Confessions of a Bellman - The Motivational Speaker

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It was the week after Thanksgiving and I was sitting in the hotel's basement checkroom doing my crossword puzzle. I had just figured out that 5 down, clued as "One leaving space" was "indenter," when the phone rang. It was my bell captain at the desk upstairs.

"Dude, go to room 2416 and help this guy out. He's in a wheelchair and needs a little help with a few things, but then he needs you to push him down to a banquet room. He seems really cool."

"Shouldn't security do the pushing?" I asked.

"Well, since it's not that far and he's not leaving the hotel, go ahead and do it for him. He seems really cool."

I went to the room and found the door slightly ajar with the deadbolt holding it open. I knocked.

"Come on in Tyge!"

"Oh great," I thought to myself, "he already knows my name."

I have a thing about people liberally using my name when they've never met or even seen me yet.

"Hey buddy, how ya doing? I just need a little help with a few things, and don't worry, I'll take care of you."

"Yes sir," I answered.

"Call me Tyler."

"Okay Tyler."

Tyler explained that he was a quadriplegic, and although he had limited use of his arms, his hands were permanently clenched into fists and pretty much useless—just like his legs. He also said that he was a motivational speaker and that he would need my help getting him to a taxi after he spoke at the convention downstairs. 

"Can you be back at the banquet room at 11:30 and push me to the front door and have a handicap taxi ready for me?" he asked.

"Certainly," I replied. 

"Great, I'll take care of you then," he said. 

In the twenty minutes that followed my entering his room, I went above and beyond the call of duty as a bellman—or at least I did things I've never done for a guest before, handicapped or otherwise.

I helped Tyler get dressed, which entailed very unique movements and positions on behalf of both of us. Tyler was at least wearing long-johns, top and bottom, so it wasn't like his balls were hanging out or anything like that. I buckled his belt, tied his shoes, and poured some Neosporin on his scabby elbow. I didn't TOUCH the scab, but only doused it with the salve, using the tip of the tube. 

Looking at his shirt hanging on the door, Tyler asked how my ironing skills were. I drew the line there. 

"I don't do ironing," I said, "but we can get a butler up here if you'd like." 

Honestly, the whole time I was wondering why there wasn't a butler helping him, or even more so, why he didn't have his own personal assistant. 

Tyler opted for a different shirt and after I helped him put it on—along with his wristwatch—we headed to the banquet hall. 

"Thanks so much Tyge, I'll see you in two hours. Have that cab ready for me!"

"My pleasure, will do," I replied. 

Two hours later I returned to the banquet hall. Tyler's motivational speech had started late so I was able to catch the last 15 minutes. Looking at the slide-show of photographs on the screen behind where he sat onstage, I got the gist of what Tyler had been through over the past 10 years. In a nutshell, he had been a happily married man, a father of three, and had a good job. Then, ten years ago, a car accident left him confined to a wheelchair, labeled as a quadriplegic. In the years since, he bragged, he'd accomplished incredible feats—tandem hang-gliding, wheelchair bicycling, wheelchair basketball and SCUBA diving, among other things.

"I've learned, by the Grace of God, how to type on the computer using only my knuckles! I've learned how to brush my teeth, to comb my hair, to wash myself, to put on spray cologne, and all these things without help from anyone!" Tyler proclaimed as the crowd roared with applause. 

"And this morning, thank-you Jesus, I dressed myself in twenty-three minutes!" 

For a brief instant I felt like I was in a  movie or TV show, perhaps an old episode of Matlock, where someone yells from the back of the courtroom, "NO YOU DIDN'T!" and everyone gasps and turns their heads around to see who's making the accusation. 

Except it would have been me making the accusation, and I wasn't about to rain on Tyler's parade. 

The meeting adjourned and after Tyler posed for photos and signed his books for some of the guests, I pushed him to the front door where a handicap accessible van was waiting. 

