Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Doorman's Gruesome Fat Kid Injuries: The Picket Fence Incident

I'm one of those people who cry about weight fluctuation. Like many others, it's a result of eating and drinking like a fucking pig for extended spurts of time, rarely exercising (if you call a bi-weekly thirty minutes on the elliptical machine or the occasional down-hill CitiBike ride home exercising), then looking in the mirror and saying "oh crap, I got fat again". My eating habits have been dysfunctional ever since I can remember. In my mid-twenties, the time where I fancied myself to be in the shape of my life, I could have passed for an extra at one of Jessie's meth parties on Breaking Bad. This was a result of a steady diet of cigarettes, coffee, and the occasional dixie cup full of Cheese-Its. Then I quit smoking, gained thirty pounds, and have never recaptured my figure.

I tried being a vegetarian once. I lasted a week, eating nothing but flaffels and grilled cheese sandwiches in the process. Then I went on a date with a tough-as-nails bartender from a restaurant I got fired from (another outrageous story for another post). She ordered something along the lines of a meat sandwich, topped with meat, and a side of meat and a meat gravy to go with her meat-birched beer. As she ordered the manliness thing I've ever seen a woman order, I was left with the choice of vegan chill, a vegetarian foccaccia, or sewing up my vagina. Right then I broke my seven days of not eating meat, swore I'd never do such a silly thing again, and proceeded to strike out with her anyway. But that's besides the point. Point is, I love food, and I love to eat. Always have. 

And even though I've realized my limits as an adult (and have consciously exceeded them through bouts of depression, shit happens), I had zero awareness of overeating as a child. This resulted in a few very painful, very gruesome stories from my youth: 

(If you're expecting me to write something heartfelt and enlightening about adolescent overeating, I'm sorry to disappoint. No, I'm going to share some hilarious stories about a fat kid getting injured!!!!)

I've done my share of stupid shit, mostly in my adulthood, and while I always managed to stay out of trouble with the cops and such, I've had a couple of trips to the emergency room as a result of my tubbiness: 

The Picket Fence Incident 
Age: 13 

I grew up in a middle-class neighborhood on Staten Island. Staten Island is known as the "borough of parks", and as a result, Staten Island kids hung out and drank and did dumb shit in parks. Our crew of shitheads resided in one particular park that was home to a small, humble, little league baseball field. "The Field", as we called it, was home to nearly every kid in the neighborhood. We would drink, smoke pot, break bottles, light shit on fire, and do just about anything dumbass teenagers were prone to getting into. The cops would routinely do rounds through the park, and we would all scatter like maniacs whenever they did so. None of us ever fucking learned. I have three "being in the park after dusk" summonses to show for it. Damn it feels good to be a gangsta. 

There was an old man who lived behind The Field, whom everyone called "The General". Neighborhood kids had been throwing rocks at his house for years, and it was a tradition passed onto us by my friend's older brothers. Legend had it that instead of coming outside to confront the vagrants, The General would load up a flare gun and start shooting at them. The game was to throw a bunch of stones against his wood paneling (being careful to not break any windows, of course, we're not monsters!), and wait around just long enough for the first flare to come through the window. Then you get to dodge the shooting fireballs coming at you at an alarming speed!!! 

I come from a good family, I swear. 

It was a weeknight, just before we all had to be home for dinner. Myself and three of my slim friends had collected a dozen or so round, thrower-friendly rocks to banzai into this poor man's house. As I summoned the courage to endure this potentially deadly endeavor, I turned to my friends to confirm the escape plan: 

Doorman - "So, we're going through the back and over the fence, right? Through the backyards?" 

I was a tag-along to a more popular kid, who at that moment got some flack for bringing the fat kid with the round glasses who was asking too many questions. He begrudgingly confirmed the escape route. 

