Sunday, July 29, 2012

My Name is Nunzio

I haven't been in a fight since high school. And for all the nasty things I say, I don't have an itch to relive those moments. Getting punched in the face sucks, but for me, actually having to strike another human being with my fists is worse. I'm more okay with getting hit than the notion of "fuck, now I have to hit this person." I have this recurring dream where I'm in a fight with some meathead, punching him in the jaw with everything I've got, while he laughs maniacally like my fists are made of toilet paper. All of this is happening with a large group of hot women standing behind him, pointing and laughing.

I'll admit that I'm one of idiots that will google "girl fights" and stay up till 4am watching vicious brawls on YouTube. Watching people that you don't know fight is a glorious activity, but the thought of getting into one in my adulthood is a scary thing. I honestly don't know how I would do in a fight now that I'm almost 30. 

You know that pulsating feeling you get after a heated argument or physical altercation? When your adrenaline is at 100mph, you heart is pounding, and all the blood has rushed your face? When you feel like you could flip over a truck without breaking a sweat? Yeah, being a doorman has eliminated that for me. Between the taxi drivers, gypsy cabs, and greedy bellmen, I average near-blows argument about two or three times per day. It's part of the job. I can scream in a man's face and tell him to fuck his mother one second, then be laughing about a weekend booze story the next. I've become so desensitized to fights to the point where I'll sometimes day dream when a savage Arab taxi driver is threatening to murder me.

Savage- "I will fucking kill you! I will fuck your ass!"

Me- (mouth open, staring at Central Park) :::Oh man, I'm watching the New York Giants build a dynasty. It's happening in my lifetime. Eli Manning is God:::

It's become very difficult to shake me, but everyone has a breaking point. I'm no tough guy, but I don't take anyone's shit, and won't in almost any situation. Though there are moments where anyone, even the most unflappable, can be frozen:

It was about 9pm and pouring. POURING. My doorman ass hat is mesh, so I have to put a clear shower cap over it and it looks ridiculous. I hadn't received a raincoat yet, and catering to the doorman is never a priority in a hotel, so I have to borrow the jacket of a bellman that's as big as Bane. I look like a fireman's 5-year-old son trying on his daddy's gear. Like clockwork, the hotel GM has taken his usual spot in the cafe to sip tomato soup and stare at me for an hour. Of all the things that he obsessively fixates on, the door and the man who opens it is priority nĂºmero uno. Seriously, this is the most mindless job I've ever had in my life and my boss breathes down my neck like I'm a floor trader for Merrill Lynch.

Was that a correct finance reference? Huh, successful people? 
A brand-new, black Range Rover pulls up in front of the entrance. Now, it's my job to approach any car that pulls up because for one, it might be a valet, and another being that I need to keep the loading zone clear. On any other night, in rain like this, I'd wait for them to let me know that they need help. Its usually done by a head nod or an "eeehhhh where is to park the car?". But with Fucko in the cafe watching my every move, I need to be prudent.

I can't see into the car very well,  but all I can make out is a guy on a cell phone and an expensive-looking pinky ring with an "N" carved into it. I step out to the car, in the pouring rain, and wait by the door. As I get closer, I see a well-dressed man with a gaudy chain and slicked-back hair. He sees me. He fucking knows I'm there with buckets of water being dumped on my head.

What a fucking asshole, I thought.

I give him about thirty seconds because, judging by the jolly manner in which he is yapping into the phone, the call doesn't seem all that god-damn important.  I knock on the window. Not a bang, just a gentle little knock-knock with one knuckle.

He is startled, but not as if I had scared him. Startled more like "is this guy fucking kidding me?"

He turns his face with a scowl, doesn't make eye contact, and points his finger toward the entrance of the hotel, and goes back to his conversation.

At first, I'm thinking that he's waiting for a guest to come out, so I go back to the door. Whatever. Fucking prick.

But he stays awhile.

10 minutes go by. Still there.

An airport shuttle pulls up behind him. Guests get soaked coming in because he's blocking the entrance. I begin to get angry. I feel the GM's eyes on me, wondering why I just let a group of people walk the 15 extra feet and who this guy was that I was letting just sit there.