"Thank you so much for everything," Tyler said to me. "Open the top pocket in my backpack and take your money. You've earned it." 

Tyler was true to his word, as he did indeed take care of me. I wasn't really expecting such a swell tip from the man, but then again, a thought crossed my mind that perhaps it was "hush money" —I guess I'll never really know for sure. 

All I do know is that I'm thankful for having arms and legs and hands that work well, and that I can iron my own shirts like nobody's business.

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FiN. 

Confessions of a Bellman - Shite and Shining Glory

Yesterday morning I arrived at the hotel to find my Bell Captain trying to deal with an unruly customer who was obviously drunk. The guest was in his thirties, had a black smudge the size of a thumb-print on his nose, and spoke with an Irish—or maybe Scottish—accent.

"Tyge, talk to this guy. He might like you better than me," Captain Rachael said as she walked away.

Because his brogue was slurred, I had to listen carefully in order to understand what he was saying.

"My room number is 8004 and I can't find where it is."

"We don't have a room 8004," I said.

"That's what the lass said! I'm telling you, I'm on the 8th floor, in room fook'n 8004!"

"What tower are you staying in? I can probably figure-out your room number if you know what tower you're in."

"That's what she said too! I don't know what fook'n tower I'm staying in!"

"Did she try to look your name up in the computer?"

The bloke was getting frustrated.

"Aye, I'm apparently not in your fook'n computer."

"Well, don't you have your hotel I.D. card, or the check-in booklet?"

I literally saw lightbulbs in his eyes. He reached into his pocket and pulled-out a crumpled-up pamphlet. As he opened it, his room key was tucked inside the slit in the pamphlet—just like it should be—and the room number was hand-written (by the check-in clerk) in the appropriate spot—again, as it should be.

"You see! Room 8-0 fook'n 0-4!"

"You're right sir,” I said pointing to the pamphlet,  “but your room is next door at the Bellagio. Is that where you're staying?"

"Holy shite and shining glory," he said.

I smiled, gave him a pat on the shoulder, and pushed my cart across the casino floor toward the service elevator. The guy wasn't through with me yet though, and was walking next to me.

"That's still no fook'n excuse for your boss to treat me like shite! She was fook'n rude!"

"I'm sure she did what she could, but you did seem a little rowdy when I first walked-up to the desk."

"Aye, she was being a fook'n bitch though. No excuse for that."

My patience was wearing thin.

"You're going the wrong way to get back to your hotel," I said, “and you got some crap on your nose."

"Well, fook! Now you can shut your fook'n arse too," he said.

I stopped pushing my cart and looked at him.

"You know what?" I said, "We're done now. I don't get paid enough to listen to people like you."

"Well you just go and push your fook'n cart and deliver your fook'n luggage," he said.

"Oh, I will," I said as I turned down a private hallway.

In a moment of brief clarity, the drunk realized he still needed to find the proper way out of the hotel so that he could get back to his room.

"Look," he yelled, "could you just please tell me how to get back to the fook'n Bellagio?"

I stopped, parked my cart, turned around, and walked up to him.

"Just follow this concourse into the shopping mall," I said pointing past our nightclub. "When the mall divides at the big water fountains, take the right hall—and that will take you outside to The Strip. From there, immediately get on the people-mover (aka covered escalator) to your left, and that will take you directly into your hotel."

"God bless, mate," he said as he walked toward the shopping mall.

For the rest of my shift I had a wry smile on my face because I was thinking about the pitiful bloke, the smudge on his nose, and how the people at The Mirage were probably telling him how to find his way back to the Bellagio.

FiN.

Confessions of a Bellman - Job Security

Last week I did a room-change. Sometimes when a guest checks-in late—and the hotel is overbooked—the room the person reserved isn't available. The hotel usually compensates by not charging the guest to stay the night in another room, since that room isn't what the guest had booked.  Come morning, they're told to leave their luggage by the door, and that a bellman will move the bags to their newly available and originally requested room. More times than not the bellman never gets to see the guest, hence room-changes are known among bellmen as "dead runs."