With that, I felt like I had something to prove to these kids, so without hesitation or waiting for a countdown, I fired the first stone at the General's house. Despite my portly frame, I could throw something with deadly accuracy when in a pressure situation (and it's a skill I never lost, see: Doorman and the Batman Party Disaster). The stone cut through the autumn air with a prosecutor's conviction, crashing loudly just a mere inches away from his bedroom window.


Kid #2 - "OH SHIT!!!" 

Each kid meekly threw their rocks, mostly falling short and creating sad, knocking noises against the house. 

All of a sudden, the General's deep, groveling voice interrupted the party: 

General - "Throwing stones again, ay?" 

Everyone froze silently. Before I could react to anything, my arm had already gone into motion, firing another strike into the exact same spot where I planted the first. 

General - "Alright, you asked for it!!!" 


We all ran immediately. Lagging behind all of the skinnier kids, I knew I was the prime target. Panic set in as I wheezed and hustled my jiggling body towards the escape route:

He had to have seen me throw the second dinger!!! Legend had it that The General was in every single American battle since World War I!!! What the fuck was I thinking!!! The flare is going to shoot through my back and I'M GOING TO EXPLODE!!! I'M GOING TO FUCKING EXPLODE!!! I HAVE TO GET TO THE PICKET FENCE!!!

That's when I saw the first flare sail over my head. The legend was real. The red fireball fell just a foot or so next to my friend's running foot, and a pile of leaves popped from the ground like a flock of startled pigeons. 

Doorman - "OH MY GOD!!!!" 

The terrified screams of four pubescent morons filled the park. Another flare whizzed by my ear, burning and melting against a tree as we came closer to the promised land. 

Doorman - "FUCK!!!"

Kid #3 - "NOOOOO!!!!" 

Kid #1 - "I'M SORRY!!!!" 

A decrepit, white picket fence was all that stood in our way from the inferno that our hangout had become. 

The kids hopped the fence, one by one. I lagged behind, and I heard another flare drop a few feet behind me. 

Kid #1 - "COME ON YOU FAT FUCK!!" 

Winded, exhausted, and petrified, I placed my hands on top of the horizontal part of the fence. With all my might, I pulled my body up just high enough for my foot to catch the top of the fence. Just as I was able to put my weight on my foot and thrust myself over, I heard the wood begin to give. 


The wood gave, and my thigh slammed right into the pointy part of the picket fence. 

It all happened fast enough for my to be on my back before I even felt any pain. It clearly didn't go through my leg, or I'd still be up there. I looked down and felt my pants. No hole. So I got up and kept running the fuck out of there. 

We finally made it to another park, and everyone took out cigarettes and bragged about how brave they were. I knew that I was the triumphant hero, but would never dare to verbalize that because I was just happy to be there. As I lit my Parliament Light and basked in my potential new group of cool friends, I felt nature calling. I found the nearest tree, and took out my junior mule for a draining. 

Then I saw it. All of it. 


Other stuff. 

More blood. 

I pulled my pants all the way down.

My beige khaki's were drenched in blood. And other stuff. Guts. 

I blacked out. 

My friend took me home immediately, and my Old Man was just getting home from work. I've never thought about this till now, but I could only imagine his horror to be getting out of of his car, holding an empty lunchpail after a hard days work, to see his eldest son, catatonic with a bloody crotch and being carried by his friend.

We got to the emergency room, and the doctor took of my pants to reveal a deep puncture wound located a mere inch and a half from my testicles. 

After an hour or so of painful stitching, with my father holding my hand the whole time, I was sent home. They asked what I was doing, and I told them some idiot kid lie that I'm sure was brilliant at the time. I've never been a good liar, and even then I hated lying to my parents, but if I had told my dad that I was running from a psychotic war veteran who was firing a flare gun at us, he probably would have told me to go fuck myself. 

The car ride home was mostly silent. We pulled up to my house and my father dropped some words of wisdom: 

Old Man - "You know... you're lucky. You're lucky you didn't... (long pause)... tear your balls open." 

