Confessions Of A Hotel Burnout

Here's the first Chapter of "Hotel Hell LA: Confessions Of A Hotel Burnout" free of charge. Enjoy!

Chapter One
I've met Presidents, Performers, and Power Players. Rubbed elbows with the Rich, Famous, and Infamous. Hobnobbed with Icons, Elites, and Elitists. I don't get Star Struck anymore. I just get steamrolled by how classless Stars are. At least to me. Anyone can suck up to a Millionaire, but if you want to find out someone's true character, watch how they treat the peons. I should know, I'm the one they're frequently peeing on--figuratively. Though, if you look at some of their tips, fiscally too.

See, I'm a server at The Cahuenga in the world famous Hollywood Hell Hotel. Or, Hollywood Hills Hotel. The regulars call it the “Emerald Enclave.” Never mind that the hotel isn’t decked out in emerald, but rather in a key lime trim. But, when you‘re rich, you‘re always right--even when you‘re wrong. Least that’s what my bosses keep trying to tell me.

Of course they aren’t the ones having to take the heat coming out of this Hell's kitchen. And I guess hobnobbed wasn't the right word. More like waited on hand and foot. That's right, I've served the best of them, but never is it hotter under my collar than Award season. Come statue time, this joint is like a Who's Who Zoo of Starlets and Superstars. They mingle, then mangle the wait staff for making them wait twenty whole minutes for their caviar. I know it sounds like a cliché, but some of these Vapid Vixens have some work to do to even reach cliché. Shouldn't be too much trouble. Some of them have had so much work done on them they're more plastic than their no limit credit cards. The saying is wrong. The customer isn't always right. But they are always a pain in the ass. And I'm the one who's supposed to pucker up with five star luxury service.

Not exactly what I stayed up nights dreaming about in my Reseda bedroom. Little did I know thirty would be staring me down like a geek who hasn’t had a date this Millennia. My near decade long quest for a decent tip is a torturous battle against half-wits who order orange juice, but hate pulp, order lukewarm soup then complain it’s too tepid, and whine constantly about the contents of their wine glasses. But seven years into my wage slavery, I snapped.

See, because even though the stars seem to have everything under the Heavens, they always appear to be missing one thing--brains. Take Audrey Stevenson for example. The woman has fame, fortune, a house in the hills, and an A-list hunk to go home to every night. But instead of being happy, she’s out back at our pool cheating on Mr. A-list with some Cabana Boy Toy half her age. This is becoming rather old hat for Audrey though. Yesterday I had the displeasure of waiting on the horny Tabloid Queen herself. “Wait” being the operative word as I spent the better part of two hours waiting for the worlds unsexiest make out session to end so she could sign her check, mercifully allowing me to go home.

Granted, it’s refreshing when the cradle robbing takes an Older Woman/Younger Man twist, but not when the Starlet is acting like some two bit Adulteress. If it seems like I’m being harsh on the Tabloid Queen, that’s because I am. I don’t have fame, fortune, or even a house--no less one in the hills, but I do have a beautiful fiancé who’s the lone clear sky in my otherwise cloudy life. So the idea of cheating on her for cheap, meaningless sex maybe a lot of guy’s fantasy, but it’s enough to make me seethe like a petulant Child Star that hasn’t gotten their way.

Go figure, the stars get whatever they want and still aren’t satisfied. I just want a few days away from this hell hole, yet I can’t catch a break. Only two days stand between me and couch potato city, but the next forty-eight hours may just be the most migraine-inducing of my life. Typical of this hotel though, they break my back yet don’t provide me with medical benefits to pay for the chiropractor. And, just my luck, here comes Steve approaching me with another gripe sure to make my head ache.

“Dude, table five is getting restless” he remarks, with incredible energy considering how much Maitre D'ick has had him hauling ass for hours.

Steve is like a dog. He wants to hump everything, but he’s loyal to the bone. And boy has it been a long time since he’s boned anything. Won’t shut up about it. Of course, a long time for him is like a split second for us. He must be counting in dog years. But, I’ve known him for a long time, and he’s one of the reasons I’ve lasted in this hole so long. It’s always good to have someone watching your back. Especially in a place where it seems everyone’s looking to stick a knife in it. In the meantime, guests are trying to stick a fork in me.

