It's Springtime. The rates have gone up, the weather is nicer, and it's a good time to be a doorman. People have become a little more liberal with their singles and fives, and my daily numbers have been increasing every week. Though even with the "high-rate" crowd, you have to ween through the cheap fucks, like our friend "Dr. I'll Get You Later", or, to make things easier for me, Dr. IGYL ( pronounced eye-Jill).
Dr. Igyl made the mistake in life of never warming up to the idea of gratuity, all the while unable to resist the urge to advertise that he's a doctor, as per his fucking license plate. When he arrived, he used the line that all of us hospitality folk dread: "I'll get you later." We're lucky if we get one out of five people to come back and actually follow through.
It wasn't my turn to valet a car, so Other Doorman, who I will rename "Shitdick", had the honor. I spend the majority of my days working with Shitdick, and I feel bad that I've never given him a name. While I understand that that name is vile and grotesque (and a borderline homophobic slur), just remember that it's a term of endearment, and I use it with the upmost love and respect. Us men who work blue collar jobs in environments where we get little respect tend to call each other horrific things out of affection. If I've known you for more than a few months and haven't given you a clever nickname or routinely called you things like "rimjobby" or "assholeface", it means that I either don't like you, or you're my boss.
Shitdick - "Hi, sir. It's $35 per twenty-four hours."
The good doctor does the "bull shit pat down" dance, where he pretends to feel his pockets and chest for some stray bundle of singles that he may have duct taped to his nipple before he left the house.
Dr. Igyl - "I'll have to get you later."
Shitdick - "No problem, sir."
Shitdick played it well. He noticed the customized "DR ____ " on the license plate of his brand-new BMW, and gave the guy the benefit of the doubt. I would have done the same.
He retreated back to the door, where we spent the remainder of his shift talking about the disappointing end to the Knicks' season, and theories about how Breaking Bad will end. (In between incessant personal insults and threats to sucker punch each other, of course.)
The next day, it was business as usual, and I got stuck trying to get Dr. Igyl a taxi to the Beacon Theater. It was prime rush hour, and first balls-stuck-to-your-legs-hot day of the year, so it was fucking impossible to catch a taxi. Thinking that this doctor understands the art of compensating a man for providing a service, I went hard at taxi drivers to try and get him where he needed to go. This, of course, resulted in several altercations.
Despite my efforts, Dr Igyl was unimpressed, and spent the entire time huffing and trying to wave down unavailable taxis behind my back. Some people legitimately get annoyed when I don't step in front of a truck to try and grab the taxi in the next lane over. I'm serious, people become disgruntled when I'm not willing to die for them. That's not a joke.
I glanced back to see Shitdick laughing at me, as I would do to him in that situation, no doubt.
After twenty grueling minutes of slapping the trunks of assholes who wouldn't stop and near-blows screaming matches, I finally landed the good doctor his precious taxi. And, just like he did to Shitdick the day before, he patted his chest and ass and pockets for money that he had twenty minutes to prepare, and broke the news to me:
Dr. Igyl - "I'll have to get you later."
A trend had been noticed. Readers, I can't emphasize this enough- hotel employees talk to each other and remember faces. When you fuck someone over, the next guy will be informed. Every time.
Shitdick - "He nailed you, too?!?"
Doorman - "Yep."
Shitdick - "Did he say 'he'll get you later?'"
Doorman - "Yep."
Shitdick - "What a lowlife."
Doorman - "Yep."
Shitdick - "What would you do if I kicked you in the knee right now?"
Rush hour and Shitdick gets doctor duty. One good thing about our work relationship is that we're good about taking turns and balancing the shitty guests without having to argue about it. Once Dr. Igyl came out, he knew he was up at bat.
Same old bullshit. Shitdick stands in the middle of the street, risking his safety, while Dr. Fucko does the pee pee dance behind him and gets annoyed with every off-duty cab that passes him by. Of course, he has no fucking money prepared in his hands.
If you've been reading my stuff for awhile, you know that I cannot let this go on, and revenge must be had.
My brother is in medical school, so I'll refrain from blaspheming doctors as a whole, but I will not let this elitist motherfucker keep us down. I will once again claim a victory, for me, for Shitdick, and for doormen everywhere!!!
The wheels started turning, and I devised a plan. I was going to plant the seed for this asshole to pay up for our services. So I got in between them, and as loudly as possible, went to work:
Doorman - "Shitdick, can I borrow a dollar? I want to buy a water. I'LL GET YOU LATER."
Always the perfect straight man to my fucking with people, Shitdick was confused. He takes a dollar out of his money roll.
Shitdick - "Huh? Do you seriously not have a dollar on you?"