(So that's the real story of how I almost tore my balls open, Dad.) 

Thursday, September 19, 2013

Doorman's 100th Post!

After combing through all of my posts, it doesn't add up to 100, though factoring in the condensed series-type stories, this will be the 100th one. One hundred. This was only supposed to a temporary position, and lately I've felt the effects of overstaying my welcome, though nostalgia has set in as I go through all of these stories. It's been a fucked-up two years, for sure. To avoid sounding like a broken record, I won't go on and on again about how much this blog has meant to me, but I'd like to revisit my ten favorite posts, in the order in which they happened. (For you new readers, this would be a good place to start.)

Here we go: 

Vile, disgusting, rude, 100% true. This was the first of the "Concierge Stories", and I thought a good place to start was a story about me shitting my pants at work. My friends and I had tied one on big-time the night before, and it still serves as the worst hangover of my life. Of everything I've ever written on here, this is the one that I re-read the most.

This was the first time I deviated from doing strictly work posts, and started crafting actual stories. This was my "move to NY" story, and it all happened as I was training for this job. All things considered, it should have ended much worse for me, but holy fuck did my Manhattan residency get off to a rocky start. Having won the court case, the money I sued this bitch for is still collecting interest, though I'm not counting on 800 bucks from some drifter junkie that probably wouldn't even remember my name. 

Suicidal thoughts and a mental breakdown during a gay cowboy movie? Yeah, that's me. I've never been the most stable person, mentally. I've been to therapy, battled serious bouts of depression, had meltdowns, flown off the handle, but taking Acutane turned me into a complete psychopath. This blog has always served as a cathartic therapy for all of that, and it's nice to be able to laugh at such a ridiculous series of events all these years later. A few hours after I posted this, my mother called me crying. I had to assure her that I was okay, and that posting the story was the best thing for me to bring closure to that part of my life. And it makes me laugh, though I'm pretty sure I'm in the minority in that regard. This happened in 2005, and I've been suicidal-thought-free ever since. Yay! 

This was the post that gave the blog legs, and it keeps with the motif of alcoholics shitting on things. I posted this one in the afternoon, and by the evening, traffic on the blog increased by the thousands. From that, I learned that you've gotta give the people what they want - stories about angry southerners smearing feces and menstrual blood all over public places. 

While the first DVTD featured a fucked up story about a cabbie refusing to take a sick baby to the hospital, and the third was one of the funniest fights I've ever been in, this post was something out of a fucking action movie. For weeks after this incident, I'd listen to my friends bitch about work, to which I'd ask them, "Oh, really? How many taxi's dragged you through the length of a city block today?" I'm lucky I wasn't killed. Our paths have crosses several more times, and I've taken great joy in calling him awful obscenities every time he pulls up to the hotel looking for a fare. He just laughs and takes off. It's gotten to the point where we're almost okay with each other. 

Trying to score a Japanese girl threesome on my roof? Welcome to living an awesome bachelor life in New York City, regardless of one's profession. I've been trying to get "Brian" to write a companion piece since it happened, and once he does, I'll be sure to post the fuck out of it. 

There's no question that I'm a fanboy, and Batman is a childhood hero of mine.  Of all of the "revenge posts" I've written, this one is my absolute favorite. If nothing else, I have an entertaining story where I get to play Batman. As an actor, that's incredibly satisfying (even if I had to take a beating from a gaggle of six-year-old Staten Island brats to do so). 

This dude inspired me like no one else, and lit a fucking fire under my ass. It was because of him that I started writing screenplays, which eventually evolved into the idea for the TV series. 

For all you Breaking Bad fans out there, this was my "Heisenberg" moment. There have been many instances where I came close to scrapping with people in front of the hotel, but this was the one that broke me. I didn't return to that Chipotle for at least six months, and have still yet to see that asshole around the neighborhood. 

