It’s all true.
A week ago, I’m standing in the lobby of a chic hotel in downtown Los Angeles. I’m the concierge here. A gentleman that knows my name, approaches the desk and says he’s been looking for me for some time now. He asks me to keep tabs on his girlfriend because he thinks she’s a prostitute. I ask if he’s ever paid her and he avoids the question, emails me her pic from his phone, hands me $100, promises to fix my teeth and runs off. A crazy dentist with too much money is the last thing I need right now, but par for the course at this hotel.
I remember a dinner reservation I need to book for a nice couple and write down a little note before I’m sidetracked again.
I walk to a computer and plug in. The phone rings and I answer it. Somebody wants to know why their movies have been turned off. It’s a superstar named Tom. I’m shocked and put him on hold. I need to know what this girl looks like and make these reservations and maybe ask a manager what to do with Tom.
Before I can upload the picture of this hooker or load up open table to book a reservation, I’m asked by a hotel guest if I sell cocaine. No, I don’t. They ask where they can get some. I tell them to go look for pushers out in the street.
In all the madness I think about all these funny little stories about all these hotels I’ve worked in and all the interesting, dastardly, charming, beautiful, ugly and just plain nice people that I’ve met. That biker gang from Barstow staying at the Motel 6 in Thousand Oaks, The time I was robbed by 2 young kids and a big gun in Venice Beach, the pimps and prostitutes begging to be let in down at the Stillwell hotel in Downtown Los Angeles, all the homeless in Santa Monica, late nights in a Burbank hotel with Tarantino fanatics, a traveling sex group that bought out the 10th floor at some sleek Hollywood Hotel, Brad Pitt and Spike Lee meeting for breakfast at the hotel restaurant and talking about their New Orleans housing projects, The Edge and Bono having lunch and an assistant front office manager almost breaks down when she can’t shake his hand. A valet asks Daddy Yankee for an autograph, is denied, and the valet manager fires him before the car can be pulled out of the driveway, and how I love it.
The phone at the desk rings and it’s Tom, again. He must have hung up while I had my flashback. My manager is in a perpetual meeting and I’m forced to make an executive call. I pick up the phone and ask Tom if he has another way to pay for the incidentals or the room for that matter, because his 3rd party billing is up and we’ve got to move on here. He tells me he’ll get some more 3rd party billing and to turn on the movies for the time being.
Someone walks up in front of me and stands there, It’s the Dentist. Tom is explaining the screw up with the billing and that crazy dentist is asking me if I got the picture and who she’s with and totally blowing my focus on our superstar hotel guest. I ask Tom if he can hold for another second, I explain to him that a man thinks he has a prostitute for a girlfriend and Tom laughs for a really long time, tells me to turn on the movies, have a manager call him back and hangs up.
I turn on his movies. Tom’s still got the magic