My eyes widened, then I winked and nodded my head back toward the doctor. Like an idiot, Shitdick's eye gaze went from me, directly to my target. The jig was up before the operation started. I tried to salvage it:
Doorman - "I'm broke. I have no singles and I'm thirsty. Give me a dollar AND I'LL GET YOU LATER!"
I winked again then mouthed "just give me the fucking dollar, you asshole!"
Shitdick - "Dude, what are you talking about? Is this a joke?"
He was completely blowing it and making me look stupid. This was a first. Dr. Cheap Fuck caught on immediately, and was offended.
Dr. Igyl - "Oh, that's real nice!!!"
He stormed off. Fuck. We were busted.
Shitdick hands me a dollar. Out of spite, I snatched it out of his hand.
Doorman - "Dude, what the fuck?!? I was fucking with him and you threw me under the bus!"
Shitdick - "Doorman, I have no idea what you're talking about!!!
Doorman - "Did you not hear the emphasis on 'I'll get you later'? Are you deaf?!?"
It immediately occurred to me that in the year and a half that we've been working together, this is the first disagreement, about anything, that we've ever had. Seriously, we have to stand next to each other in the same spot, every day, and we've never had an argument till now.
He remained calm.
Shitdick - "I'm confused. What just happened?"
Doorman - "Why do I have to explain this to you? I was using his line against him to make him feel like an asshole so he would give you a tip. I was trying to help you!"
Shitdick - "What the fuck are you talking about?!? I can't always be privy to your little revenge schemes. I have enough shit on my mind."
Doorman - "Well now he's going to complain about me because you were too slow to realize that I was trying to get him to tip YOU!"
We were getting loud in the street, and people passing by we're starting to stop and notice.
Shitdick - "Oh, you were doing that to help me, huh? Are you sure it was to help me and not just for some fucking material for your little blog? Don't bullshit me, cuz."
I couldn't say anything. He was right. My putting him in an awkward situation was completely self-serving. I was wrong. Though, like any stubborn asshole, I couldn't possibly let him know that.
So I did the sensible thing: stuffed the dollar in his hand and told him to fuck off.
We spent the last hour of his shift in complete silence, refusing to address each other. At 7pm, he looked at his watch and left without saying goodbye.
About ten minutes later, a taxi pulls up, and some fucking young, douchey European guy gets out. His luggage tags indicated that he was from Italy. He wore a Lacoste polo-shirt, short Lacoste shorts, and white slip-on Lacoste shoes over his nude-beach infused tan. A guaranteed stiffing. No question. Of course, he had enough luggage for a family of four.
As I struggled up the steps with his fucking suitcases, Shitdick emerged from the staircase in his civilian clothes. I didn't want to make eye contact with him. Fuck him. And fuck this asshole who was about to give my wallet a deep-dicking.
I got to the top of the steps and pulled the luggage handles up, ready to drag them across the lobby and meet my fate. Shitdick stopped me dead in my tracks and, right in front of the young man from Italy, hands me the same crumpled-up dollar that started our whole confrontation.
Shitdick - "Here, sir."
He put on an awful, weird accent. It was a bad blend of deep Mississippi and Eastern European. I may have forgotten to mention that Shitdick is an athlete, not an actor.
Still stubborn and pissed, not ready to apologize, I reluctantly made eye-contact with him.
Doorman - "What's this?"
Shitdick - "You help with my luggage before. I did not GET CHANCE TO GIVE YOU TIP."
Doorman - "Oh! Thank you, sir! I really appreciate that!"
The young man from Italy looked on and I immediately saw a spark in his memory that, when in America, you tip when a man brings your bags up the steps, or valets your car, or stands in aggressive rush hour traffic to get you a taxi. He immediately went for his wallet.
Shitdick walked out the door. I took the young man from Italy to the front desk, where he planted a crispy five spot into my palm.
I immediately jumped into the storage closet and took out my phone, unsure of how to address the situation. Should I apologize? Should I leave it alone? Should I wait two days?
I opted to text him right away:
Doorman - "Hey."
Shitdick - "Hey whats up."
Doorman - "Nothing much. So that was really cool, what you did. He gave me five bucks."
Shitdick - "No problem."
I stared at the phone for a few min, sporadically typing something then deleting it, no doubt creating that stop-and-start typing image that only iPhone texters would understand (that little three-dot bubble). I eventually landed on this:
Doorman - "See you mañana, cuntface."
After a minute, and a couple of "three-dot bubble" stop-and-starts, he responded:
Shitdick - "lol alright buddy."
I came to work the next day, and we resumed our usual banter of talking about TV shows, how pathetic the Mets have become, and how our respective college educations have led us to working this fucking job.
And Dr. Igyl, as expected, left in a huff without tipping anyone.