Monday, July 7, 2014

Doorman & The Ladies - The Girl From Iceland

I have a rule when it comes to fornicating with clientele - I don't do it. It's an obviously forbidden and fireable offense if I'm caught fraternizing with the guests, so I keep my mule in my pants at all times. Under no circumstances is it appropriate to engage in any sexual behavior with the women who inhabit my place of work. Anyone who does partake in this deviant act is a sick individual who doesn't deserve to have his job.

It's really easy to say things like that when women don't throw themselves at you.

I've heard stores about bellmen going up to rooms to find naked women who are eager to get a quickie in before their husbands get back, and I've seen some of my more-handsome colleagues have pieces of paper with room numbers passed along to them with a wink and seductive smile. I, sadly, have never had that happen to me. Except this one time:

Rewind the clocks back to February 6, 2012, the Monday after my beloved New York Football Giants won their second Super Bowl in four years. It was also while I was right in the midst of my psycho craigslist roommate shit show, so, yeah, I had a lot going on.

I had just completed the wildly unnecessary six weeks of training for a job I mastered in the first hour - store the bags, retrieve the bags, open the door, smile, hail taxi, be nice.

It was my first overnight riding solo as a bellman. My plan was to get out of there at 8am and shoot down to the Financial District to catch Eli Manning and co. parade down the Canyon of Heroes.

Throughout the week, I'd become friendly with a group of six female bartenders from Iceland. Now, I'm not sure this were a flattering representation of a country I'd otherwise had no familiarity with, but every single one of these women were stunningly beautiful. They were there for a long weekend, and I'd been giving them advice on bars and neighborhoods to go in the city for a good time. Whenever I'd help them, there would always be one, the shortest of the bunch, who shyly hid behind everyone as I gave them directions to cool spots on the Lower East Side and Meatpacking District.

She was the one who caught my eye the most - her jet-blonde hair would always be partially covering her crystal-blue eyes. Every time my gaze would gravitate toward her, she'd part her hair from her face and coquettishly look up from the floor with a playful smirk. Me, being the monumental doofus that I am, would put on my pressed-lipped smile and immediately abort any seductive eye-contact.

After a few days of this and booking them a limousine to take them around the city on their last night, they all came back shit-hammered at 4:00am.

Our overnight houseman, Aju (remember Aju?), was right in the middle of his nightly routine of vacuuming every square-inch of the lobby three times over. He'd start at around 2am, then wrap up at 5, like clockwork, every single night. (It's funny because he puts so much effort into his vacuuming, and the first thing his relief does when he comes in is vacuum the same-exact spots.) At that point, I'd never heard him speak. I didn't think he spoke English. The first time I saw him from across the lobby, I waved and introduced myself. He stared at me for a few seconds, nodded quickly, then vanished into the staircase.

It didn't bother me much. When you work a graveyard shift, the last thing you want to do is make small-talk with people. All I really wanted to do to pass the night was read my kindle and flirt with Icelandic chicks.

So as Aju vacuumed behind the bell desk with the long-hose cleaner for the third time in as many hours, the girls stumbled inside. They thanked me for being so nice and going out of my way and blah blah blah I'm a sweetheart. Then they all took out money from their purses and handed me a bunch of crumbled-up fives and tens. On a graveyard shift in the dead of winter, that's a gift from God. It ended up being about forty bucks total, more than double what I would have made the entire evening.

They all staggered upstairs, with the exception of one. The shy one in the back appeared to have gotten her liquid courage. As Aju's vacuum blared (NEEEEE UMMMMM NEEEEEE UMMMMM NEEEEEEE UMMMMM) behind me, she put her hand on mine. Her name was Üna.

Üna - "You are very nice."

It was the first time in my life a beautiful woman had made an obvious "fuck me" gesture in a public place. I almost stopped breathing for a second. It's a shame that stupid Aju's incessant vacuuming was causing her to raise her voice, because I would have loved to have heard her seductive whispers.

