Concierge Confidential

by Fazio, Michael

  After two hours, Daria and I had enough. We went back to our office and started to decipher her notes. They were just words, and we had to try and remember if the stories had ever gone anywhere: “Football player, lingerie, ADD, fresh-squeezed.” It was like she was playing Password. Maybe that’s why Toma Vaca spoke Keyword; he’d been around Crystal all day. Everything was so disorganized I thought that Crystal had been flat-out messing with us.

  To cover my bases, I sent her an email reiterating the information she gave us in a clear, concise format and asking for some basic info.

  No response.

  It was T-minus two days. I didn’t have time to wait for her to get back to me. I forwarded the letter to Toma Vaca, in the hopes that he could fill in some blanks. “Oops! I forgot send this to you before, but this is what I sent to Crystal.”

  No response.

  I waited a couple of hours and then I called him. I decided that there were just a few things that were vitally important: Who are the members? How are they identified? Who lives in the building, and who has any kind of request happening between now and when we start on Friday? What are residents told as far as our hours and our obligations?

  “I’ll email you all these things,” he assured me.

  “Oh, and what’s the phone number directly to the concierge desk?” I asked.

  “I’ll find out! Right away!”

  He doesn’t even know the number? I thought. Oh, this is bad.

  I waited and waited—no response. I had meetings. My day continued—and I was starting to flip out. I wrote an email to the owner, asking him the same very basic questions that I had asked Toma Vaca. The owner then called up Toma Vaca and tore him a new one.

  I found this out when Toma Vaca called me that night. “I don’t know what to say to you,” he began. I expected the next words out of his mouth to be an apology; they were not. “I am so disappointed that you have a relationship with me, but you go over my back. I give you everything you ask for!”

  “I didn’t go behind your back or over your head, whichever you mean, to complain about you. I need to get the names of the people who are going to be calling my office in two days! Not to mention, I don’t know what’s going on with the NFL draft party that’s happening tonight that you’re hosting for Calvin Pace, and has two hundred and fifty people on the list, including Fox News who’s coming to broadcast it. Is he going to be calling me because fifty of his closest friends couldn’t get in? I don’t have Mrs. Armstrong’s phone number. I don’t have anybody’s credit card. So I’m supposed to just start paying for things for them out of my own pocket?”

  “I don’t know how you work, and we don’t know each other very well, but this is not the way to get a good relationship with me. If you ever have a problem, you need to just come to me.”

  “Well, I do have a problem. You have created an absolute catastrophe at that property. You have no command over your staff. You let this girl operate completely autonomously. You don’t know what’s going on. You’re in over your head and you know it, and you’re bluffing. I’m not going to be your fall guy when things go wrong—which they will if I don’t get this information!”

  Toma Vaca took a deep breath. “Okay, we start new, pretend. I want this to be successful. You will see that I am very direct and whatever I feel I have to express it. I am glad we talk and explain each other.” It was like he was shaking the Etch A Sketch of our relationship, and it made me respect him a bit more. “We need to have a meeting tomorrow morning, and I will get you everything that you need.”

  The next morning—one day before my company was taking the reins—we all had a big meeting at The Setai. The superintendent was there, the engineer was there, the marketing director, the membership sales director, the condo sales director, the spa manager—and Toma Vaca and Crystal Springs. Each person gave their piece, and between everyone I figured out the puzzle that was how The Setai actually worked. The final thing I needed was access to the building database and email. Fortunately, the IT guy had conferenced in on the meeting. Unfortunately, the speakerphone was so full of static that he sounded like a subway announcement.

  “I just need to be able to go to the files on that server,” I told him.

  “What? I can’t hear you.”

  “I need to get into your share drive,” I reiterated.

  “Sorry, you’re driving where?”

  “Pick up the phone,” I told Toma Vaca. “Just tell him what I need.”

  Tentatively, Toma Vaca reached for the phone, pressed a button—and disconnected the call. He sat there, staring at the screen, wondering what to do and making little mumbling sounds.

  * * *

  PEOPLE YOU’D ASSUME WOULD MAKE GREAT CONCIERGES—BUT WON’T

  The Charming Foreigner with the Ritzy Accent: Yes, he’s cosmopolitan and can speak to any guest in their native language. But his charm is compensating for the fact that he’s probably never really had to get down and dirty with the work.

  * * *

  I could tell Toma Vaca had no idea how to reach the IT guy, but I had been in touch with him before. I started reading Toma Vaca the guy’s number. “Six-four-six … No, I think you have to dial a nine first to get an outside line.”

  After that was taken care of, we started discussing exactly what kind of concierge service they were looking for. “We really do believe we only need partial coverage,” one of the managers said. “We just want somebody who’s very visible when the members come in after work. It’s a big gathering spot for after-work drinks. Someone presentable.”

  “So more like a prop?” I suggested. “I could get you some gorgeous models who are astute enough to know how to say hello to people.”

  “Perfect!”

  I called a modeling agent that I knew, and basically set up a casting call in my office that afternoon. I saw a bunch of people, but I wasn’t finding the person who was Wall Street smart and Setai pretty.