The man gets out of his car and begins arranging things in his trunk. He's not very tall, but he's dressed and carries himself like a wise-guy. He's a fucking Guido, all grows up.

Now, I don't give a good god damn about what happens in front of that fucking hotel. There can be two Nazi's blowing each other with fire-spitting midgets cheering them on and I wouldn't do anything but laugh and tweet about it. Protecting the front of the hotel is not on my priority list.

What was beginning to set in was the blow to my pride.

This asshole blatantly disrespected me as a human being. He didn't have the decency to see what I wanted.

That point wasn't a "I'm picking someone up", that point was a big "fuck you".

He just thinks that he just sit in front of MY post and yap on his phone while all of these people get drenched coming in?!?

He couldn't move up 10 fucking feet?!?

He thinks that he could just point me away, like I'm some fucking peon?!?

He thinks he could make me look like an asshole in front of my boss, just so he could laugh and chat with one of his Goomba friends?!?


I march over. Everything slows down.  My heart starts pounding. It's the same feeling I got right before I punched Tom Monahan in the face in 7th grade - the only fight I've ever started. I didn't connect then. I was aiming for his jaw, but missed and hit him in the forehead. He was bigger than me. He pulled my New York Ranger Starter jacket over my head, which I didn't think to take off, and pummeled me until a teacher broke it up.

Don't be nervous, you've done this a thousand times.

I get to the door. He's texting.

I knock, this time with a little more conviction.

I take a step back, which turned out to be a very good move. He looks up and curls his lips, then swings the door open. He puts one leg out and hold the steering wheel with his right hand, his other hand goes on his knee. I catch another glimpse of his pinky ring. I wonder what that "N" would look like branded into my face.

Guido- "WHAT?"

Me- "Haya doin."

Guido- "What the fuck do you want?"

His voice is raspy and his New York accent is thick. I try to stand my ground. My mouth goes dry.

Me- "Just wanted to see what you were doing."

With my cotton mouth and forgetting to clear by throat, my voice cracked mid-sentence. Awesome.

Guido- "You wanna know what the fuck I'M doing?!? Who the fuck are you?!?"

I feel the blood rush to my face. Whatever it is that I'm going to say, it had better be good.

Me- "Well, this is a hotel. I'm the doorman."

Well, there ya have it. That was the best thing I could come up with.  I just handed over my dignity on a platter, and he was going to ravenously devour it.

Guido- "Oh, you're the doorman, huh? That's nice! Well, hey! The doorman is here! BIG FUCKIN DEAL! Let me ask you something, doorman - Do you know who the fuck I am?"

The back of my neck feels like someone was slapping it with a spatula. I take a hard, thick gulp.

Me- "No, can't say that I do."

Guido- "My name is Nunzio, and I don't give a fuck...Now go back to your door and mind your fuckin' business!"

I look him dead in the eye. He's not fucking around.
Now, if someone is going to use a line like that, that only means one of two things-

1. He's a tool.

2. He's a fucking lunatic.

I don't want to find out which one.

Me- "Alright."

I do a walk-of-shame, oversized jacket with my hands swallowed in the sleeves, back to the door. Once I get there, I awkwardly put my hands behind my back, then folded at my waist, then in my pockets, then one hand on the door and one at my side, all in a span of fifteen seconds.

He leaves about ten minutes later. When he's gone, I tell security about it, like a dick. Security, of course, radios the story down to the bellmen, who tell me how they would have handled it. The night crew is all young guys. They would have said "Yo, I don't give a fuck who you are. Get the fuck out of here." They would have fought the guy and won. They all have a solution as to how to remove the man from the front of the hotel. They're all tough guys.

The next day, I get to the locker room and tell some of the older bellmen the story and they laugh hysterically. They assure me that I did the right thing and all have similar stories. My favorite comes from a bellman that looks strikingly like my Dad-

"My brother-in-law was working the door at a concert. There was a huge line to get in, so two older women walk to the front of the line and walk right past him.

My brother-in-law says 'Excuse me, ladies. There's a line to get in.'