So that's what I did. I picked up some luggage in a room, and took it across the hotel to a different tower and dropped it off in another room.  I probably do three or four room-changes on an average day, and it's never been a big deal.

The next day I had to fill out a security report because the room where I delivered the luggage was the wrong room. Thankfully, it wasn't my fault. Whoever entered the room-change into the computer had entered the wrong room number, and the room I delivered the luggage to was actually already occupied by another guest. When that guest returned to her room and saw someone else's luggage, she freaked the fuck out.  The guest stated in her security report that two hundred dollars—that she had left on the coffee table—was now missing. The guest was a ranked player and a regular visitor to the hotel, and she was reimbursed the two hundred dollars, with apologies.

The next morning the same lady was checking-out of the hotel and called for a bellman. Just by coincidence, I was assigned the call. On the way to the room, I decided to play things cool and not mention the previous day's incident. I wanted to see if she would bring it up.

With her luggage on my cart, we descended down the elevator.

"How was your stay?" I asked.

"Oh, it was fine, except one of your coworkers stole two hundred dollars from my room."  She said.

"Yes, I heard about that. "

"You did?"

"Yes, because I was the bellman who put the stranger's luggage in your room."

The lady didn't know what to say. I think she was surprised I didn't look like a typical thief, you know, with a black mask over my eyes.

"Ma'am, I'm not saying you didn't lose two hundred dollars, but I want you to know I wasn't the one who took it. You don't last 15 years at a hotel if you steal stuff."

"Well, somebody took it."

I shrugged my shoulders.  "Well, at least the hotel settled things with you, right?"

"Yes, that they did."

I put her in a taxi, and she actually gave me a decent tip. I think she felt a tad-bit guilty.

Here's the thing I didn't tell her: Whenever I use my electronic pass-key to gain entry to a room, computers in the security office keep a log of it. They know what time a door to a room is opened, and when it closes. In my situation, security knew I had only spent 12 seconds with the door open, the exact time it took to place three bags in the wrong room. Security also knew that no one else—not a housekeeper or engineer—had been in the room.

So why did the hotel reimburse her the money? Because the customer is always right. Also, I think it's safe to say the hotel got it's two hundred dollars back—and then some—since she was a ranked gambler, and a regular guest of the hotel.

FiN.

Confessions of a Bellman - Celebrity Dog Poop

 

"Outside of a dog, man's best friend is a good book. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read." Groucho Marx

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Disclaimer from Tyge: This was a drunken conversation, held in jest. Harry the Warrant, nor myself, condone the kidnapping of people or animals—Canadian, British, or otherwise.

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"Tyge, what ya think about starting a kidnapping business with me?"

The voice belonged to Harry the Warrant, and he had sneaked up behind me at the bar. His arm was around my shoulder, and I could smell a combination of beer and Jagermeister on his breath.

"Someone already tried that with Steve Wynn's daughter and it didn't work," I said.

"I know, that kidnapper was a complete idiot," Harry replied.

"The Warrant" is Harry's nickname because every time the police check his identification, Harry tends to have an outstanding warrant, or two. It's always for minor infractions, like missing a court date for being intoxicated while in public. Harry is pretty much harmless though—he lost his driving privileges years ago. When he's drunk—which is pretty much whenever I see him—he's always thinking-up crazy shit. Last fall when I climbed Mount Charleston,  Harry told me about his plans to climb the highest peak on each of the seven continents. He had at least done some homework on the subject, and was able to rattle-off all the names of the summits, along with their altitudes. I told  him he should try climbing Mount Charleston first, since he's in no better physical shape than me, and being that Mount Charleston had kicked my ass.

"Kilimanjaro. I'm going to start with fucking Kilimanjaro," he replied.

"So who you thinking about kidnapping?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe that Canadian Diva's kid."

