Hotel Hero

812 - Towels

912 - NO AC

514 - Toothbrush

At twelve percent occupancy, I’m still writing down guest requests. It feels silly...but...force of habit I guess. I remember when the hotel gave us these black leather notebooks to take notes in during our shift. We were forbidden to write in anything else at the front desk. It was important to stay "on brand." None of that matters now, but I still have a weird attachment to it. I’m also getting old, and the older I get, the less I care about things. The less I care about things, the harder it is to remember them. Apathy doesn’t serve memory well. So I need to write things down.

720 - Safe

Just three minutes into my shift, and 720 is already calling. Just three minutes into my shift, and I already want to f-u-c-k-i-n-g s-c-r-e-a-m. She can’t open her safe. I asked if she was putting in the right code. Her response:

“It’s bad enough my safe isn’t opening. Your mansplaining isn’t making the situation better.”

I told her I’d send someone up to help, but that was a lie. There’s no one to send. The hotel is down to one engineer, Jose, and he called out sick. Again. Last week, his “auntie threw out her back” and needed his help. This week, he said his throat felt “scratchy.”

“I don’t think it’s Covid,” he said. “But I’d rather not take the chance.”

I know it’s bullshit, but I’m not angry at him. I envy him. He’s young. If I were young like him, I’d do the same. If I was less pathetic, or made different choices in life, I wouldn’t be here either. None of that is Jose’s fault. I let out a maniacal laugh at the front desk. It’s okay. There’s no one around to hear me.

I’d go and help 720 myself, but there’s no one else to cover the desk. When the pandemic hit, most of the staff who worked beneath me were let go. While they’re off making the same amount of money on unemployment, I stay buried here. No skin. No guts. Just bones that are barely making it through the motions. A skeleton without a skeleton crew. When Candice gets here, I’ll go upstairs and deal with 720. That’s five hours from now, so I have five hours to stall. This should be fun.

403 - 2 pillows

A missed Facetime call from Heather. Not missed—but ignored. I do miss her. Heather was the last of the lucky ones who were let go. She’s off on a beach somewhere spending all her government money in another country. Mexico, I think. Later, I’ll tell her I couldn’t answer my cell because I was working, but we'll both know that’s a lie. The unspoken understanding of “I don’t feel like talking” only works when it stays unspoken.

301 - 6 AM wakeup call

A second call from 720. I’m actually surprised they made it twelve minutes.

“It’s been over a half hour. Is anybody going to come up and help me open this safe?”

“That’s strange,” I said. “Jose is usually very fast. I will call him again.”

CLICK.

I knew 720 would be a nightmare before they checked in. I knew it before I saw their face. It was the moment I heard her nasal growl from the lobby as I inhaled my 7-Eleven “sushi” in the back office.

“UMMM… HELLO!? IS ANYBODY HERE!?”

Her voice alone was enough to know how awful she was; what followed confirmed it. I walked to the front desk, still chewing my “food” while putting on my mask to conceal the evidence.

“Are you just now putting on your mask? That’s completely unacceptable. I’m staying here for a month, so I need to know your staff is following proper protocol.”

Jackpot! If only being right felt better. When I pulled up her reservation, I saw she was flagged as a VIP. Her profile notes said she was in LA to shoot a bla bla bla for bla bla bla on bla bla bla. Yawn.

One thing I’ve learned from working (wasting) in hotels is that when someone comes in ready to have a bad time, that’s exactly what they get. Twenty-two days she’s been here, and it’s been twenty-two days of problems. Tonight’s problem will be the safe.

602 - Noise complaint

Heather thinks she’s in love. Last time I saw her, we drank wine and smoked cigarettes on her patio. We watched the sun come up and the joggers come out with disgust. The wine we were drinking was from her new boyfriend’s vineyard. She was in that beginning phase of a relationship when you look for any excuse to bring the other person into the conversation, even when it’s not relevant.

“Love is like an expensive cocktail,” she said. Her eyes were glazed, but awake.

“It’s the perfect concoction, the perfect balance, of familiar and foreign. Like all things beautiful, it’s the ultimate paradox. Balance is the science of love. Its formula. Its DNA. This balance is the very genetic makeup of all its magic.”

Obviously I’m paraphrasing, but that was the gist Heather’s profound rant of the night. Heather also loves cocaine.

I see 720 is calling again. I let it ring. And ring. And ring.