One woman screams 'SHUT THE FUCK UP'

So I say- What did you do?

And my brother says- 'I shut the fuck up.'"

I know that I did the right thing. That guy could have done anything. No matter how tough or strong you are, you're not tougher than a sick fuck with a knife. 

I did the right thing, but when I look back on it, I wonder if I did the right thing by default - by freezing up an being a pussy. To be perfectly honest, I'm glad my emotions got the best of me. For weeks, all I could think of was an episode of The Sopranos, where the men went out to an expensive restaurant. Paulie Walnuts made Christopher, who was low on cash, pick up the tab. He couldn't leave a good tip, and the waiter followed the two wise-guys into the parking lot and berated them. You know what the wise-guys did? They fired a brick at his head and killed him. If I'm going to die young, I want to die in a blaze of glory. I don't want to die being stabbed to death defending the front of a lousy 3-star hotel. 

This guy probably wasn't a wise-guy, but the way he presented himself, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. "My name is Nunzio, and I don't give a fuck" is a cheese ball line, but then someone says it to you and really sells it, it's tough to not get a little scared. 

Nowadays, when a car pulls up in from of the hotel and sits there, unless it's an emergency, I won't approach it. It's not worth it. If I ever see a black Range Rover, well, I'll probably hide. 

Monday, July 16, 2012

The Lonely Road to Midnight

I've mentioned in a previous blog that I generally work 3pm-midnight, five days a week. It's a fucking nightmare schedule. You think 9-5 is bad? At least you have your evenings and weekends. My "evenings" are usually from 11am-2pm, when I do laundry, clean my apartment, and watch daytime television. I live the social life of a grandmother. What I wouldn't give to just be able to come home, pop a beer, plop on the couch, fart loudly, and watch a fucking Met game. That's it. That's all I want- to pass gas, order food, drink beer, watch sports, and hang out with my roommates. But if I was happy with my job, then you wouldn't be reading this blog, and I wouldn't be having all this fun writing it, so allow me to shut the fuck up and stop complaining.

No one grows up saying "gee, I'd sure love to be a doorman one day!" Could you imagine a kid saying that at the dinner table? I'd grab my son by the back of his head and drown him in his soup until he told me otherwise. In New York, a doorman becomes a doorman like any man becomes a sanitation worker. The logic is just the same- "Sure, the work isn't the most dignified, but I make great money, I'm in a union, and I have full benefits." That's all it boils down to. And while being a doorman is one of the lowest jobs on the sociatal food chain, the location of my hotel and the city that it lies in makes my job the Goldman Sachs of my profession. And from 3pm-7pm, I'm running around, directing traffic, busting my ass, and making money.

I've also mentioned that there's a mid-shift doorman that keeps me company from 3pm-7pm. We get along beautifully and have a ton of laughs. He's a great guy. It sucks having to split my tips with him, but without the company for those few hours, I would go absolutely insane. When he leaves at 7, I embark on the "Lonely Road to Midnight" - 5 hours of standing alone on a busy street in Manhattan with nothing to keep me occupied but a notepad and the world in front of me:

7:00pm- I put a piece of gum in my mouth. I chew it.

7:01pm- I fold the gum wrapper as many times as can.

7:02pm- I can't fold it anymore! HAHA!!!

7:03pm- I walk to the garbage can on the corner, throw out gum wrapper.

7:10pm- I stare at the scaffolding across the street and wonder how many tries it would take to cleanly punt a dodgeball in them.

7:17pm- I decide that it would take me three tries. One to judge how hard I should kick the ball, one to judge the wind, the third to nail the motherfucker.

7:34pm- I replay the entire Giants game-winning drive from Super Bowl 42 in my head.

7:53pm- My gum has lost it's flavor.

7:55pm- Providing my Joe Buck impression, I call myself spitting out my gum and punting it into the street.

7:56pm- Touchback. Not my best performance.

8:06pm- I pull a thread from my jacket. It wraps around my arm. I pull it till slowly to see how long I can get the thread to go without breaking it.

8:07pm- Still pulling!

8:08pm- The thread breaks. I'm more upset about this than I thought I would have been.

