Reprisal of the Mind

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While in Michigan last month, my family attended the annual Clinton High School alumni banquet. Mom warned me that "Charles D." would probably be there too, and that last year he tried to get under her skin by asking about my deceased dad, and why Dad had sympathy toward the Atomic bomb victims of Japan.

As we entered the banquet room, I recognized Charles immediately—and I don't think I'd ever seen him before—at least not in the last twenty years or so. He looked to be in his seventies, with a stern face and squinty eyes. His eyebrows were bushy, and hair was growing out his ears. He looked like a grumpier, more unkempt version of an older Gregory Peck. His circa 1980's Member's Only jacket that he wore, complete with shoulder epaulets, made him look like a retired war General. He was no such thing however. Grandma had told me earlier that Charles D, a life-long resident of the town, had hardly ever ventured outside the state of Michigan, let alone the town of Clinton.

The banquet was well attended, and Mr. Steffens did an outstanding job as emcee. When reporting on the Graduation classes in attendance, he began with the oldest.

“Will the Class of 1924 please stand up.”

Grandma—all 103 plus years of her—rose to her feet, unassisted, and alone. Her fellow alumni cheered and clapped, and I smiled at her proudly. Having a Grandma who's also the oldest alumni of her high school has it's benefits—our table was picked to be the first to go to the food buffet.

The evening's entertainment was a local barbershop quartet, and they sang about 4 songs too many.

Afterward, when the banquet was adjourned, people gathered their things while socializing with each other. Talking with Mr. Steffens, I saw Charles approaching out of the corner of my eye.

"And who do we have here? Who is this man? I don't recognize you." Charles knew damn well who I was.

"Tyge O'Donnell," I said, shaking his hand.

"Oh, so you're the son of the man who bitched and whined about dropping the bombs on Japan."

My Irish temper started to boil and I clenched my fists. I managed to keep my composure, but wasn't sure how long I'd be able to keep it under control.

"That's me."

"Who could honestly believe that dropping those bombs was a bad idea?" Charles asked.

"Well, my father for one, me for two, and also a few million Japanese people." I answered.

I kept waiting for him to bring-up Pearl Harbor, how the Japanese started the war, and how by dropping the bombs, the U.S. merely finished it. I was ready for that argument, but it never came.

"I just don't understand what your dad was thinking," Charles lamented.

"Charles, did you ever serve your country?"

"What the hell, I'm not that old!"

"I'm not talking about World War II, I'm just asking if you served, you know, Korea? Vietnam? The National Guard? The Reserve? Any of those? Because if you did, I can understand your sentiments a little better."

"Uh, I... uh, yea... I served... in the Army."

"I don't think you did," I replied, remembering what Grandma had said earlier.

Suddenly the stern look on his face changed. A look of sympathetic frustration washed over him. He let out a sigh.

"Looking back," he said, "there just had to be another way, but hell, it was war. There was nothing else we could do. I wish things didn't happen that way... there could have been another way out of that war, I just don't know."

"I guess we'll never know," I said. "Are you perhaps a little jealous that after bombing Japan, they had the resilience to come back the way they did, and dominate the auto and technology industry for so long?"

"What the hell do you mean?" he asked, "Japanese cars will never last."

"Oh really? You're saying Toyota and Nissan aren't going to make it?"

"Never. Those cars dissolve."

"Dissolve?"

"Yes, dissolve. Haven't you ever looked under the seat of a Japanese-made car? All those springs, nuts and bolts—they all eventually dissolve!"

I unclenched my fists and relaxed. Charles D. was no longer the stern, grumpy warmonger that he had been a few minutes earlier. He was now just a fragile shell of a man, gradually slipping into senility, just as my Dad did towards the end of his life.

With her coat hanging on one arm and Grandma on the other, Mom sent Richard to rescue me.

"Come on Tyge, we gotta go."

"It was nice talking with you Charles, take care."

I patted him on his shoulder, just below the epaulet, and walked away.

FiN.

Confessions of a Bellman - Return to Me

The other day I helped a very cool woman with her luggage. She reminded me of a young Jan Levinson (played by Melora Hardin) from the TV show, The Office.