"Little Charles?" He'd probably be too much of a handful to deal with."

"Okay then, what about Sir E.J.'s dog?"

"Arthur? That dog was Best Man in E.J.'s wedding—now you're onto something," I said.

"The dog's collar is like, embedded with jewels and shit. I hear it's worth a fucking ton of money," Harry said.

"Well, instead of kidnapping the dog, why not just steal the collar?"

You could see the drunk gears slowly turning in Harry's head.

I told “The Warrant" about how I used to walk Arthur, back when Sir E.J. was performing regularly at the hotel.  Every three hours or so, a bellman would have to go to the suite and get the dog—a very sweet and playful Cocker Spaniel—and walk him around the area behind the swimming pools, so the dog could take a shit. After walking him a few times though, I requested to be taken off the rotation because really, being a peon of a bellman is enough, and I didn't want "Dog Walker to the Stars" added to my list of minor accomplishments. Besides that, I was afraid Arthur would suddenly drop-dead while on my watch.

"Did you ever think about kidnapping the dog?" Harry asked.

"No, but I often thought about putting his poop on Ebay."

Harry's face lit up. "Dude, you could have totally video-tapped the dog taking a shit, ya know, as proof."

I nodded.

"I wonder what you could have got for a pile of celebrity dog shit on Ebay," Harry mused.

"I know exactly what I would've got," I said.

 “Fired."

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.

Confessions of a Bellman - Well Hello Mr. President

hotel employee Ruben Padron with President Clinton

Last year former President Bill Clinton and daughter Chelsea came to Las Vegas and visited our employee dining room at the hotel. Their mission was to drum-up union support for Hillary. Of course the day they made their visit was also my day off work and I missed all the hoopla.

All that changed today when the former President made another visit. I'm not sure what the occasion was, perhaps a keynote speech for a convention or maybe he wanted to play a round of golf with his friends The Greenspuns, but you could feel the excitement in the air... that is if you knew he was coming.

Myself and another bellman, Jack, got the call to be Clinton's bellmen. We waited, along with security and top casino executives, at the lesser crowded side-entrance of the hotel. After thirty minutes someone's cell phone rang with the news that the entourage was delayed an hour. I went to the cafeteria and ate a turkey sandwich.

An hour later Jack and I again posted up at the side door, this time with two Secret Service agents. It was chilly and windy outside and the execs waited in the foyer of the hotel. Within minutes, five SUVs pulled up, the third carrying Clinton and his luggage. There was a flurry of action in a very short amount of time. Another eight Secret Service agents emerged from the SUVs. One of the agents, the one standing between Ruben and Clinton in the above photo, was in charge of the luggage. Jack and I helped him empty the baggage from the rear of the car. As I pulled some bags off the top of the pile, I found myself staring at the back of Bill Clinton's head -he was still sitting in the back seat. I almost said, "And a good day to you SIR!" (quoting John Goodman's character in The Big Lebowski, when he meets the guy in the iron-lung) but I refrained.

Jack, myself and Mr. Secret Agent Man rolled our carts through the foyer as the former President stopped to meet the hotel executives. We arrived at the suite and were greeted by another agent. I know this because they wear a lapel pin with a special symbol on it -usually a star -but they apparently change the specially-coded pin every hour.

The agent gave Jack and I a worthy tip and as we turned to leave, there was the 42nd President walking down the hall towards us, surrounded by his people. Jack and I pushed our carts aside and stood against the wall.

Clinton stopped in front of Jack and shook his hand as he said hello. He then walked past the luggage cart and stopped in front of me. He said hello and shook my hand.

I replied with "Happy Presidents' Day, Mr. President."

He simply said "Thanks."

Meeting a former President on Presidents' Day. I don't think it can get any cooler than that.

FiN.

Confessions of a Bellman - Oh Sheet!

A few days ago I checked a German lady out of the hotel. When I got to her room she was sitting in an electric scooter waiting for me. She was fat. Obese actually. What's the difference? Cankles.