Heather’s optimism was always contagious. It was never forced. When she first started, she was fresh off the boat from the Great Lakes of Michigan. She was overly friendly and felt uncomfortable taking tips from guests. I figured this place would surely break her. Five years later, she had no problem pocketing that cash. But her good spirit remained the same. Like the rest of the lucky ones who were let go, she came out to LA to be an actress. Now, like the rest of the lucky ones, she’s used her Covid- induced layoff to indulge in a personal renaissance and find something new.

“Anything but hospitality,” she said. “It’s where artists’ dreams go to die.”

Everything is always so dramatic with Heather. She probably was supposed to be an actress. She’s also unrealistic. I know that high-end hotels like this are where real (paid) artists stay, like room 720, and fake artists (me) work. But it’s not always that simple. I used to write and direct plays in New York. I had an agent and all that stuff. I always thought if I could just get a little more time, I'd make something big happen.

604 - 9 AM wakeup call

When I was a kid, I had a stomach ache that brought me to tears. My mother told me to “quit acting like a twelve year old girl on her period.” Even as a poor, single woman raising seven kids on her own in the '60s, she refused to let her problems be anyone else’s but her own. I think it was the only way she could feel a sense of power over her life. As a fifty-six year old man now, I am sick to my stomach from the circumstances of which I created for myself. My problems are my own, and yet I am powerless. As I stand here at the front desk, all I can do is laugh. I laugh until my stomach hurts even more. I laugh until tears stream down my face. It’s okay though. Our GM already left for the day, and my mother is dead. There’s no one here to see me. There’s no one left to scold me.

504 - Service recovery - Adjust rate

I pulled myself together just in time to speak with the woman in 504. She may have just made my night. She came to the front desk and complained about our pool being closed, stating it’s the only reason she booked a room here. I started my auto-pilot Covid disclaimer, but she didn’t want to hear it. She said she should have been notified beforehand. I told her it’s on the confirmation letter, to which she responded with:

“Ohhhhhh, right! You mean the one with the tiny print that no one reads? Wonderful.”

She walked away before I could respond.

That was awesome. I wish I could grab her face and make out with her. I should have been a sassy white woman. I’ll make a discount on her room rate not just because I like her, but she’ll end up asking for it anyway. Less work for later.

Next up, 720. She gave up calling and came to the desk. She said she’s been trying to call, but no one is answering.

“That’s strange,” I said. “There must be something wrong with the phones.”

Sure enough, like magic, the front desk phone rang. She stared at me blankly. I stared back. This is usually when she’d ask to speak with a manager, but she already knows that’s me. I’d look harder for a better solution, but I’m tired.

“It seems as though our engineer had a sudden emergency. We can have another engineer up there first thing in the morning.”

“I cannot wait until the morning. It’s getting late, I’m getting tired, and I need what’s in that safe before I go to sleep.”

I told her that as soon as I get coverage at eleven p.m., I would be able to come up and help. She rolled her eyes and walked away. Maybe if I told her to stop acting like a twelve-year-old girl on her period, I’d finally get fired. I could collect unemployment and join Heather in Mexico. I’d finally be one of the lucky ones.

519 - Toilet paper

817 - Shampoo

If Heather is right, if love is the perfect balance of familiar and foreign, then hate must be an imbalance of the two. Or an extreme level of one and not the other. When I look out into our empty lobby, I remember where the DJ would bobble his head, pressing buttons on his computer. I remember where all the other bobbleheads would flood the bar, drinking their drinks and saying their prayers that the lights would stay dim enough so their date was still attractive after last call. I remember feeling all too foreign in a place that was all too familiar. I think I used to hate this place. But in the absence of everything now, I don't know how to feel.

Here comes Candice. Candice has worked the graveyard shift for over eight years now. She has two other jobs, which she complains about often. I forgot where they are. She was born and raised in LA, and couldn't care less about movies or Mexico or wine or existentialism. She's a graveyard girl who fits the part. Since Candice is here, I'll go up and try to solve 720's safe issue. Wish me luck.

I'm now writing in a new black leather notebook. A lot has happened since I ran out of pages in the last one. This notebook is a lot like my last one, but the hotel didn't get it for me. You also won't find any shift notes in here.

Heather is in the other room, opening a bottle of wine from her boyfriend's vineyard. I'm at her new condo on the Caribbean. I figured now is as good of a time as any to break this bad boy in. I never did fix 720's safe that night, but I did miss the train trying to help her. I took an Uber I couldn't afford home that night, which resulted in an accident on the 405, which resulted in a lawsuit granting me $20,000. Now, here I am.

Hearing the "you're the real heroes" during the pandemic started to get really old. Now, against all odds, I can safely say that my real hero is room 720.