She was pretty and professional, and carried herself well. In town for a convention that was now over, she needed a taxi to the airport—and she was running very late. She was a bit spastic because she still needed to check-out, and she was also afraid the taxi-cab line would be long. I told her to check-out through the use of the TV (a copy of the bill would be emailed to her) and I assured her I could get a taxi immediately, despite the long line. She finally relaxed.

As we descended down the elevator, I asked how her stay was.

"Oh, just superb," she replied, "except Cher cancelled her show last night."

"She did?" I asked surprised.

"Yes, and at the very last second. Everyone was seated in the showroom and then the announcer said she was too sick to perform."

"That's a shame," I said as the elevator door opened, "ya know, when Celine Dion was here, she cancelled many times."

"Really?"

"Yup. One time, an hour after hearing she had cancelled her next three shows, I checked-in a family from the Philippines who had flown here  just to take their 14 year-old to see the show—it was the girl's birthday present."

"Wow, what did they do when you told them Celine cancelled?"

"Are you kidding me? I wasn't going to be the one to break the news to them! I delivered their luggage, showed them the room, brought them ice, and told them to enjoy their stay and the show."

"You didn't tell them about Celine?" she asked, laughing.

"No way! Train wreck avoided!"

"Well, I'm sure they had a good vacation despite not seeing the show."

"Yea, I'm sure they probably did... ya know, because Las Vegas is so well-geared for a 14 year-old kid."

The woman reacted to my semi-sarcastic remark with a sly and stern—yet flirtatious—smile.

I think she liked me.

"I bet you don't have children, do you?" she asked as she gave me a tip.

"You bet right," I said, "Las Vegas has another winner!"

As I closed the taxi-cab door, she was still laughing.

For the next few hours I hoped she'd come back to the hotel—after possibly missing her flight. She never returned though.

For once I think I did my job a little too well.

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FiN.

Confessions of a Bellman - The Doctor is In...sane

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Dr. Vegas was a short-lived TV series that aired in 2004. The show was loosely based on Dr. F, the resident doctor at the hotel where I work. He's worked at the hotel for over 30 years and has had the same secretary for 20 of those years. Doctor F has treated Tony Bennett's sniffles and Frank Sinatra's sore throat, not to mention thousands of hotel guests. Of course in the series, the doctor was played by a handsome and young Rob Lowe—not to say Dr. F isn't handsome—he's just getting old and perhaps a little loose in the head—or perhaps not.

About 7 years ago, while at work, I noticed a rash on the inside of my arm, between my wrist and elbow. In a matter of hours it inflamed to a bright red color and was actually hot to the touch. My bell captain suggested I go up to the third-floor and pay Dr. F a visit, which I did.

Dr. F took one look at it and said, "You've got a hot infection! See that little scratch right there? That's what's causing all your trouble. Let me get you on some penicillin."

The doctor reached behind him and grabbed a large bottle off the shelf. He poured a handful of tablets in his palm and slid them into a smaller bottle. He didn't count how many pills he gave me, nor did he make any record of my visit or treatment. I thought the whole old-school, no-prescription-needed thing was kinda cool.

"Take two pills three times a day and you'll be fine."

"How much do I owe you Doc?"

"Oh, just get outta here and back to work. How's that?"

"Thank-you, Doc."

"Forget about it."

Three years later the infection returned. Same spot, same color, same skin burning with heat. I was most likely to blame for this because I may not have fully abstained from drinking alcohol while on the penicillin before. I returned to Dr. F and reminded him of my previous visit three years earlier. Although he didn't seem to remember, he did study the infection more closely this time.

"You've got a hot infection! We need to slit that open and let it drain before your arm needs to be amputated!"

"Whoa Doc! Amputated? Last time you just gave me a handful of penicillin!"

"I did?"

"YES!"

"Well then," he said while reaching for the bottle on his shelf, "I'm going to give you some more."

"Um, thanks?"

Doctor F continued with his instructions, basically saying the same thing he did three years earlier, but only different.