8:11pm- I straighten the thread and place one end on the bottom of my foot.

8:12pm- I pull the thread as high as it can go, which just clears the top of my head. That's a good six feet of thread pulled without a break. Daddy's proud.

8:14pm- I work on my impression of Saturday Night Live announcer, Don Pardo. I complete an entire opening title sequence with myself as the host and Florence and the Machine as the musical guest.

8:26pm- I continue a life-long argument that my circle of friends have debated for years- Who would win in a fight, Bruce Wayne or James Bond?

8:41pm- After more careful speculation, I decide that the recent Christopher Nolan series has created more bad-assedness for the Batman character than the Daniel Craig/James Bond series and continue to back Bruce Wayne, as I had in the past.

8:43pm- I debate chinese food or halal food for dinner.

8:44pm- Halal food.

8:45pm- Chinese food.

8:49pm- Chinese food.

8:51pm- Someone walks by with a bag of "Halal Guys".

8:52pm- Halal food.

8:54pm- I decide that I've stalled too long to have Chinese food delivered in time for my break. Halal is the winner.

9:03pm- A front desk girl walks by with McDonalds. I smell a big Mac.

9:04pm- McDonalds.

9:06pm- I have a code of fast-food ethics, which is to only allow myself fast food once per week.

9:07pm- I remember that I drunkenly noshed on White Castle at 4am on Saturday evening. That's only 5 days ago. Damnit.

9:08pm- Halal food.

9:15pm- Break time.

9:30pm- Eat Halal Guys like an animal. If you've never had Halal Guys in New York, then I feel bad for you. I even see hipsters enjoying it. It looks like dog food and is horrible for you, but I'm convinced that they sprinkle crack on every batch, because I can't get enough of them. Check out the yelp page here.

9:31pm- I accidentally watch 10 seconds of The Big Bang Theory. I reject my impulse to throw the remote through the TV and instead change the channel. Fuck that show. I find the "Jerk Store" episode of Seinfeld on the next channel. I'm happy.

9:40pm- A hot front desk girl comes into the break room. The Halal Guys have made the room smell like a fart's armpit. I'm embarrassed.

10:00pm- Back to the grind.

!0:07pm- A popular NYC tour bus rides by and stops at the light. A woman in my improv troupe is the guide. I do the Macarena and other silly dances for them. We've done this before. Tourists are filled with glee. They give me a rousing ovation. My friend gives me a thumbs-up. I am a star.

10:10pm- High off of one of my best performances, a van full of Brazilians pull up with 15 large suitcases. No tip. I am a doorman again.

10:15pm- I decide to draw a picture capturing my inner anguish.

10:37pm- I finish my picture, giggling:

10:42pm: An insanely hot British girl asks for directions. I comply, and when she thanks me, she grazes her hand on my chest.

10:43pm- I have a massive erection.

!0:44pm- This bad boy isn't going anywhere. I put my hand in my pocket, reach for my mule, and hold it down till it's deflated.

10:46pm- Front office manager comes out for a smoke and tell me that having my hands in my pockets looks ugly and I shouldn't do so. He's an actor too and would never report a fellow brother, so I ignore him.

10:48pm- The situation has been defused.

11:03pm- I sing "Falling Slowly" from the Once soundtrack. If you haven't seen this musical, then you should. It's beautiful.

11:10pm- I question the life decisions that have led me to this.

11:14pm- I think about how I worked my ass off in college to get a degree and here I am, alone on the street, being treated like a bum by all of these people that aren't as smart as me.

11:20pm- I question my decision to not get a Master's Degree after college.

11:27pm- I question my decision to not take the job when I got the call for the NYPD. I'd be making top salary right about now.

11:33pm- I think about all my past relationships and wonder if any of my exes would find satisfaction in seeing me be a doorman.

11:40pm- I think about my swanky, luxury apartment in downtown Manhattan and how shallow it is to live in such a nice place and not feel like a success.

11:50pm- I think about my future.

11:55pm- I think about all of these things, and then I remember that if I never became a doorman, I would have never started writing, and realize how much I love it, and am more thankful for that than anything.