  And in walked Peyton. I was immediately taken with her. Not only was Peyton gorgeous, but her résumé was all business—literally. She had been a personal assistant to corporate executives, people who managed $150 million funds. She had long, flowing red hair with bangs that were pushed to the side. She looked very J.Crew, naturally clean and beautiful—but I could tell that she had a chic side as well. I hired her on the spot.

  * * *

  PEOPLE YOU’D ASSUME WOULD MAKE GREAT CONCIERGES—BUT WON’T

  The Gorgeous Model/Actor with the Magazine Hair: If they’re dumb, they can’t do their job. If they’re smart, they’re going to land a film role in two seconds and be out the door.

  * * *

  The next day, our official start date, I came by The Setai to see how Peyton was handling things. I was stunned, and not because she was stunning. She had makeup on, with big red lips. Her bangs were totally slicked with gel, and she had curled them so they were just barely over her eyes. Her hair was pulled back really tight in a barrette. She had a jacket with a little ruffle around it, and a shirt underneath that exposed a tiny bit of cleavage. Her skirt was so tight that she couldn’t step more than six inches at a time. She was carrying a peach-colored miniature spiral notebook that looked like it came from the MoMA Store, and a fancy pen to write with. The best thing about her costume—because that is what it was—were her gigantic horn-rimmed glasses. I could tell that they were props, because when I looked at them closely I could see that there was no magnifying power to the lenses.

  In other words, she looked fantastic. You sell the sizzle, but you eat the steak. She wasn’t there to be a concierge. She was a trophy playing a part, just like The Setai wanted. While she was there, greeting members and taking requests, me and all the other concierges in my office would be working around the clock to make sure the work actually got done—which it did.

  Calvin Pace had his party, and everyone who was supposed to got in. Mrs. Armstrong got her croissant every day, the flat kind (not the rolled kind) with the almond paste. I had them b
rought in from the Financier Patisserie on Cedar Street; as far as she was concerned, they simply continued to appear as if by magic. The members’ requests were being taken care of: somebody wants to be invited to the Playboy table at a Kentucky Derby fund-raiser party that’s completely sold out. Done. People constantly ask for reservations for Maialino, Kenmare, and Locanda Verde. No problem. What time would you like a table?

  That’s because when you want a concierge, you probably don’t want Party Girl Who Hangs Out at All the Hotspots, or a Charming Foreigner with the Ritzy Accent, or a Gorgeous Model/Actor with the Magazine Hair. Your best bet might be the forty-five-year-old who looks more like a landlord than a doorman, who got his start thinking that he was going to be the next big Hollywood movie mogul.

  2.

  Lady Liberty

  The door was locked, and I didn’t have the key.

  The Liberty Agency was a small office inside a quaint, exposed-brick building. But for the fact that it was in Westwood, California, it could have passed for a New York town house. I remembered it perfectly from the job interview; now if only I could get in. “Hi, I’m Glennis’s assistant,” I told them downstairs. “I think you have a key for me?”

  The secretary nodded and passed it to me. “Is this your first day?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good luck!”

  I went upstairs and let myself into the office. Even though it was a just a small boutique agency, and even though it felt very cozy and quaint, it was still Hollywood. There wasn’t a lot of celebrity memorabilia, but it still had the feel. Scripts were stacked up on the desk. The wicker wall units looked like they were from some magical far-off place, like Bali. On the wall there were photos. Sheens—Charlie and Martin—smiled in every direction, and Estevezes, too.

  Glennis had her own inner office, and there was a desk outside it for me. Or so I gathered. I walked around, practically on tiptoe. Crime scenes didn’t get as much as reverence as I gave to the clutter.

  Then the phone rang. I looked at it for one second, wondering if I should answer it. “Glennis Liberty’s office,” I said, not even bothering to say my own name.

  “Hey there,” she said.

  “Hi!” I was ready for her to tell me which scripts to read so that I could help her decide what the next Sheen movie should be.

  “I need you to go into my office. The third shelf down, on the bottom. I need you to take my curlers out. Put a half a cup of water in them and plug them in for me.”

  Before I could say anything, there was a dial tone.

  Okay, I could do this. I found the curlers and took them off the shelf. Water. Where’s the water? I didn’t even have a cup. There was a mug on Glennis’s desk. Can I use it? Would it be all right to get the mug wet? I took the mug to the bathroom, filled it up with a half cup of water, poured it into the curlers, and then plugged them in. They started steaming and churning.

  I sat down, being careful not to touch anything else, while I waited for her to show up. A few minutes later, the phone rang again. “Glennis Liberty’s office?” I said, still tentative.

  “Hey, who’s this?” It was Charlie Sheen. I am on the phone with Charlie Sheen.

  “This is Glennis’s assistant, Michael Fazio.”

  “Cool. Are you new?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Glennis there?” he—Charlie Sheen—said.

  “No, she’s not.”

  “All right. Well, I’ll try her later.”

  I hung up the phone. Oh my God, I thought to myself. I’m so in the biz!