I say “Alright, I’m coming,” then head back to the rat race.

The Cahuenga is as vintage as the Hollywood sign and has the cache to back it up. Thick-pocketed tourists come from far and wide to graze on our chopped salad while gawking at the fabled sign that launches a thousand delusions a day. But great as the views are outside, The Cahuenga is just as renown for its cavalcade of Hollywood A-listers, power lunches, three pictures deals, and more egos per capita than anywhere else on Earth. This is the kind of joint where shark isn’t just something on the menu. It’s a place where the menu is more just a list of suggestions, and special orders are as ordinary as high maintenance customers.

You can always sniff out the difficult customers, and it isn’t just from their overpriced colognes or perfumes. The general rule is, if you wouldn’t invite them to a party, then they’ll be the dinner party from hell. And this next table is sure to be just that.

I may have to resort to violence if I’m to be subjected to this buffoons hairpiece for any prolonged period of time. He’s a classic midlife crisis case. I can just imagine him pulling up to the valet stand in his brand new sports car, having left a loving wife and confused kids in the dust for this new Gold Digger and future Trophy Wife barely old enough to drink, but plenty old enough to suck off his credit cards.

They’re the kind of couple that give cliché’s a bad name. Now she gets money, and he gets sex, but what do I get out of this peculiar pairing other than a bleeding ulcer and a pounding headache? Dealing with them is going to be like tearing off a bandage. Better just to do it quick. Just one clean rip.

"Yeah, can I get the teriyaki chicken kabobs, but without the kabobs?" the Gold Digger inquires.

"One teriyaki chicken then," I reply, looking for swift mercy. .

"No,” she clarifies. “I still want the kabob order. I just don’t want the chicken to be on kabobs. Do you get what I’m saying?"

Are you kidding? Even Hairpiece doesn’t get what you’re saying. He’s already daydreaming about the sex he’s going to beg you for later. Meanwhile I’m just pleading for you to make some sense. But neither of us will get our wish.

"Yes. You want the chicken teriyaki plate," I plead, to no avail.

"No."

"Miss, teriyaki kabobs minus the kabobs equals a chicken teriyaki plate." And you=pain in the ass. But, like an open wound, she festers.

"Yes, but I like my chicken pre-cubed in bite size pieces, and it already comes that way with the kabobs. Now do you get it?"

I get it. This is all just some cruel game to see how long I can hold out before gouging my eyes out with a kabob stick. But any minute some hidden camera crew will come out letting me know this has all been just an elaborately staged joke. Then we’ll laugh this all off. Right? Oh wait. If only reality was like TV. I don’t see any happy sitcom ending coming out of this though. But I acquiesce, hoping Hairpiece will stir up enough empathy for me and throw an extra pity tip my way.

"Coming right up," I say. One made to order migraine. A la carte. A marathoner couldn’t have dashed away from that table faster than me. To let off steam, I mutter to myself “I’d like to make a kabob out of her."

I dart passed Maitre D’ick, who’s busy trying to put out his own fire at the host stand. Little did I know I’m the one who’s about to get burnt again. A real life Posse, the leader of which headlines the fictional pay cable show “Posse” tries to bull his way into our China shop.

"Welcome to the Hollywood Hills Hotel," Maitre D’ick utters smugly, his nose practically scraping the gold-encrusted chandelier on the ceiling.

The Posse Leader snaps back. "Some welcome. I’ve been standing here five minutes."

It’s pretty easy in this town to pigeonhole someone as an A-Hole because they play one on TV, but in the case of this Posse Punk, there’s no acting involved. Matter of fact, they should strip him of his acting awards, because being an A-Hole just comes naturally. Still Maitre D’ick, the master kiss ass puckers up.

"I’m very sorry Sir, but we’re extremely busy--" D’ick says in a tone that’s somehow apologetic and condescending.

But Posse Punk will hear none of it. And, almost as if reading page for page from the Douche bag Digest, he utters the universal axiom of blowhards everywhere. "Don’t you know who I am?"

