't just the desk agents on the hustle; it was the guests, too. They complained, tried to name-drop, brought down roaches in Ziploc bags, roaches that looked brittle and five years old, and a thousand other techniques to get upgrades or comps. People who bring down forensic evidence in a Ziploc product make me angry.

So this birthday girl with the b.r.e.a.s.t.s: I figured that's what she was about, cajoling, not cash, and she was getting nowhere. It might not even be her d.a.m.n birthday! Faking a birthday or anniversary is another popular guest hustle. So she could be running the birthday hustle and coupling it with the most transparent of techniques: a woman flirting to get an upgrade. I work for cash, not nipple-slips. She might be pretty, I honestly hadn't even looked, but I knew for certain there would be no money, and I wasn't interested in anything else she was claiming to offer.

"Thomas, it's a big birthday for me, please," she squeezed, "anything you can do."

It was my birthday last week. I turned thirty years old. Where were you and your b.r.e.a.s.t.s on my my birthday? birthday?

"It's my thirtieth," she said. I looked up from my terminal, and she was smiling. Okay, it was a pretty smile, very sweet. And we both just turned thirty. That's truly what softened me up. I decided to take care of her.

After all, my thirtieth birthday was horrible. I had just returned from a short vacation with a bunch of the bellmen, a few lobby porters, and one concierge (who the h.e.l.l invited him?). We'd taken a trip up to the Poconos to stay at Trey's cabin. Of course it's the pale, sc.r.a.ppy, five-foot-nothing New Yorker who has a big cabin with a breakfast nook, vaulted ceilings, and heated marble floors. We drank beer for breakfast, vodka for lunch, and whiskey for dinner. As soon as it was over and we hit the Holland Tunnel, it felt as if my body started to shut down. My kidneys were clearly disappointed in me. My kidneys were very, very angry. Irate even. Now, three days before my big thirty, I was suffering intense pain on the desk. I scheduled a doctor's appointment and was referred to an outside medical agency to scan me up (also free!!). Unfortunately, I had just received word the appointment was scheduled to take place on on my thirtieth birthday. my thirtieth birthday. That That was depressing, turning thirty and the only present I could count on was a free scan and the definitive knowledge that I was weakening, starting to die. Obviously, I was working the desk with a solid grimace. It felt as if someone had stabbed two spoons into either side of my lower back, right up into the kidneys, and at timed intervals this b.a.s.t.a.r.d was pushing down on the protruding handles, leaning down on them, scooping up chunks of my body and compacting them into my ribs. I was finding it hard to provide any kind of service with that kind of pain. So, of course, while at my weakest, I was approached by a monster of our modern age. Something had happened to her face, something unfortunate. She had poisoned herself with Botox. She looked positively simian. But she didn't seem to mind that her face frightened most of the world. She was depressing, turning thirty and the only present I could count on was a free scan and the definitive knowledge that I was weakening, starting to die. Obviously, I was working the desk with a solid grimace. It felt as if someone had stabbed two spoons into either side of my lower back, right up into the kidneys, and at timed intervals this b.a.s.t.a.r.d was pushing down on the protruding handles, leaning down on them, scooping up chunks of my body and compacting them into my ribs. I was finding it hard to provide any kind of service with that kind of pain. So, of course, while at my weakest, I was approached by a monster of our modern age. Something had happened to her face, something unfortunate. She had poisoned herself with Botox. She looked positively simian. But she didn't seem to mind that her face frightened most of the world. She did did seem to mind that her reservation had not been upgraded. She parted her hideous lips and said, "Ugh. I never get upgraded. It's my fifty-third birthday. I have a black card. Give me an upgrade." seem to mind that her reservation had not been upgraded. She parted her hideous lips and said, "Ugh. I never get upgraded. It's my fifty-third birthday. I have a black card. Give me an upgrade."

The Bellevue had recently started a partnership with AmEx, and we were now included in their Fine Hotels and Resorts program. The FHR program (also short for Frequently Hostile and Rude) was only accessible to members with platinum and black cards. To qualify for the black card, you have to spend $250,000 every year on your AmEx. But wait! There's also a $7,500 membership fee! The black card, though I doubt this perk is specifically indicated in the brochure, allows you to be an a.s.shole at every property you visit* (*including restaurants!). I a.s.sumed this woman easily reached her quarter-million-dollar quota with visits to Dr. Puff and Stuff.

"Give me an upgrade. I want an upgrade. You better or I want to see a manager." I was partially worried that the spittle flying off her stiff lips might be poisonous acid. Is that possible? "You give it to me. I want an upgrade now. It's my fifty-third birthday. Give me the upgrade, or I want to see a manager."

And that's when I broke. Someone leaned down hard on the spoons in my back and whispered in my ear, "This is where you are now, Tommy. You're turning thirty, and your body is dying. You're a key monkey, and you have no other options. You're a lifer here. Give this rich woman exactly what she wants. Now. It's your job."

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

I pa.s.sed the check-in to a co-worker and walked off the desk before the tears came. Oh yes, I wanted to cry, wicked bad. I hurried to the second-floor storage room, where the hotel holds long-term luggage and larger items like cribs and bicycles. In long-term storage, the possibility of a bellman coming to bother me was remote, and I often came here during my break to read. El Salvaje El Salvaje came here on the overnights to throw jukes. He was kind enough to keep it to the same corner, indicated by a sign with a veiled reference to a jukebox. But in the other corner, behind the shelf, there was a cache of stolen minibar items for us to enjoy. came here on the overnights to throw jukes. He was kind enough to keep it to the same corner, indicated by a sign with a veiled reference to a jukebox. But in the other corner, behind the shelf, there was a cache of stolen minibar items for us to enjoy.

I took a Hershey's bar, sat down in the sea of luggage, and cried like a little b.i.t.c.h, biting off big pieces of chocolate and letting the tears fly. It was one of those unforgettable, pivotal moments in my life.

Why was I so sad about everything? I didn't have money problems. Didn't have kids. But nothing was changing for me. I couldn't afford to leave my position, and where would I go? Another hotel? Perhaps this hotel alone was the source of my pain? That's absurd. First of all, I know for a fact that another hotel would be the same s.h.i.t, different toilet. Plus, changing properties would not only drop me back down to starting wage but cause me to lose all my shift seniority and throw me on the overnights again for an untold amount of time, and, again, for less money less money. No way. Leave the business altogether? I was even less qualified than when I arrived in this city. And New York had already changed me. Being surrounded by so much wealth, so much potential, eventually made me want it all. I wanted to have a black card. I wanted to see Broadway plays. I I wanted to speak to a manager. wanted to speak to a manager.