12:00am- I punch out.

Sunday, July 15, 2012

The Doorman's Guide to Not Getting Ripped Off in NYC: Part I

Part 1- Gypsy Cabs and Pedicabs 
I get into a verbal altercation, on average, about once every two hours while I'm at work. I wish it were because I was standing up for something I believed in, or for something for the greater good of humanity, or because I was defending a loved one, but I'm not that important. The vast majority of fights that I get into are because I'm defending some idiot tourist that's about to get ripped off in front of my hotel.

Quite frankly, I'm really fucking sick of it. Not enough people use common sense when they visit New York. There are plenty of ways to get scammed over here, and if you avoid the following things, you'll be able to sniff out something fishy and not get fucked out of your money. Remember, I'm a life-long, street-smart, New Yorker and I spend five nights a week staring out into one of the busiest streets in Manhattan, watching visor-wearing mouth-breathers get ripped off by hustling scavengers. You should listen to me. I'm not some fanny-pack-wearing ninny who spent a week in NYC and thinks that they own the town. 

Black Towncars

NEVER set foot in a car that isn't a yellow taxi unless it was pre-arraigned by a friend or travel agent or booked through your hotel.

It starts at the airport. New York has 3 major airports- LaGuardia, JFK, and Newark. If you're going to take a taxi from any of these airports, do so from the taxi stand, meaning don't take anything that isn't a METERED cab. In JFK and LaGuardia, it will always be a yellow NYC Taxi. Newark is in New Jersey, which is a little different, just make sure that whatever taxi waiting at the stand is running on a meter going to New York. Toll are always added to the price. Yellow taxi rates can be found here for the airports. I won't list them on this blog because they're due to increase this coming September, but the link will still be good. 

Here's why you don't fuck around with black town cars:

When it gets busy in Manhattan, (specifically during rush hour, Friday and Saturday nights, and when it rains) black cars come out of the woodwork and begin preying on people desperate to catch a cab. We call them "Gypsies". They'll pull up, honking the horn, asking where you're going, tell you they're giving you a good price, then take you for a ride. They can charge you $20 more than what you would be paying because they don't have to worry about you reporting their medallion number. Above and inside every yellow taxi, there's a 4-digit number that identifies every driver's vehicle. If a yellow taxi tries to fuck you over in any way, you could report them using that number. With the black cars, they can give you any random price, judging by whether or not you know where you are. Some of you tourists, sorry to say, might as well walk around with bulls-eyes on your "I Love NY" shirts.  Not only can they give you what you think is a fair price to bait you into the car, they can pull whatever bullshit they want once they drop you off. 

"It's $45, PLUS $10 gas, PLUS gratuity!" 

I actually heard one of those savages say that one night. When I asked where he picked them up, it was, no joke, 3 and a half blocks away. The motherfucker picked them up, drove them around in circles for a half hour, then dropped them off in front of the hotel and pretended like he took them halfway across the city. 

Another woman once told me that she was outside a Broadway theatre in the pouring rain with her very young daughter. A gypsy pulled up and asked where she was going. She knew that she was only a couple of blocks away, but her kid wasn't feeling well and just wanted to get her home. After telling the driver this, he lied and insisted that there was $20 minimum on all trips. Desperate, with no yellow cabs to be found, she took it, knowing that this asshole was taking her for a ride. When she got back to the hotel and refused to give him a tip, the driver called her a "cunt" in front of her daughter. 

The worst that I've seen was, by far, while I was working as a concierge. A woman from Spain, slightly concerned, approached me with a hand-written receipt. She had taken a black town car from JFK airport:

Woman- "eeeehhhh is to pay too much for this?" 

My response was cruel, but I can never pass up a good punchline: 

Me- "Did you take a helicopter here?"

Here was the price breakdown on the receipt: 

Driver Fee- $100 
Gas- $35
Tolls- $40
Parking- $15
Gratuity- $50

Grand total- $240 

My favorite part of that is the PARKING. He picked her up and dropped her off. What parking did he have to pay for? She must have led on that she couldn't read English, and the son of a bitch just went to town. 