And the award for biggest A-Hole in a leading role goes to…But a posse isn’t complete without a supporting cast, and this flock of hangers on look like they were plucked straight from Deadbeats ‘R Us. The kind of loser mooches who’d normally be living in their Mom’s basement and knocking up your sister just before going on the lam, but by whatever twist of fate they played in the sand box with the right future multi millionaire as a kid and now have a lifetime’s worth of smack talk bankrolled. These lame brains seem to be particularly vocal. The Head Hanger On declares "He’s the J dawg."

"Yeah. He’s the star of 'Posse,' yo!" another Mooch mentions.

"Yeah, I’m huge. Now fetch me a table, A-SAP," Posse Punk proclaims loud enough to annoy everyone in earshot.

It’s just like a scene from his show, except we don’t have the option of changing the channel. This is what happens when you cater to the rich and famous. Most of them don’t care if they’re infamous. Sure you get thicker wallets, but you also get fatter heads too. And, as much as Maitre D’ick would just as soon sock these suckers as seat them, when you’re dealing with people who’ve never heard “no,” there’s only one thing you can say.

"Yes Sir." Maitre D’ick darts his eyes around the restaurant, then approaches an empty, but non-bussed table. And, since there’s never a bus boy around when you need one, D’ick sets his sights on me. But he’ll have to wait his turn. I have punks of my own to pander to.

I move to a table where a Middle-Aged Man with an accent as thick as the foam in his cappuccino takes a sip of his drink, then gives me a mouthful to swallow. "That’s not hot enough," the legendary Hollywood hothead snips. Don’t want to make him snap. It wasn’t that long ago that this classic cinema cop had a real run in with the badge. Before you knew it, the drunken Silver Screen Star was slurring more than his words. He apologized via press release the next day, but I don’t see myself getting that lucky today.

"I’ll get you another one then," I reply.

"More foam too," he adds. Always one to overload me, Maitre D’ick hovers over my shoulder waiting for me to turn around.

"Where’s Domingo?" D’ick inquires.

"I think he’s on break."

"Juan?"

"He’s mopping the restroom."

"Don’t tell me--"

"Purge problem."

D’ick groans and mutters under his breath “stupid bitches.” Then true to his name, D’ick hands off the job to someone already with his hands full. "Help me bus this table then.”

D’ick is a master of false niceties. He has just as much intention of helping me as he does of giving me the night off. He’d be back at the host stand before I’ve even lifted the first dish if I let him, but this cappuccino’s getting colder by the minute, so I give D’ick the bad news. "Sorry, the road warrior needs more foam."

I give the cappuccino back to Antwaan at the service bar, and he looks like he’s ready to give me a one way ticket to the emergency room. Antwaan’s the kind of guy you could see mixing it up in the boxing ring when he’s not busy blending drinks. But he keeps himself busy exercising his brain. He’s only slinging drinking until he passes the bar exam. And with God as my witness, I wouldn’t want anyone else defending me. See, Antwaan doesn’t make a whole lot of friends, but the friends he makes are for life. Unfortunately, he’s not looking so jovial right now.

"You gotta be kidding me" Antwaan snaps.

Wish I were, but "Not hot enough and not enough foam."

"What does he need more foam for?" Antwaan inquires defiantly.

"Hey, it’s better coffee than a cocktail. The guys already slurred at enough Highway Patrol officers for one lifetime."

It’s incredible what celebrities think they can get away with. Sorry, rephrase. It’s incredible what celebrities do get away with. They commit crimes, yet never seem to do any time. Celebrities can literally get away with murder. I can’t even get out of a parking ticket.

"Yeah, it’s better to not make Max mad" Antwaan concedes.

"That’s right. Welcome to the Hollywood Hell Hotel, where the celebrities are always right."

"You mean the celebrities are always A-holes."

"Same difference."

"By the way, how’d your audition go?"

Everyone assumes you‘re an actor in this town. Especially if you‘re wearing an apron and pandering for tips.

"Dude, I‘m not an actor,” I reply.

Everyone assumes you’re from somewhere else too. Of course. Because no one could possibly be born and raised in Los Angeles. Like who would be happy just being themselves, instead of pretending to be someone else?

"Antwaan. For the last time, I’m not--”

"Oh I see. They’re going in a different direction, right?"

"Seriously. I‘m not an actor."

“Wait a minute. You’re just a waiter?”