As I picked up her luggage and carried it out of the room to my cart, I noticed a large green sheet hanging over the shower door in the bathroom.

"Ma'am, is that your

 green sheet hanging in the bathroom?" I asked.

She looked at me puzzled.

"There's a large, silk sheet on the shower door." I clarified.

She thought for a few seconds and then her eyes narrowed in my direction.

"No sheet." She said with a sharp German accent, "Das mein nightgown."

"And a very nice one at that!" I blurted without missing a beat.

She didn't tip me.

FiN.

Confessions of a Bellman - Now Go Get Your Shinebox!

A highroller was checking out of the hotel. His limo was leaving in an hour and he wanted his three pairs of shoes shined before he left. Time was of the essence. He gave me a $100.00 bill and said to give the shoe shiner a $30.00 tip—and the rest was for me.

I hustled to the shoe-shine stand at the bottom of the Forum Casino escalators next to the bathrooms. The shoe shiner was missing in action. All his rags, brushes and tins of polish were there but he wasn't. Thinking he was in the bathroom, I decided to wait for him... and wait... and wait. Twenty minutes later (and after checking the bathroom) I'm on the phone with the hotel operator trying to find out if the shoe-shiner wears a beeper. No such luck.

Finally a man comes down the escalator dressed in his black and whites. Our eyes meet and I nod at him urgently. His name-tag on his vest reads "Ricky."

"Dude, uh... Ricky, I have a $30.00 tip for you but I need these shoes polished in the next twenty minutes. Where have you been? I've been waiting here for almost a half-hour."

"Sorry," Ricky says, "I'll have them ready for you in 15 minutes—how's that?"

"That's perfect," I reply. Fifteen  minutes was just enough time for me to head to my secret location in the bowels of the basement and smoke a cigarette.

I return to pick up the shoes but realize I forgot to get change for the $100.00 bill.

"Ricky, are you going to be here for a few more minutes? I gotta get these shoes back to Mr. Bigbucks and get change for your tip."

Ricky points to the ceiling and says, "You can find me upstairs at the sports bar."

I look at him in confusion. "What will you be doing up there?"

Ricky smiles and says "I work up there. I'm a bartender,  but I wasn't going to turn away a $30.00 tip."

Well bless my soles.

FiN.

Confessions of a Bellman - Old School Player

The hotel I work at has over 140 elevators and I spend a lot of time travelling in them. If I ever figure out how many pennies are in my Sparklett's water jug, I just might try and add up how much time I've spent in elevators over the past 10 years (again, me = no life whatsoever).

There's some amusing things you can do in an elevator full of people. My favorite is to whistle "It's a Small World After All." Every single day I see people get off on the wrong floor because the elevator stopped to pick someone else up. I use to make the guest aware of their mistake but I started losing my voice. Now I just watch them go. They'll figure it out.

One day I got on the elevator with an older gentleman. He was sharply dressed and was wearing gold, Elvis-style tinted glasses. He also had plenty of "bling" on his hands and around his neck. The smell of Old Spice and mothballs filled the elevator but he was not a wannabe mafioso. He was the real deal -old school Vegas. Armani shoes and a gold Rolex do not lie. That's how you can tell; shoes and watches are a giveaway that separate the money-men from the coin-boys. I wear Dr. Scholls and a 1986 Swatch.

We were descending past the tenth floor when he pulled a cigar out of his vest and fired it up. I think it was a Cohiba. The smoke and the smell filled the lift. The smell was better than the cologne-marinated mothballs but being the Dudley Do-Right I am, I decided to say something on behalf of the State of Nevada.

"Sir, I think you can pretty much smoke anywhere you want in Las Vegas, but the one place you can't is in an elevator."

The man pulled the cigar from his mouth and abruptly said, "Fuck you."

"Yes sir! Thank-you! Have a nice day!" I blurted.

FiN.