If you're going to spring for a nicer car to take you to and from the airport, and your party can manage to fit all your luggage into a sedan, pay no more than the following numbers for there or back:

LaGuardia: $60
JFK- $90
Newark- $120

These are expensive, but I've seen people spend this much without blinking. You can get them for less than this, just know that this is the ceiling. Every company is different, and every hotel works with a different company. If you want to get to the airport in a Mercedes or Escalade, then you're looking at a larger price. If you're a Brazilian, shopping twat, and you have 12 dead-weight, bellman back-breaking, luggages and only two people, then prepare to pay more to accommodate all of your bullshit. Know about the yellow-taxi rates beforehand. If you don't mind being in a shitty cab, then you'll pay a lot less. If you're looking to take a nicer car, then you'll pony up a few bucks. Just make sure it's through someone you trust or a hotel employee. 


This is a growing problem in the city. You wouldn't believe what these animals get away with. 

Actually, I take that back. People are fucking stupid. 

The key to taking a pedicab off the street in NYC is is very simple and can be summed up in one sentence:

Don't take a fucking pedicab off the street in New York City.

The ONLY place, and I mean ONLY place you should ever set foot on a pedicab is Central Park. That's it. There are legitimate, hardworking, experienced, licensed tour guides and New Yorkers that will give you a wonderful tour of the park and charge you a fair hourly rate. I know a few of them personally and they're great people who are watching their business go down the toilet because of these pieces of shit who have taken over midtown Manhattan and given pedicabs a horrible name.

You think what I just explained about gypsy cabs is alarming? Here's a breakdown of the pedicabs that troll Times Square- 

On a flimsy piece of paper, hidden on the side of most of these shitboxes, is a very, very fine print that gives you a list of how the pricing works: 

Initial Fee- $5 
Per Street- $2 
Per Avenue- $5

(If you're not from New York, just know that streets are short and avenues are long.) 

Then, in an even finer, finer, print below the prices, you see some more text:

Price breakdown is per person. 

Say you're a family of two adults and two small children and you want to go from 42nd street and 6th ave to 50th street and 5th ave. That's 8 blocks (streets) and one avenue. Before the driver pedals a foot, that's a $20 initial fee. 

Now he goes his 8 blocks (streets)- that's $16 x 4 people. Remember, the price breakdown is per person. 

16 x 4 = 64

So with your initial fee and 8 blocks (streets), you're already at $84. 

We're not done.  

Avenues in New York mostly run one way. Pedicabs have to, by law, go with the flow of traffic. So this means to go one avenue over, they have to go up and around, and they count it as going two avenues. How does that add up? 

2 avenues = $10. Times 4 people, you've tacked on another $40. 

So to go nine blocks, your grand total is $124. 

Then they get combative if you don't sprinkle in a tip. I've seen countless arguments in front of the hotel between tourists and these fuckers. All the drivers do is point to the fine print and tell them "next time, read the fine print and be more careful." I've actually heard several drivers use that line. Imagine that? They can just brazenly tell them "yeah, I just fucked ya, now ante up and don't be such a dumbass next time."

What makes my blood boil the most about this is that so many of these fucking parasites barely speak English and are here illegally. They don't provide a tour or any information about New York. They just pick you up and rob you blind. Would you rather wait around for a taxi or, god forbid with you fat, lazy, midwestern fucks, walk those 9 blocks? Do yourself a favor- either wait around for a taxi, take the subway (no, there isn't a residential mugger/rapist in every subway station), or move those chunky little feet back to your hotel. Do you really want to pay 100 bucks to have some smelly savage whip his B.O. back at you, while he talks to his savage family back at home on his bluetooth? 

Many of the legitimate tours can be found along Central Park South near Columbus Circle. You can also pre-book something online, or ask your hotel concierge. In many cases, $75 can get you an hour-long, informative pedi-tour of NYC. And if your guide is good, throw him another 20. Because we remember our tipping, right? 

More to come. If there's anything you want me to answer, seriously, don't be shy. Email me at and your question will be answered in a future blog. 