There it is. Just a waiter. Antwaan looked at me like I had leprosy. In complete disbelief that waiting tables wasn’t just a stop off between auditions, but an actual career for me. There’s two types of people in this world. Those being waited on, and those doing the waiting. And I come from a long line of waiters. Not to mention cleaners. My family has scrubbed your toilets, cleaned your pools, and poached your eggs. Trust me, it’s not like we’re aspiring to be wage slaves, but the rents due at the end of the month. In a city built on dreams, living paycheck to paycheck is our cold, hard reality. But all that is about to change.

"Yeah. And I‘m just waiting on my cappuccino," I snip.

This is where the a paparazzi pic of the Adulteress comes in. I have a camera phone. I have the access. I could just snap a photo of the Starlet mid lip lock and I’d be the toast of the Gossip Rags with riches to boot.

It’s crazy to think one little picture like that would literally change everything for me. But it would. An exclusive photo like this could easily sell for seven digits to the Gossip Rags. Do you know what $1,000,000 means to a career Waiter? It spells sweet relief. No more back breaking double shifts. No more bank breakingly cheap tips. No more Maitre D’ickery from a dick wad Boss. Because with this money, I could be my own Boss. I could start my own business. Launch my fiancé’s Fashion Label. She could do all the designing, and I’d handle everything behind the scenes.

We could make her dream come true. Who know, maybe then we could finally live the American dream? A house in the suburbs. Two kids. Picket fence optional. But I’m getting ahead of myself. A vacation will come first. A long, much needed vacation. And go figure, I’d finally be able to afford to stay here at the Hollywood Hills Hotel. But after the crap I’ve been through, why would I want to? It’s all about relief. Who doesn’t want a decent job to go to? Where they are respected. To just be treated like a fellow human being. It’s surreal to be in a luxury environment and feel like you don’t count for anything. I may not have World Changing Talent, but it doesn’t mean I’m just a doormat to step on.

Yeah, this photo can change all that. It can change everything. All I have to do is track down Audrey Stevenson. But I don’t have time to play paparazzi just yet. After all, the Whiner is waiting for his cappuccino.

I give the foaming at the mouth Customer his drink, then receive complaints from another table about when they’ll be getting their food. I move into the kitchen to check on their orders.

It's like the United Nations in the kitchen with all the bickering and dysfunctionality. There's Manuela, the prickly Mexican thorn in my side. Claude, the hoity toyty French Sous Chef and perpetual cloud over my head. Philip, the always broke bloke from across the pond who makes such horrible bets you'd think he's taken one too many penalty shots to the head. Then throw in Ugu, the former call center representative who outsourced himself to our kitchen as a line cook. Ugu has taken to profanity, but hasn't quite grasped the subtleties of the English language. He's frequently heard spouting gems like "shit fuck that" or "shit hole." No one dares correct him, fearing we'll lose our comedic relief.

Then there's Sergei, the Ruskie Chef as crooked as his nose. He always has the latest gadgets. Says they fell off the truck. But he's tough as a Siberian winter and not much easier to understand. "Come on, we party on dude" he mutters. Rumor is he learned English from 1980's sitcoms.

"That's ok Sergei," I say "I'll just take the salad."

"Bummer man."

The real bummer would be going to Sergei's party. Carl from the laundry department went once and found a gaggle of women each more beautiful than the next parading in front of him. He never dreamed of fantasizing for tail like that. But his dream turned to a nightmare quick when he found out the women weren't after him for his sense of humor, but for citizenship. That’s what happens when you have a green card on your mind and are willing to do almost anything to get it.

"Sergei, you know I'm engaged," I say.

"Ok, later dawg."

Sergei hands me the salad, and I move on down the line to haggle with Guillermo for an order of Wagyu beef. "Where’s the Wagyu?"

"It’s coming," Guillermo assures me. I don’t feel so sure though. Guillermo’s a notorious perfectionist. But, every moment the guests are made to wait, Guillermo’s eating away at my tip.

"Not fast enough."

"This is as fast as I can go," Guillermo replies, working at a pace that makes a snail look swift.

"They didn’t order escargot. Come on, pick up the pace."