  Soon Glennis arrived. She looked like an older Ralph Lauren model, tall and slim with aviator frame glasses and shoulder-length blond hair. She had the momentum of a Tasmanian devil, all frantic energy and bags everywhere. “Hey there,” she said, as she passed me to go into her office. She went inside and shut her door. She wasn’t mean, but I expected that there was going to be a little love.

  I sat. I waited.

  Twenty minutes later she buzzed me on the intercom. “I need you to come to my office.” I opened the door. I don’t know why I was surprised that she was sitting at her desk with gigantic electric steam rollers in her hair.

  “These are the breakdowns,” she said, handing me an envelope. “Go through these every morning and look for projects that you can submit our clients on.

  “Get familiar with everyone we have on file in this cabinet. we’ve got a DP, an editor, a sound guy, and see what you can do with Ivan Kane or Pamela London. We need to get them in front of more casting directors.”

  What about Charlie and Martin? I wondered. What are we doing with them?

  “Okay,” I said, excited. I opened up the envelope and went through it. The breakdowns were like want ads for TV shows, listing whatever creative and technical positions were needed at the time. I began fishing through the files, trying to figure out what the hell a “DP” was.

  “I’ve got a ten o’clock appointment,” Glennis soon told me. “I’ll be back!” Her hair ready to go, she left the office in the same kind of fury in which she’d come.

  Then, Charlie called again. “Hey, is Glennis there?”

  “Oh, you just missed her. Sorry!”

  “Oh, damn. So, going to be an agent?”

  “I’m keeping the options open, but yeah, I think it’s the right place to start before moving into production one day.”

  “Cool,” he said, hanging up.

  I went back to learning the breakdowns, trying to put two and two together. After a couple of hours Glennis came back. “You didn’t put my curlers away,” she said.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you wanted them put away,” I told her, just wanting everything to be okay.

  She brushed away my apology. “I need you to get me lunch at Hamburger Hamlet. I want you to get a cheeseburger, have it cut into quarters, and have each of those pieces put on its own bun. Medium rare.”

  “Sure,” I said. I could feel them rolling their eyes over the phone when I gave them the order. They knew Glennis well at that point and knew exactly what she wanted. They used to have their version of sliders called “baby cheeseburgers” on the menu, but they had long since discontinued them. Glennis didn’t need to know that little detail. The mission was four baby burgers, no matter how it happened. It was the ’80s and it was Hollywood, and everybody had their own food quirks—especially at such an industry-frequented place.

  I brought the burger back to the office and stood there, not really knowing what to do with it. It was four buns with little pieces of meat, just like she wanted. Glennis was on the phone, but vaguely gestured at me to get her a plate. I brought in the food and put it down in front of her. She vaguely gestured for me again, this time for me to sit down. For fifteen minutes I sat and watched her on the phone. “Why didn’t you tell me Charlie called?” she immediately said when the call was over.

  “Uh…” He hadn’t specified to tell her that he had called. I’d thought that we were all part of this big happy machine here, and he was just content to check in to see if she was there. That’s when I realized that maybe I wasn’t in the biz, that this wasn’t a tea party—and I had to figure out how to take better care of Glennis.

  Glennis gave me a look that said “Hello, is anyone home up there?” Suddenly, Charlie didn’t matter. From that point forward, I did everything I could to avoid ever ever ever getting that look again. I was a quick learner, and my new goal was clear. As long as she was tended to, my instinct told me, everything else would fall into place.

  Now the service bug was in me.

  The curlers became a morning ritual. I always plugged them in first thing when I got there in the morning. One day she was late, and the curlers turned off. I went, got the water and restarted them. I get it, I thought to myself with pride. I get how to make this lady tick. She’s going to be so happy now.

  Every day, I busied myself with the breakdowns and submitted candidates. I started to get good at understanding the roles. I’d tell Glennis
how many people I submitted and give her all the phone numbers. She had what she needed, and she had it because of me.

  Whenever Charlie came in, he’d go into her office and shut the door. I could hear them talking and I could smell him smoking. I just sat behind my desk with my electric typewriter, dying to know what was going on in there.

  As he left one day, Charlie pulled me aside. “I’ve been putting out my cigarettes in her coffee mug,” he told me. I knew that, of course. I was the one who had to clean them out. “Do me a favor. Get some joke ashtray, something really tacky. I want an ashtray in that office tomorrow.” He handed me a twenty-dollar bill and left.

  I stared at the money and thought about what to do. I could have gone to the drug store and gotten any old ashtray. But the service bug that I had discovered in me had only grown stronger. What can I do that will just blow him away? I wondered. What will make him see—make them both see—that I’m creative and fun?

  After work I went up and down Melrose, for hours. I went to thrift stores. I went to supermarkets. I went to disgusting old antique stores. I went all over, trying to find the exact right ashtray. Forty dollars later, I wound up buying four different ones so I could make the right choice.

  The winning selection was a plastic snow globe with a little Hollywood mountain in it and everything—and in 3-D! I waited for Charlie to come in, glancing at the door whenever I heard the slightest sound. Finally, he arrived. “Here you go,” I said, handing the ashtray to him.