Writer. Actor. Filmmaker. #Doorman.
For the sake of my career and sanity, I have moved on from the hotel world. For inquiries, contact Chris Russell directly at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
TRIUMPH!!! Part II
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.
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?"
Me- "Give me the keys."
He hands me the keys, and it's a fucking 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?"
I open the trunk, and there's a single carry-on bag.
Me- "Would you like me to take this in for you, sir?"
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:
Me- "EUGENE! THIS GENTLEMAN NEEDS HELP WITH THIS SUITCASE."
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.
Me- "A BELLMAN IS GOING TO ASSIST YOU UP TO YOUR ROOM WITH YOUR SUITCASE, SIR."
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.