Heads in Beds: A Reckless Memoir of Hotels, Hustles, and So-Called Hospitality by Jacob Tomsky

Author:Jacob Tomsky
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Tags: Non-Fiction, Travel, Biography, Azizex666, Humour
ISBN: 9780385535649
Publisher: Doubleday
Published: 2012-11-20T05:00:00+00:00

I am so excited to stay here!” she said.

“One night, checking out tomorrow.”

“It’s my birthday!”

“Nonsmoking, king bed. I just need a credit card.”

“Is it a good room?”

“Yes. How many keys?”

“Can I have four? Hey, Thomas,” the guest said, squeezing her tits together and leaning over the desk. I had recently gotten a new name tag because I had recently and deliberately lost my old name tag. So, technically, I stole it, took the old one home to add to my collection. Not that expanding my tag collection was a supreme joy, but I wanted to force them to carve me a new one. It was time for another change. After all these years on the Bellevue’s desk, I requested a tag that read “Thomas.” Why? A couple of super-great reasons. First of all, I was tired of guests rattling off my name as if we were friends. Hey, Tom, listen, Tom, I meant to ask you, Tom, would you mind, Tom, good to see you, Tom, I would like to speak to your manager, Tom. They don’t know me, even though they love to read off my name as if that makes us friends. Which it doesn’t. And no one in my life has ever called me Thomas, not even my mother. So the name tag forced the formality and made them call me Thomas, which I decided was a form of respect. “That’s right, guests, it’s Thomas to you.” Also, on a parallel note, it helped me determine which managers truly knew me and which ones were just reading the tag. If I corrected you and told you to call me Tom, we became closer. If I told you to call me Tom and you continued to call me Thomas, we became co-workers. If I never bothered to correct you and just let you call me Thomas, I never liked you.

The name tag wasn’t the only change. With the union backing me up, I’d been front desk long enough to learn a bit about the hustle. I began to notice the cash game and study it, see how it was played. They hired another FNG, a Cuban named Dante, who’d recently been catching some evening shifts. He was new to the Bellevue but clearly not new to the game. He actually brought clients with him to our hotel. A front desk agent that brings his own guests? Say what?

The second shift we worked together, he left me alone with a line of guests. While doing all the work myself, I watched him round the desk and pass a set of keys to a shady individual with a disgusting mustache who was lurking in the corner. Then I saw the handshake, a money shake, like a drug handoff in Tompkins Square Park. I could tell Dante was some kind of sick pro because, while slowly walking back to his terminal, he never even looked into his palm, never checked the bill. Then, when he saw me clocking him, he smiled

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