There are plenty of posts about me being demeaned by a variety of awful people, but this little monster was the worst person I've ever dealt with. Broken up into a three-part series, this post about family values was responsible for the highest single-day traffic I've ever seen on the blog. 

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

The Cuntiest Thing You Can Say to a Doorman

Since announcing the end of the blog last week, I've been scouring through old notes and drafts, trying to find anything that I've yet to touch base upon that is worth writing about. I've gotten a bunch of emails from readers asking why I'm ending the blog while I'm still working, and this simplest answer is this: If I have to press to find things to write about, then it means I've run out of things to write about. The last thing I want to do is overstay my welcome (see: Dexter, True Blood), and I'm happy to be wrapping things up on my own terms (see: Breaking Bad). I'm eternally gratefully for what this blog has brought to the table, which is a voice for the blue collar schmuck who has more to say than you care to think.

Having said that, here is the cuntiest thing you can say to a Doorman:

It's funny, I've never written about this in the blog, but it made it into the pilot. There are many things that boil my blood in terms of people just being dicks - snapping fingers, not saying excuse me/please/thank you, looking at phones while I'm trying to give them directions, etc. Though there is one thing that most people find cute and playful that I have zero patience for. Zero. Seriously, I can't speak for every doorman in the world, but I'm sure that this statement, and it's variations (I'll cover those, too) will send a knot into their stomach and a jolt through their bodies:

Say I'm running around like a madman, trying to help people bring their bags in, valet a car, give directions to lost morons with upside down maps, hail a taxi, wipe sweat from my brow, take shit from my boss, help a bus driver parallel park, all simultaneously, and some fuckhead will take the initiative to open the door for himself and the people he's with.

His eyes beam with joy, like he's a caveman who just discovered fire as he motions for his people to file in ahead of him. He pretends to tip his hat as his people laugh and celebrate this cocksucker's new talent. Then, as I'm trying to make 100 people happy at once, he drops this line on me:

"I just did your job, mate!"

If I'm ever going to lose my job for assaulting a guest, this will be the thing that does it.

The funny thing is that almost everyone who says this thinks that they're being playful and cute. I assure you, there is nothing funny about it. Nothing.

Seriously, if you don't see the problem in that, I'll take one more sentence to explain it to you: I'm out here, breaking my ass in the heat, cold, rain, snow, sleet, hurricane, whatever, trying to guide these moronic cunts through their fat-faced, TGI Friday eating vacations, schlepping their bags for nothing, having to listen to the same redundant stories about how terrified they were in their taxis coming here and how they can't believe how lively Times Square is, and now I have some fucking boob lay out how fucking meaningless my job is just to get a cheap laugh from his mediocre family.

We work very hard. We work long hours in inclement weather, always on our feet. We take shit from people, do endless amounts of manual labor for very little gratitude, and serve as a whipping post for management, guests, and civilians. Though most people don't see that. Most people see the monkey holding the door open, and that's fine. Just keep your fucking mouth shut about it. We know that the core of our job is a very simple one. Every time I hold the door open for some kid, or some suit, or some hooker, or some foreigner, or just some ungrateful cunt - without a thank you, or even so much as a brief moment of eye-contact - a little fire burns at the pit of my stomach.

Guest arrives. Open the door. Guest exits. Open the door.

We get it. It's easy. Now try doing everything else we have to do without killing someone. Seriously. Get through the first day without pulling a muscle or getting hit by a taxi or punching someone in the throat and you can have my job.

Other variations that make me want to take these people, staple a steak to their genitals, and lock them in a room with a wolverine on bath salts:

"OH! That's okay!!! I'll get it myself!!! HAHAHAHA!!!" 

"That's a pretty easy gig you've got, mate!"

"Um, I just had to open my own door!"

"Aren't you going to get that for me?"

