Human Squirrels

"...you're not how much money you've got in the bank.  You're not your job.  You're not your family, and you're not who you tell yourself.... You're not your name.... You're not your problems.... You're not your age.... You are not your hopes."  ~Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

Every day can be a stress test at a hotel, depending on your attitude.

It’s blatantly obvious that I don’t have the best attitude about my job, or about many other things in life. I am a lifelong pessimist. I am a negative person and I’m not very fun. It’s become sort of an internal joke that I’ve elected to work in hospitality, but intensely despise the public. I don’t have faith in humanity. I do not “enjoy people’s quirks” like so many people in hospitality say (but that’s sure as hell what I said in my interview!). It’s not a coincidence that the “suits,” as I like to call them, have this conviction that all people are wonderful and fun. Of course, these are the people who make triple my yearly salary and never actually need to face these people in person. Next time you check into a large hotel, look for the frown lines and vacant, glossed-over eyes on the front desk staff.

You will be face-to-face with the living dead.

After years of being a corporate slave in various industries, I am convinced that a young American’s greatest motivation for obtaining a bachelors degree, even on a subconscious level, isn’t to expand horizons, network and make new friends, or acquire the skills to contribute to society. Not in the United States. In my case, I desire that one-way ticket out of customer service hell. The oak framed certificate on my wall that excuses me from the service sector. Nobody really wants these jobs, and it is the only area in this economy that is growing at a steady pace. I don’t think you’ll stop hearing about people going JetBlue in the middle of a shift.

The aptitude tests I took in grade school always indicated that I would thrive in independent work. I thrive best in the warm, fuzzy blanket of silence and solitude. In the mean time, I am the human cattle prod of the largest four-diamond hotel this side of the American Southwest.

And the pseudo-philosophical rant is over.

This city, for a little over two decades, has hosted one of the largest film festivals and music events in the country. This year, upward of 100,000 people will attend. Because of our sheer size and proximity to the city center, we are the feature hotel for the event. Our rooms sell out almost a year in advance and, consequently, we spend a lot of time preparing for it.

When my assistant manager was first hired at the property, she was instructed by general manger to be the “cheerleader of the front desk,” which for some reason reminded me of something Sarah Palin would say. My assistant manager took this to heart and really has been somewhat of a cheerleader. She anticipated a plummet in morale and knew that the festival would arouse tension. Her efforts have been adorable, as embarrassing as they are. We’ve been required to wear themed t-shirts daily, which are super comfortable by the way. I suppose it’s that guests take us that much less seriously. She has also supplied the back office with chocolate bars, potato chips, and other snacks. During every shift meeting, she passes out plastic party favors bought in bulk from the Dollar General. I think we all appreciate these small gestures. The majority of us are members of Generation Y and will probably never shed the cloak of childishness. I guess upper management knows we rely on constant praise and juice boxes to survive a work day. She’s a saint.

It would be a gross exaggeration if I said the guests attending this event are difficult on an individual level. They’re really not. Most of them are mellow twenty-somethings here to have a good time. They’re generally low maintenance and are easy to get along with. I suppose my grievances aren’t with guests as much as the masses and masses of bodies commuting through the hotel. Imagine the volume of one thousand chattering strangers, and multiply that by eight hours. We’ve been armed with a glass jar of cough drops in the event we lose our voices. I suppose if I were to find a silver lining, I do have the privilege of yelling at guests all I want. They won’t hear me otherwise:

"WHERE'S THE BATHROOM?"

"WHERE'S THE BATON?"

"THE BATHROOM!"

"WHAT? THE BATON?"

"THE BATHROOM!"

"OVER THERE!"

 All of this reminds me of the interrogation techniques used against Shi’ite terrorists at Guantanamo Bay. In addition to the water boarding, interrogation experts would sometimes force prisoners into a cement room. They were forced to stand with their hands chained to the floor, while strobe lights and Clockwork Orange film projections shot against the walls. They would be left in there for hours, while guards blasted Black Sabbath and Marilyn Manson at maximum volume. That’s an exaggeration, but it’s the best metaphor I can come up with. A 56-hour work week homage to War on Terror Gitmo torture. I thought I was starting to hallucinate when I started seeing man-sized chipmunks and squirrels roaming the lobby, holding cardboard signs with the phrase “Get Acorn” written in magic marker. I was quickly reassured that “Get Acorn” is actually a new Ap for iPhone, that is was a marketing stunt, and that I had no real cause for concern.

It all became especially surreal when, at the end of a long evening, I was yelled at in German because the hotel did not have a smoking room available. Despite the enraged shaking that happens to me during guest confrontation, or the sharp pain in my arm (so severe, sometimes, that I cannot even lift it), I blanked out. I guess it has become a sort of defense mechanism. While this pint-sized blonde was shrieking Germanic obscenities, I astral projected into space.

Bach’s prelude from Cello Suite No.1 plays in my head sometimes when it happens.

I also unintentionally made a girl cry, too.

Because I wouldn’t hold onto her luggage for her.

Because she wasn’t even a guest in the hotel.

I guess my lack of empathy for some of these people brings new definition for the phrase “checked out.”