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Oil Slick: A Letter to My Superiors

Dear Hotel in Which I am Gainfully Employed, 

I did a very bad thing yesterday and would like to confess. A job in the hotel industry demands courtesy, hospitality, and respect of a guest's property. I admit that I consciously broke one of those guidelines. Allow me to explain:

I was having a bad "doorman day." I'm sure if you're the one reading this letter, in your air conditioned office, with your weekends and holidays off, with your family that you get to go home to every night, with the Internet to keep you occupied all day, with your free lunch from the hotel restaurant, you may not understand the frustrations that come with people treating you like an indentured servant. I assure you, it can become quite degrading. But I don't want to bore you with my feelings. After all, I'm just a lowly doorman.


It was about two hours into my shift and I had made zero dollars. Zero. As in, all of the people that I helped didn't feel compelled to give me any money for my hard work and million dollar smile. I was, to put it tamely, extremely frustrated. In my opinion, what makes me a valuable asset to this company is that I never allow my frustrations to come to the surface when dealing with the guests. I continued to push through and provide Class-A service, even though, technically, I wasn't getting paid for it. 

I mean, with all due respect, let's say you were working like a maniac for a half hour. You completed the task to the best of your abilities and provided top-notch service to your client. Then, your client says- "thank you, but you will not be paid for this." Now, you're not allowed to say anything. You just have to take it and HOPE that the next client doesn't do the same thing, or else you won't be able to keep a roof over your head. You wouldn't like that very much, would you? 


A family of four makes their way toward the door and are in need of a taxi to Penn Station. They're American. Looks like I'll be ending this little losing streak that's been growing. They have four heavy suitcases, one of which has one of those neck pillows the people use on planes and trains. You know, the ones that are shaped like a "C"? Well, what happened was, when I went to heave this heavy, clearly overweight luggage into the back of the taxi, risking throwing my back out, the little neck pillow fell onto the ground. There just happened to be an oil slick in the very spot that the pillow landed. I felt terrible. I picked it up immediately and went to tell the guest right away. I wanted to take full responsibility for my actions. 

Problem was, they had all already jumped in the taxi, shut the door and rolled up the windows. They hadn't given me a tip, nor did they bother to thank me. 

What I did next was just flat-out wrong. I took a look at the black oil stain on the pillow and, gosh darnit, if I didn't just go ahead and put that pillow right into the trunk and not tell the guest a word about it. They must have gotten on the train, ready to relax, put their little ear buds in, opened their e-reader, ready for their journey, only to be greeted by an oily surprise on the back of their neck. 

Dear person reading this letter, the reason I wanted to tell you this story boils down to one thing: 

I'm not sorry. 

Not. One. Fucking. Bit. 

FUCK those people. Fuck them in every fucking orifice of their bodies. 

I expect this front some cunt French or Brazilian family, but to get stiffed like that by white Americans??? Are you fucking kidding me??? That's a special kind of low-life. If you're not a tipper, whatever. You still suck, but there may be some redeeming quality there. For you to jump in the taxi and immediately shut the door, leaving me to tend to these fucking dead-weight, jumbo suitcases and not even say "thank you" makes you an animal. Just a no-good, sack of shit, fucking ANIMAL. 

Had I known they were going to do that, I would have put the pillow down my pants and onto my sweaty balls and swamp-ass taint and anus before coating it in a layer of oil. 


I hope you will understand my point-of-view and acknowledge that I've been none other than a model employee in my time here. This is just one little slip-up in an otherwise magnificent body of work in this hotel. I allowed my frustrations affect my work performance and professionalism. It may or may not happen again. I'm leaning toward the latter. I shall now defer any other communication to my union delegate. Thank you for your time. 

All the Best, 



Of all the sad things that happen to me out there, I deserve a triumphant victory every so often. When it comes at the expense of a fucking no-good poser, it makes it all the sweeter.

It's the busiest time of the day for me. Between 3pm and 4pm, the other doorman goes to lunch and I'm left with dealing with all the check-ins. This is the hour where I make almost all of my money for the day and where I have the least amount of tolerance for people fucking with me. I also need to keep the front of the hotel clear, so I'm not walking halfway up the block to greet people as they come in.