Doorman - "Uh, thank you! You are nice, too!"

Üna - "You remind me of my boyfriend."

Oh... whoa. Okay.

Doorman - "Oh? Is he here?"

Üna - "No."

Her glassy eyes burned through me like a laser. I felt my hand getting clammy on hers, so I instinctively pulled it away. Apparently she took it as a power move, as my being coy and hard-to-get. This made her press more.

Üna - "You are nice and funny."

Doorman - "Thank you! So are you!"

Üna - "No, I am not."

Aju bumps into my foot with his fucking vacuum hose.

Üna - "You are very handsome."

I feel all the blood rush to my face. And my penis.

Doorman - "Thank you..."

Üna - "Do you want to come up to my room for a beer?"

Is this really happening to me? It's like the beginning of a porno. Here I am, six week into a brand-new job that was allowing me to carry out a lifelong dream of living in Manhattan, and I have this unbelievably beautiful, drunk girl from a country I had no previous knowledge about save for the second Mighty Ducks movie, inviting me upstairs to do God-knows-what. Is this real life?!?

I can't go up there. I can't. God forbid she wakes up and regrets cheating on her boyfriend, then somehow turns it around on me? What if she tells management that I forced myself on her? 

Doorman - "I'm sorry. But I can't."

Not letting up a bit, she puts on a pouty face.

Üna - "Come on... just one beer."

She takes my pen off the desk and writes her room number on a subway map.

Doorman - "I really want to. I really, really do. But I can't."

She slides her room number over and walks away. After a couple of steps, she turns back, smiles and nods her head.

Doorman - "Wait!"

She stops.

Doorman - "Maybe you can give me your email. And we could talk when you get back to Iceland."

I just mortifyingly bit my knuckle after I typed that, because it was exactly what I said.

She laughs, then keeps walking to the elevator. She gets in, turns to me, and we hold eye contact as the doors shut.

I stand there for a moment, turn to the map with "545" sloppily written on it, and give it some serious fucking consideration:

What if I pretend the phone rang, then tell the manager that I have to bring ice to a room? What if I tell him that I'm going on my lunch break, and he can reach me on the radio? It's 4:00am, people leaving for the airport won't start coming down for AT LEAST an hour. And it's February, nobody's in the fucking hotel anyway!!!

As all of these thoughts raced through my horny, sleep-deprived mind, Aju turned off his god damn vacuum. I was so used to it being on that the silence was startling. I swing around to him.

He picks up the vacuum hose and rests it on the ground as if he were a farmer holding a pitchfork. Again - at the time, I'd never heard him say a word. I didn't think he spoke English. But Aju pondered for a beat, pushed his sliding glasses up the bridge of his nose, and gave his two cents in his thick, Bangladeshi accent:

Aju - "Don't do it, man."

He then bent over, turned the vacuum back on, and resumed his work.

And I didn't. It took everything I had in me to not go up there. But I made it through the night, went to the Giants ticker-tape parade, and never saw Üna again.

Now, every guy I tell this story to freaks out on me:

"Are you fucking kidding me, bro?!? I would have went up there and tore that up, duuuuuuude!!!'

Sure you would have. You have to understand that, at the time, I had just started a new job and was forced to abruptly move out of my apartment and sleep in my friend's office because of a psychotic roommate. The last thing I needed was to get in trouble at work for sexual misconduct.

I obsessed about it for weeks - even did some facebook stalking and found her. For a while, I was tempted to take a trip out there and pop into the bar they all worked in. I mean, they all told me that I had to come out to Iceland one day. But, like any fleeting encounter with a stranger from another city, the novelty eventually wore off.

That was almost two and a half years ago. I thought that was going to be an everyday occurrence - drunk girl comes back from the club, grabs the first available decent-looking bellhop to cap the evening - but it hasn't happened since. Not once.

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1 comment:

  1. As we go through life, it's the chances we don't take that we regret the most. And this sounds like the most regrettable!

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