Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Massholecunt: Part I

I'm terrified of girls from Boston. Yes, I admit that. I will scream in the face of an immigrant from Haiti, tell him to fuck his mother, then watch murder cross his eyes as I will laugh and go on with my day. Girls from Boston? I can't even make eye-contact. Any girl with Massachusetts plates that pulls up in a valet gets the upmost attention and grade-A butler service. Why? I don't want to get punched in the mouth. Don't believe my convictions? Read this story:

Valet parking in my hotel, and most others in NYC, goes like this: 

- $35 per 24 hours, no in-and-out services, and the minute your vehicle goes over 24 hours, they nail you for another day.

- The Doorman takes the car, gives the guest a ticket. 

- The Doorman calls a local parking garage, who sends a valet attendant to pick up the car. 

- The valet attendant then takes a voucher, makes note of any marks, scuffs, or dents on the vehicle, then passes it off to the Doorman, who brings it to the front desk. 

- The guest is instructed to present their ticket to the front desk, who will call for a price from the garage. They bill the guest right there. The guest is then instructed to present the voucher to the Doorman, who will call for the car. The voucher serves as a record for both the garage and front desk of any damage that was on the vehicle before it was picked up from the hotel.

- To allotted for time to have the valet attended retrieve the car in the garage, then drive it through a few blocks of midtown traffic is 15-20 minutes. It says it on the ticket, but that rarely happens. Most of the time, it's at least a half hour. 

I tell every guest this on the way in, but no one wants to listen to the fucking Doorman, so calling for a car from the parking garage is always a god damned nightmare for me. Every time a guest comes to me with their voucher, the conversation goes like this: 

Doorman - "It'll be about 20 minutes." 

Guest - "TWENTY MINUTES?!?!?!" 

And it usually takes longer, especially during rush-hour. You have to understand, if you need your car at 5pm, the garage is not only dealing with everyone leaving work and picking up their cars at the garage, but they have to actually drive to the hotel, which can take 30 minutes on it's own in rush hour traffic. Yes, driving three blocks can take that long in midtown rush hour traffic. 

Or say you want to get your car at check-out time (usually noon) - you have to account for twenty other people who had the genius idea of waiting till the last possible second to vacate their room. 

So if you park your car with the valet service of a hotel, be smart. Leave at 10am and you'll have your car in 15 minutes. Leave at 5pm and be prepared to wait 45. And listen to and tip your fucking doorman. Also very important. Gave me an attitude and didn't thank me on the way in? Maybe I'll tell the garage to take their time. Had me load a cart full of your bullshit, tell me to "be careful" with your Hyundai, and not give me a fucking dollar?  Maybe I'll get distracted and forget to call till you ask me a second time. 

So it's 5pm, and four girls from Boston walk into the hotel. I had valeted their car the day before, and didn't get a tip, but they insisted on bringing the bags in themselves. They didn't have much, so I considered it a wash. You can't really expect someone to let you take their backpack inside and expect a tip out of it. They also blew me off when I tried to explain the laws of valeting the car, which is why her attitude pissed me the fuck off. 

Now, when I say "Boston girls", I'm not talking about them as a whole. I grew up on Staten Island, and I understand when someone uses the term "Staten Island girl". These particular girls all carried beer guts that would put your Uncle Lenny's to shame. They sported the heaviest of accents that simmered beneath those heavy-smoker voices that would lead one to believe that they've gargled lava every morning since the age of 13. 

The leader of the pack, whom I will call "Massholecunt", hands me her ticket. Had she not dismissed me when I greeted them, she would have known that she needed to go to the front desk first. The lobby was a mob scene, and she immediately sucked her teeth when I told her she had to wait on the line for an available front desk agent. 

After about 10 minutes, she came back with her voucher, clearly agitated. Whatever. I called the garage to bring over her fucking KIA Optima. 

Doorman - "It'll be about twenty minutes." 

Massholecunt - "Seriously?!?"

Again, terrified of Boston girls. So, I was sheepish. 

Doorman - "Yes, ma'am. Sorry." 

She sucked her teeth again, rolled her eyes, and stormed off. I really didn't care. 

Cut to twenty minutes later, and I could feel her watching me from the lobby. Every time I brought a guest in, I could see her trying to make eye contact with me as she threw her arms up in the air and shook her head. Like I said, had she listened to me on the way in, she would have known better and picked her car up earlier. 

One minute after the twenty minute mark, a bellman "Ralph", the laziest dude on the staff, approached me. I love the guy, but he's the type that will take on any problem if it meant that he didn't have to lift any bags for a period of time. 

Ralph - "Yo, did you call for a car for those broads?" 

Doorman - "Yes, twenty minutes ago. It's on the way." 

Ralph - "Ight, cause they're flipping out back there."

Doorman - "That's nice." 

Six minutes later, I could see Massholecunt's red face burning in the background as Ralph attempted to keep her calm. All the while, he passed up three fronts with lots of luggage. 

Her brand new, silver KIA Optima rental pulled up. From the lobby, I heard her: 

Massholecunt - "FINALLY!!!" 

That's 27 minutes to pull it out of a parking garage and drive it one avenue and three streets through New York City traffic at 5:15pm. If you had any idea what you were talking about, you'd call it an impressive feat.

Ralph held their tiny little backpacks and walked them to the car. I could feel Massholecunts eyes burning at me as she walked by. I didn't make eye contact, because, well, you know. The valet attendant handed her the keys, which she snatched out of his hand, and hauled-ass out of there. I knew he left in a hurry because the garage is a mob scene at that time of day and he needed to get back, but an outside source wouldn't have seen it that way, especially someone who is already looking for a reason to flip out. 

So as Ralph waited patiently to put their little schoolbags into the trunk of the car, avoiding doing any real manual labor, I picked up the phone to resume my doorman duties. Then I hear an evil, raspy roar from the street. A roar that sounded like Harvey Fierstein performing the final scene of A Streetcar Named Desire: 

Massholecunt - "WHAT. THE. FUUUUUUUUUUCK?!?!?!?!" 

Shit. 



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