Don't get me wrong, I will get the door for anyone when I'm not busy. Actually, that's a lie. If you've stiffed me on the way in, I'll take great joy in watching you fumble with the door yourself. Every time. So if you're ever in a hotel, and a doorman is going out of his way to not open the door for you, you've likely done him wrong. I know it means nothing to them, but fuck, is it satisfying for us. It's the little things, my fine readers, the little things.

And now for a quickie:

Last night, after bringing in some guests inside, I returned to my post to get some water. It was the first cold evening of the year and, like clockwork, I immediately came down with a seasonal cold.

My water was placed on the doorman phone, and as I popped open the cap to cure my dry, itchy throat that's been keeping my up the past two nights, some fat fuck came down the steps. Her Green Bay Packers sweatshirt just barely made it to the top of her jeans, which looked like she was trying to escape a flea market with a watermelon stuffed down the front of her pants.

Because my hands were occupied quenching my thirst, I pressed the handicap button to open the both doors for her. Simple transaction. My job is to open the door, and while I was busy, I managed to multi-task. Should have been the end of the interaction.

Right? Wrong.

Fatso - " Looks like you're working really hard tonight!"

She snickered as I tried to gulp down my water. My face immediately scrunched up and turned red, and I throw my arms up in a "what the fuck?" manner. I didn't notice that her family, equally obese and donning Wisconsin football gear, was standing outside the glass doors waiting for her. They clearly saw my reaction. The patriarch of the Blob Clan immediately asked what she said to me to cause such a reaction.


The Blob Clan laughed at me like a chorus of cheese-hat wearing morons at a Frank Caliendo show. If one of them dropped dead of a heart attack at that moment, I wouldn't have been surprised.

She saw that I took the easy way out in opening the door for her, and she mocked me. This is what my bachelor's degree has brought me. The Blob Clan made their way to Times Square.

Maybe on another night, I would have yelled something profane. Maybe I would have given them the finger. Maybe I would have completely crushed their souls with my words, throwing out cheap fat jokes and ruining their vacation. Would that have been satisfying? Probably not. I'm getting used to seeing the ugly in people and looking the other way.

After almost two years, I've adjusted to being a doorman. I understand my place as someone who serves as a reflection for who people really are. You can learn a lot about a person by how they act on vacation. They're in a place they're likely never going to be again, dealing with people they're likely never going to see again. Most people are wonderful, genuine, and grateful for my help and insight.

Then you have the ones who seize the opportunity to be at their ugliest, and I've come to realize that there's no helping people like that.

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Fuck Times Square

A few more things to leave you with...

Want to enjoy New York City and all it has to offer? Here's some more tips on how to get the most out of your stay:

"Location, location, location."

It makes me crazy when I read Trip Advisor reviews praising a hotel's location, going on and on and on about how close it is to Times Square. Please, if I'm going to teach you anything, let me teach you this - Times Square fucking stinks. Go there, take a fucking picture, and get the fuck out. All is it is departments stores that you have back home, a few bright and shiny lights, and a bunch of assholes trying to sell you shit and squeeze you for money.

"Oh, there's Elmo!!! Go ahead, Johnny, take a picture!!!"

Johnny takes a picture with Elmo. Now, if you don't want to pony up a few bucks to Leroy the barking ex-con underneath the costume, he's going to curse you out and berate you right in front of your child.

"Live comedy show! Comedy Central showcase!"

Only twenty dollars?!?! And I only have to buy two drinks at the "LOL" comedy club?!?! That's a STEAL!!! And look at the name of the club!!! It's LOL!!! AHAHAHAHA its funny because it means laugh out loud and its a comedy club!!!


Idiots... do you think that if a comedy club had no problem booking established comedians, they would need these fucking barkers selling tickets in Times Square? So, now you've spent twenty dollars on a ticket, have to buy two overpriced drinks (which is usually the norm anywhere you go), and you have no idea who you're there to see? I'll tell you - Amateurs. And there's nothing wrong with amateurs. I was an amateur once. You know what I never did? Became a pro, because I stunk. Most amateurs don't become pros. Because they stink. You want to see amateurs? Go to an open mic, pay nothing to get in, and drink at your own leisure. Don't pay premium comedy club prices to sit through a bunch of painful sets of aspiring comics trying to figure out their niche.

