Monday, November 19, 2012

Revenge of the Doorman

Everyone loves a good revenge story - especially from someone as likable as me. I'd say about 90% of my doorman stories involves me being humiliated in some way, leaving you, the reader, wondering if I'm choking down a bottle of sleeping pills before bedtime. I'm in this for the material. I've had numerous opportunities to work inside as a bellman, leaving the door for good to make more money. But working inside as a bellman isn't as funny, and I'm not looking for a career in this field. Whenever I have a negative interaction at work, I get giddy because I know there's writing material in it for me, or at the very least, a funny tweet. I love writing about my misfortunes. It's cathartic. It saves me thousands of dollars on a therapist, because my union health insurance plan is fucking worthless.

While the writing part is fun, sometimes I reach a breaking point where I can't be disrespected anymore. I'm a human being, and a damn good one, mind you. I don't deserve to be treated like an animal. Sometimes, when there's nothing left to gain and I need closure, I will take vengeance on others. It's not the first time, and it will certainly not be the last:

It's 7pm, and one of our drivers pulls up, saying he has an "SUV job". And "SUV job" is a dick in the ass for the doorman. It means that the guest has too much luggage to fit into a sedan, so they have to pay extra for an SUV. The entire commission goes to the bellman that books the trip, and we're usually stuck carrying all the fucking bags out - usually for nothing. On top of that, when you hear "extra luggage", you know what's in store - fucking Brazilians.

I complain about Brazilians a lot. Ask any bellman, doorman, or guest service agent that works in New York City about Brazilians. They'll all scoff and present a thesis on why they are the worst people to deal with. I'll attempt to summarize it in two paragraphs:

Brazilians come to New York to do ONE thing - shop. That's it. They come here with ten massive empty suitcases, and spend two weeks shopping. They're one of the only countries on the planet that doesn't have a weight limit on suitcases when flying, so they shop and shop and shop and pack out these suitcases till they weigh close to 200 lb. And I wish I was just being a generalizing dickhead. I really do. But there has never been a group of Brazilians that have proved me otherwise. Sure, I've liked two or two of them in my year working this job, but even those people spent their entire trip on 5th ave and SoHo. It's incredible. They don't go to shows, they don't take tours, they don't go out to dinner. They just fucking shop for twelve hours per day.

On top of that, they are the most aloof, cold people I've ever come across. They're just as bad, if not worse, than the French. While the French are cheap fucking assholes, their sense of entitlement is nowhere near as bad as the Brazilians. French people say thank you when I hold the door for them. Brazilians will treat you like an indentured servant, and enjoy it. They understand tipping, but will make you understand that it is your privilege to receive their scrap money when they depart. And Portuguese... Jesus. I've heard people from Portugal speak, and it really isn't a bad language. A Brazilian speaking Portuguese sounds like a puppy being stabbed to death on Christmas morning. Just like us Americans have probably butchered the English language for the rest of the world, the Brazilians have done such for Portuguese.

Have I painted a good enough picture of the Brazilians? Good, let's move on...

It's 7pm, and the driver has a pickup for an SUV job. I take a stroll through the lobby, and see five Brazilians sitting in a circle, with eight large suitcases. Fuck. The leader of the pack has wheeled a computer chair over from the business center, and was sitting with his shoes off, feet up, on one of his suitcases. I knew it was them, and I was dreading this, because it wasn't busy enough to pretend to do something else while they struggled to get everything down the steps and out the door.

I called the name out, and sure enough, it was them. Shoeless Joe slipped on his Jordan's, snapped his finger, and pointed to the pile of suitcases he had waiting for me. Strike one. You don't fucking snap your fingers at me. Ever. And I know those are your bags, unless you put your disgusting, shoeless feet on someone else's luggage. Fuckface. He throws on his Louis Vuitton man bag and goes to the car.

They all pile out and watch me struggle with their countless luggages. I chew gum a lot, mostly to keep myself from ripping out someone's jugular. It's kind of like Bane in The Dark Knight Rises, where the masks keeps his pain at bay. The gum chewing gives me something to fixate on, and I was about to chew through the bottom of my face. Shoeless Joe put his man bag on the passenger seat, then went inside for a tinkle. The rest of the assholes packed into the SUV. No one had any money out, nor did any of them thank me for nearly giving myself a hernia.

I kept the door to the car open, so I could make every last effort to get a tip before they left. As I made my way back to the door, Shoeless Joe was standing there, with a carry-on bag, just waiting on the other side of the glass door. I didn't understand what he was doing. He had a smirk on his face and was looking at the door handle. We exchanged a stare-off for a few seconds before I realized what the he was doing.

He wanted me to walk over and open the door for him. A perfectly capable, grown man wanted me to walk all the way over there so I could open his door for him, one last time.

He tapped on the glass and pointed down. I scream "PUSH!" He doesn't do anything.

Strike two. And fuck it - three. I walk over and open the door. He smugly thanks me, then prances his way over to the car. No money in his hand, nothing. This fucker was not going to leave without me screaming at him. I was chewing my gum so hard that I started to taste blood.

Wait.

Gum...

GUM!!!

I remember that he left his expensive, Louis Vuitton man bag on the seat. Quickly and discreetly, I take the gum out of my mouth and hold it in my hand. I scamper to the car door, where I distracted him by asking if he had the voucher that the bellman gave him when he booked the car. While he looked for it in his pockets, I looked inside to see the other motherfuckers in there, carrying on and celebrating their week at the land of a thousand department stores. My moment was here, and I seized it.

I put my gum on the strap on his man bag. He found the voucher, and jumped in, sitting right on top of the bag.

Worst case scenario:

He gets to the airport and realizes that his thousand dollar man purse is fucked up, along with his pants.

Moderate case scenario:

He gets to the airport and realizes that his thousand dollar man purse is fucked up, along with his pants, and he straps the man purse onto his shoulder, fucking up his jacket too.

Best case scenario:

He gets to the airport and realizes that his thousand dollar man purse is fucked up, along with his pants, and when he attempts to put the strap of the man purse onto his shoulder, the gum gets in his hair. Then he has to figure out how to get gum our of his pants, man purse, and hair while going through customs at JFK airport.

Every single one of those scenarios are fucking awesome.

I held the door open and, with the biggest smile ever, wished them a safe flight. Shoeless Joe's friend gave me two dollars after I stared at them for a solid ten seconds and refused to shut the door. Joe, on the other hand, was too important to look at me. Fine by me.

Just like the restaurant rule "you don't fuck with people who handle your food", you don't fuck with the doorman. Chances are, he has a big chip on his shoulder and is looking for a good story to write. Yes, I may be scum to you, Shoeless Joe, but this piece of scum just cost you over a thousand dollars worth of damages to where it hurts - your precious shopping. And hopefully your hair. I really hope it got in your fucking hair.

Nothing makes me laugh more than the image of him crying about his Louis Vuitton bag while his friend tries to cut gum out of his hair in the airport terminal. It makes me want to start a USA chant in a bar.

Score one for the Doorman.

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