I'm in the street unloading luggage out of a taxi when a brand-new, black Camaro pulls up right in front of the entrance. A well-dressed thirty-something hops out and begins making his way toward the door with his blonde locks flailing in the wind. I'm a good twenty feet from him, so I politely call out-

Me- "Sir, you can't park there. Would you mind-"

Meathead- "Yeah, I'll be right back."

He walks right in the door. Now I'm fucking steaming. Not only did this asshole leave his car smack in the middle of the loading zone, he took the keys with him. I make a B-line towards the door, but am stopped halfway there.

Tourist- ::points to Central Park:: "Ehhhhh this is Times Square?"

Oh, Christ.

After three minutes of repeating myself as getting frustrated, I break away from the moron and make my way into the hotel. I look at the street, and there's two shuttles backed up behind the Camaro.

Now, my job might not sound like the most important or stressful. I don't have deadlines or any real responsibility, but you wouldn't believe how poorly people function in a busy mid-town hotel without the presence of a doorman. Not just the tourists, they're only a fraction of the problem. Taxi drivers, shuttle drivers, limo drivers and tour group leaders all become blissfully stupid without someone telling them where to go. With this fucking car planted right in the middle of where everyone is trying to get to, a Chinese fire drill was about to commence.

I stomp towards the front desk, where he's checking in with a cute front desk girl that I had been flirting with. 

Me- "Sir, I really need your key to move-" 

He puts one finger up in my face, doesn't look at me, and says:

Meathead- "One minute." 

Cute front desk girl looks up. She feels bad for me. This is not how you pick up women. 

Mother. Fucker. 

I do a walk of shame back to the door. On the way back, a gaggle of hot British flight attendants are making their way in from up the block because of this jerk-off's car. I assist them in accordingly. As I'm helping them, Meathead comes strolling over, throwing out disgusting sex vibes to the flight attendants. He thinks he's going to bang one of them. I will prevent this. 

We finally meet outside. 

Me- "Sir, you can't just leave the car like that. I need to keep the front clear."

Meathead- (dismissively) "I just needed to check in."

Me- "Do you want to valet the car?" 

Meathead- "Yes." 

Me- "Give me the keys." 

He hands me the keys, and it's a fucking rental. 

A rental. 

This DOUCHEBAG rents a Camaro at the airport so he can roll into his three-star hotel in New York and act like a big shot??? 

Thank you, God. Thank you for this wonderful gift. 

Meathead- "Can you grab my luggage?" 

Me- "Sure." 

I open the trunk, and there's a single carry-on bag. 

Me- "Would you like me to take this in for you, sir?" 

Meathead- "Yes." 

Ok, fucko, you asked for it. 

This guy didn't have any intention to give me a tip. Like I've said before- you can stiff me, there's plenty of tips out there. You could humiliate me, I'm an actor, and there's nothing more humiliating that I haven't willingly done already. But you do not get to do both, under any circumstances. 

I walk him into the middle of the lobby, where the hot flight attendants are waiting for their room keys. I find the smallest, weakest bellman that we have, take his suitcase and hold it over my head like Thor about to lay down the hammer. I yell across the lobby, as loudly as possible:


Eugene looks like Woody Allen starving in the desert. 

I set it down, and look him dead in the eye. His face is as red as the kool-aid man. 


The flight attendants are all looking and snickering. I have crushed him. I smile. He wants to punch me in the face. 

Eugene comes and retrieves the luggage. He looks at the man and laughs. I lower my voice-

Me- "I hope you enjoy your stay, sir." 

His lip curls. He says nothing. 

I strut back to the car, where it only got better. When I got in and turned the ignition, the music nearly blew me into the back seat. I look down at the radio and nearly give myself an aneurism from laughing so hard:

Just for shits and giggles, I took the CD out and snapped another shot: 

So let's recap: 

This guy rented a Camaro at the airport, rolled into NYC blasting Jennifer Lopez, and was going to try and act like he was some kind of wise guy??? Sir, you deserve to be humiliated by the lowly doorman. 

Eugene told me that the man gave him a dollar.