You want to go to a good comedy club in New York?

$13-$18 covers. Established, name comedians. Neighborhood that's not Times Square. You're welcome.

Spidey wearing an ass-fanny pack. OH, LOOK!!! A TOYS R US!!!!

Want to see a Broadway show at a discounted price? Totally feasible!!!

Just don't fucking do it here. 

Want to stand in the sweltering heat for two hours with a bunch of smelly tourists while scalpers and barkers try and push shows on you from outside the line? Be my guest. It's your vacation. Though you can get the same tickets at the South Street Seaport or in Downtown Brooklyn and wait in line for less than five minutes. Then spend the rest of the day in a nice NYC neighborhood, experiencing new things and meeting locals. 

South Street Seaport


Another tip - The South Street Seaport and Brooklyn booths sell tickets for the next-day matinees. So you can arrive Tuesday, not wait on line, and have your tickets ready for the next day. Saves time, and you'll end up with a better seat to the show you want to see. Then hit up a neighborhood restaurant. You can also download the TKTS app to find out what's available at the booths, or visit their website here:

Or you can wait two hours for shitty seats, then dine here:

That's the Olive Garden. I assure you, the food is exactly the same as it would be in the strip mall off of route 17, only twice as expensive. 

People, please listen to me. I grew up here. I love my city, and I'll do everything I can to live here forever. There's a reason why people come here and fall in love with everything New York has to offer, and none of those reasons lie in Times Square. Seriously, look at my list of stores in Times Square that I posted last year. You can find these places anywhere. 

My advice - Stay at a boutique downtown or on the Upper West Side, download the HopStop app, buy a MetroCard, and experience New York like a New Yorker. 

You know what also helps? Tip your Doorman five on the way in, then later ask him where he would go to eat/drink/hang out. He'll be honest with you. Just sayin'. 

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Doorman: The End - Part I

There's a tradition at Wrigley Field, home of the Chicago Cubs (and other ballparks, I'm sure), where if you catch a home run from the visiting team, you have to throw the ball back onto the field. Chants of "Throw it Back" will form, and you will be heckled until you do so. I've been going to baseball games my whole life and I've never so much as come within a section of a home run or a foul ball. So if I were ever put in that spot where I finally, after twenty-five+ years of attending baseball games, caught myself a souvenir, I would certainly have a difficult time following through with said tradition. 

This year, money-wise, has been a nightmare for us. I'm on pace to finish the year with nearly $10,000 less than what I pulled in 2012 (after taxes). I can't really get into detail about as to why we're getting fucked so badly, but a large portion of it has to do with a new crop of people who have flooded our hotel. It's the same old song-and-dance - a grotesque amount of heavy luggage, demanding cunts who snap their fingers and treat us like slaves, no tips (or a dollar or two, if we're lucky).

Do I need to specify who they are? Not really. It doesn't fucking matter anymore. I've been here long enough to understand the cycle of clientele who rotate through our doors. We'll have a season chock-full of one country, who are oblivious (or so they say) to our "tipping culture", I'll get frustrated, get stiffed, not get thanked, go into the locker room, smash a fucking chair, go to the bar, get drunk, go home, pass out, wake up at noon, rinse, repeat. Then, when they clear out and the dust settles, a new wave of cunts from a new country will fill the hotel, and it will be the same hate-inducing series of events. 

Which brings me to this story: 

A Jeep Cherokee pulls up. A older couple, from a part of the world that I've been conditioned to dread over the past several months, hops out. I greet them through my teeth, and explain the laws of the valet parking. The man signs his signature from right to left, hands me back my pen, then points to his vehicle.

Man - "There are many luggages." 

Of course there are, you fucking cocksucker. 