"Take three pills, twice a day, and you'll be fine. If there's no improvement by the time you finish the pills, come back and we'll drain that sucker."

"Thanks again Doc. Do I owe you anything?"

"Just an arm, no leg," he said with some seriousness in his voice.

Part of me likes to think the good doctor was messing with my head, a form of humor he doesn't normally get to play on his regular hotel patients. I'll probably never know for sure.

Needless to say, I was stone-cold sober for the next two weeks... and I still have my arm.

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FiN.

Confessions of a Bellman - His Holiness Walter Payton

 

During his recent visit to the States, the Dalai Lama said he had no idea who Tiger Woods is. 

Thank-you Mr. Lama, I think you're awesome. I'd like to have seen Tiger's face when told that his holiness had no idea who Tiger was. Sir Lama, as you must know by now, Tiger claims to be a Buddhist... but gone astray.

Other than being male and living on Earth, I think the only thing I have in common with His Holiness is that I too, have no idea who many legendary athletes are.

In early 1998, while still a rookie bellman at the hotel, I checked-in legendary football player, Walter Payton. I knew Walter Payton played football but that's all I knew. I had no idea what team he played for (his whole NFL career was with the Chicago Bears) and I had no idea what his jersey number was (34). At the time, I really didn't even know what he looked like. My bell captain was shocked at this but thankfully, he told me the license plate number of Mr. Payton's limousine so I wouldn't look like an idiot while waiting at the front door of the hotel.

The limo pulled-up, the trunk popped open, and I grabbed the luggage. Mr. Payton and his wife exited the car. After a few minutes of watching the two shake hands with the execs, I walked them, with luggage in tow, to their room. It was a busy Friday night in the casino and as we made our way to the elevators, people would see Mr. Payton and yell, "Sweetness! Hey Sweetness! It's Sweetness!" Mr. Payton's nickname was "Sweetness." Not only did the word describe his dexterity on the field, but it also described him as a man off the turf. Years later, the nickname would be voted the #1 Gridiron nickname by ESPN.

He smiled and waved to anyone who recognized him. He stopped along the way for a few photos to be taken... and he was gracious. After showing Mr. Payton and his wife to the room, and making sure all was well, Mr. Payton shook my hand and gave me a great tip... and then I left. He was a nice man with a great smile and I remember thinking what a great couple he and his wife made. They were happy.

What really impressed me though, happend a few hours later. I was walking another guest to the elevators when I passed Mr. Payton heading to the casino. Mr. Payton looked at me, pointed, and said with a smile, "There he is! Tyge my man!"

The guest I was walking with turned to me and said, "You know Walter Payton?"

I smiled and said, "Is that who that was?"

Less than two years later, Walter Payton died of a rare disease. A few years after his demise, I walked (then retired) Chicago Bears head coach, Mike Ditka, out of the hotel. Ditka once said of Payton, "He's the greatest football player I've ever seen—and an even greater man." When I mentioned to Mr. Ditka how I had met Mr. Payton a few years prior, Ditka simply said, "I sure miss that guy."

Walter Payton's life, although cut-short, was exemplary. There were no scandals of womanizing, gambling, steroids, or other things that are all-to familiar with today's athletes. I'm almost thankful Walter didn't live to see the day when guns would find their way into locker rooms and the blood of dead pit bulls would be on the hands of players.

Although this isn't very Dalai Lama-like, I say fuck you to Tiger Woods and to all the other sport-icons gone awry. You know who you are. To the media, for giving these athletic heathens too much wasted air-time, fuck you, too. Athletes are role models, and they should start acting like role models. They've been blessed with a talent to play sports professionally and if they screw it up, they should be out of the game—and the spotlight. Just ask Pete Rose. As far as the media goes, it's their job to report the news, not glamorize it.

The Dalai Lama may know the secret to life and happiness, but nothing about Tiger Woods or Walter Payton, and that's fine, but because of this, I feel like I have an ever-so-slight edge over His Holiness.

Unlike the Buddhist Tiger Woods, Walter Payton also knew the secret to life and happiness.

I'm sure of it.

FiN.