Guillermo seems to have finally gotten the memo. Just in time too. He produces the beef. "Wagyu," he yells. I look at the slab of beef and practically turn pink. Turns out sometimes even perfectionists have flaws.

"Guillermo, do you not want me to get stiffed tonight? Frenchie asked for this extra rare,” I declare.

"So?"

"So this is medium rare."

"It barely touched the grill. If it were any rarer, the cow would still be moo-ing."

"You can tell that to the frog then. I’m telling you, if I serve him this, he’s going to chew me out until I croak."

And if he sees this, he’s going to croak. The French may have open minded ideas about monogamy, fashion, and hygiene, but when it comes to their food, they won’t accept any bull. But, I have more shit of my own to shovel.

"Where's my Cobb Salad for table fifty-four?" I yell, to Hideo on the line.

"Any hot pieces of ass out there?" Hideo inquires, stalling.

"Hide, I could toss the salad faster than that." His name may be Hideo, but we call him Hide because he seems to be playing hide and seek whenever the dinner rush comes.

"I'd like to see you try," Hideo replies, flirting.

"Down boy. Besides, thought you already had Jamal on a leash."

"Don't tease me," Hideo remarks as he gets moony-eyed, "He could put me on a leash anytime." If you can't tell, Hideo isn't just the kitchen's salad maker, he also likes tossing salad in the sack.

"I'll send my regards."

"You wouldn't."

"Better get on him quick, he's out there chatting up Bareback," I add, referring to the star of the Gay cowboy movie Hideo plays on a loop in his apartment. Even talking about the flick gets Hideo lusting.

"My cowboys out there?" Hideo swoons.

"Get your lasso ready."

"Giddy up," Hideo says, stiff enough to shoot someone's eye out.

Too bad the Rich Bitch at table fifty-four will probably give me a death stare if she doesn't get her food soon. "Hide. Cobb."

"I just need a quick peek first."

"Hide."

"Fine. Tossed." Hideo tosses the salad my way then practically tackles a bus boy to sneak a peek. Hideo could have died happy after that eyeful. I wanted to play a little hide and seek of my own.

Shit, here comes Steve with bad news practically printed across his face.

"Timmins, have I got a surprise for you," Steve remarks.

"Please tell me it’s good news."

"Is it ever?"

"How bad is it?"

"Forty wants the check split eight ways."

Steve hands me a payment folder. I open it and see the eight credit cards. My eyes practically roll back in my head. Women have a number of gender specific abilities that serve to baffle men. The ability to have multiple orgasms, to multitask, or to practically be able to read men’s minds. But when you work in food service, it’s one of women’s inabilities that remains the most glaring. "It’s always the chicks," I mutter to myself.

Ludicrous as paring an eighty dollar check down into eight ten dollar morsels, in the Five Star Foodie-Verse, that eighty dollar check is more like eight thousand. There aren’t enough aspirin in the world to tame that kind of splitting migraine. But, headaches like this have a way knowing how to go from bad to worse.

Steve groans out "Damn Celebutantes.”

And to Celebutantes, a special salute with both my middle fingers. Do us all a favor and make something of your lives that doesn’t involve giving servers an urge to gouge their eyes out with a spork. And now, we return to your regular programming.

“Unbelievable,” Steve continues, with the understatement of the Millennia.

“They have their own hotel chain. What are they coming here to nickel and dime me for?" I ask.

"Oh, cut ‘em some slack. It’s no simple life in being a spoiled Heiress."

"It wasn’t so simple waiting on them either. She sent her filet back three times, and when she was finally done picking at it, she made me chop it into tiny pieces so she could bring it home to her little purse dog."

Leave it to rich bitches to treat animals like accessories. To the bimbos, their pooches are accessories. Accessories to their owners crimes against humanity. They can’t even show a little empathy. Guess her parents didn’t teach her any decency. They had me running around like a dog for hours. Too bad I don’t get fed as well as their pooches.

"That’s why they call it a doggie bag," Steve jokes, though I’m not laughing.

"Yeah, well lets see if she tips like a bitch."

"Here, I’ll process those,” Steve utters. Uh oh. Steve’s a good guy, but not this good. What gives? “You better get a beat on table fifty-three,” he continues.

"Why are you snickering?"

Confessions Of A Hotel Burnout

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