Doorman - "Okay, I'll bring them right up to the front desk for you, sir."

He leaves with this wife without saying anything else. I open the trunk. Four suitcases. I open the backseat. One more big suitcase, and two carry-ons wedged forcefully in-between the seats. Terrific. 

I pull the dead-weight motherfuckers out and lay them on the curbside. Two people, five monster suitcases, and two carry-ons. 

Now this is what happens to me, every fucking time: 

These cunts want to get a head-start on the check-in process while I hump their fucking dead bodies out of their vehicle. By the time I drop organs out of my anus by lugging them out of the car, up the steps, and to the front desk, a bellman has already been summoned to bring them up to the room. So now, after I've done 80% of the work, the bellman will wheel the cart into the elevator, schmooze with them, unload the luggage, and get the fucking tip. This leaves me standing there, forgotten, watching my cock get smaller with an empty pocket. 

Most of the bellmen are my buddies, so they'll come down and try and split the tip with me. Though I have a rule - if the fuckhead guest doesn't deem me worthy of the tip, then I don't want their fucking money. And while it feels really good to stick to my principals, my wallet takes a fucking beating for it. 

What can I say? I'm stubborn. It's the Irish blood. 

Though this particular time, the line was long at the front desk, and there was no bellman to bail them out. 

I wheel the luggage cart to the couple, who are waiting patiently. 

The man looks at me. 


Doorman - "Okay, sir." 

He looks at me. Nothing. 

Doorman - "A bellman will take this up to your room while I attend to your vehicle."

Nothing. My ears start ringing. 

Doorman - "OKAY?"

He looks at me like I'm a mad man. And rightfully so, because I'm positive that a psychotic madness has washed over my peach face. 

Doorman - "YOU'RE WELCOME!!!" 

This startles everyone in the lobby. The man looks to his wife, confused. I turn and stomp off. 

I return outside and throw a full-blown tantrum, cursing and spitting and wishing evil on this man and his people. My manager walks out. He didn't see the incident. 

Manager - "You okay?"

I unloaded on him. I went on and on and about how sick I am of being treated this way, how sick I am of these "savages treating me like I'm a savage", how I can't wait to show everyone, how I didn't go to college for this shit, how I'd like to take that guest's, smug, round face and smash it against the concrete repeatedly. 

Long story short, I said a lot of hateful shit. Hateful shit that's never been in my nature. Borderline racist shit. Shit that this job has brought out in me. It's a side of myself that I never wanted to see, nor ever thought I had in me. I fucking hated myself at that moment. I hated what I turned into. 

My manager couldn't really do much. He just warned me to watch what I say and where I say it, because he doesn't want to see me fired. 

The door opens, and the man's wife exits. She has a ten dollar bill in her hand. She approaches me, with her hands making a peaceful gesture. 

Doorman - "No. I don't want that. Have a good night." 

She looks at me with a grave pity. I have guilted them into giving me a tip. I'm not sure how other service industry people feel about guilting people into coughing up a gratuity, but I fucking detest it. Like I said, if people don't deem me worthy of a tip, or a thank you, then I don't want their god damned money. 

Wife - "I will leave it in the car."  

She leaves. 

Manager - "Are you going to take it?"

Doorman - "No." 

Manager - "Why not?!?"

Doorman - "Because I don't want their money."

Manager - "If you leave it in the car, then one of the valet guys will take it."

Fuck, he had a point. How am I going to teach these motherfuckers a lesson? How am I going to exact my revenge? How am I going to turn this into a story in my favor, you know, for the blog? 

Manager leaves, and I was left with a decision to make: 

1 - Take the money, spend it on beer, and hate myself for not sticking to my principals. 

2 - Leave it in the car for some random valet attendant to pocket. 

3 - Find a way to give it back to them. 

I went with option number three. As soon as the couple checked in and left the hotel for the evening, I found out their room number, stuffed the ten in a key card envelope, and slid the money under the door with a note saying "left this on the dashboard". 

I hopped in the elevator, wanting to feel good about it. I waited for the triumph to settle in, for the rush of running to the door, opening up my notepad, and jotting notes to write out my awesome story on this blog. 

It never came. 

For the rest of the evening, I couldn't stop running through the situation over and over and over in my head:

They didn't want to give me a tip. Hell, the guy didn't even want to thank me. And if he really wanted to do the right thing, why did he send his wife outside? Why didn't he face me, like a man? Maybe it was her who saw the problem, and wanted to fix it? Maybe he's a cock sucker, and she's just the poor soul married to him? Did I embarrass him in front of his wife? Was there a language barrier? Did he not understand that I wouldn't be the one taking him up to the room? But why didn't he thank me?!?! All I was looking for was a thank you!!! Just a little RESPECT. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK FROM THESE FUCKING PEOPLE!?!?! 

I couldn't shake the guilt I was feeling for doing what I did. Turning down the tip was one thing, but did I go too far by sliding it under their door? What lesson was I trying to teach them? Why does this feel so fucking wrong? 

I didn't see them for the rest of the night. It was Wednesday. I picked up some OT on Friday, and as fate would have it, they were getting ready to leave as I was arriving to start my shift. We almost bumped into each other, and he hesitated to say something. 

Then it hit me like a ton of bricks - my move to slide the money under the door was a cowardly one. I never expected to have to face him again. I threw in my last word like an internet troll sending an anonymous email. He sent his wife outside to deal with me, and I handled it no better than he did. Now the two of us were face to face. 

I kept walking. Right to my door. 

A few moments after, he came out with his valet ticket and ten dollar bill ready. I took the valet ticket out of his hands, then handed him back the ten. 

Doorman - "No, thank you." 

His remorse turned to sheer confusion.

Man - "WHY?!?" 

I didn't have an explanation for him. I still don't. 

Doorman - "No, thank you." 

I walked away from him. After about twenty minutes or so, his car arrived, and he put all seven of his luggages into the vehicle by himself. They left. 

I stood there, ten dollars poorer, with a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. My revenge ploy had backfired into a disingenuous attempt at a funny story, and it only made me feel (and look) like a fucking asshole. Yes, I stuck to my principals. Yes, I may have taught them a lesson about how a doorman, or any working stiff, should be treated with respect. Maybe the next doorman they deal with will benefit from it. Though that didn't really help matters much.

So I must say this now, and I've thought long and hard about it:

I'm done. 

After two years of this, I have finally reached my limit. It's time this blog came to an end. I've told almost 100 stories of me getting stiffed, abused, kicked around, inspired, dejected, rejected, fucked over, drunk, scammed, challenged, intimidated, etc. These stories have also resulted in me taking all sorts of shit from people, standing up for myself, assaulting a guy, crying, breaking furniture, suing people, trying to finagle a Japanese girl threesome, growing a pair of balls, and, most importantly, finding my voice as a writer. 

With the pilot getting some great buzz and being shopped around the festival circuit, I know I'm close to the end. But even if I have to spend another year doing this - hustling and bustling to scrape my way to $100 for the evening (if i'm lucky, nowadays), the #Doorman stories as you know them have come to an end. 

At that moment where I slid the money under the door, consciously doing it for the sake of the story and nothing else, it became clear that I have outgrown this blog. I'm ready for the next level. I've spent the past three weeks writing half-hour episodes of Doorman, and I assure you, they will see the light of day. Screenwriting has taken over as a new addiction, and being able to take these Doorman stories - these deeply personal, completely fucked-up, tragically hilarious stories - and use them to choose my own adventure, has been an experience that I can't wait to share with you, my readers. 

This isn't the last post. Expect a few more as I wrap up this story of a schmuck, without a place in this world and lacking a pair of balls, finding his voice as an artist and as a man. Stay tuned. 

Much love,