Concierge Confidential

by Fazio, Michael

  Just to be on the safe side, we debriefed the housekeeper. “Walk me through it,” I told her. “What did you do, specifically? What kind of rag was it? Was it Pledge? Windex? Fantastik?”

  “I didn’t do anything!” she insisted. “I didn’t drop anything. I was just cleaning the bar, and there was a bunch of shelves, and they were glass shelves, and they were dusty. I lifted it and was dusting under it, and that’s when he came in. I didn’t drop it. I only picked it up. He saw. He saw me. All I did was pick it up. I didn’t drop it!”

  The funny thing is, this poor housekeeper probably didn’t even know what an Emmy was. To her, it was some tacky gold statue. She would’ve held a piece of Lladró pottery with more regard than his precious, allegedly damaged Emmy.

  I couldn’t call Todd back myself, since I would’ve gotten the company into a lot of legal hot water if I said the wrong thing. Abigail Michaels had represented that the maid wouldn’t touch the Emmy and, goddamnit, she touched the Emmy. We were the ones ultimately responsible for any kind of damages—not the housekeeping company.

  Out of curiosity, I searched online to find out what Todd had won the Emmy for—and I couldn’t find his name on any site that listed past Emmy winners. He’d probably bought it at an auction. Maybe some former lover won it, and the statue was important to Todd because it was all that he had left.

  Poor Daria was beside herself. “I don’t know what to do,” she told me. “When he first called me, he said he was okay and that he understood that things happen. Now he’s going on about how it’s completely unacceptable, it is absolutely damaged, and how he’s not going to sit by.”

  “You know what?” I said. “He’s not going to be happy unless we make this very official, so I’ll contact the Emmy people.”

  And I did. I reached out to the Academy of Television Arts & Sciences in Studio City. I told the story to many people, making my way up the chain until I could speak to someone in the Emmy repair department—the nonexistent Emmy repair department. I was telling it like a comic story. I didn’t try to depict him as a lunatic, but as an absurd chain of events. I wanted them to be invested in helping me.

  “You know what?” someone finally said. “Just send the statue to me. I’ll take a look at it, and we can redip it. If it’s that big of a deal, we’ll just have it redipped.”

  “Oh my God. How much is that going to cost?”

  “I don’t know. Let me see what I can do.”

  Daria let Todd know that the Emmy was being taken care of through official Emmy channels. To be sure that he was mollified, we hired an air courier to ship it to Los Angeles. It required, literally, a courier coming to his apartment, putting the Emmy in a box, wrapping it in Styrofoam, and taking it directly to a waiting airplane. In other words, it was pretty much the same process that they use to handle human organs for transplant.

  Our whole week was about the Emmy. Where’s the Emmy? Did the Emmy get to Los Angeles? Now who’s got it? Who signed for it? Has the Emmy dipper examined it and offered his appraisal of the damage?

  After a week, Todd called Daria back. “This is crazy,” he told her with a straight face. “I didn’t think it was going to take this long. I need it back by Tuesday because I’m having a dinner party. Enough is enough!”

  The Emmy guy in Los Angeles was as nice as can be, but he wasn’t sure when he’d get around to it. I just made an executive decision that Todd was the kind of person who was his own worst enemy. He was much more interested in having “his” Emmy treated with reverence and respect than in having it actually redipped. “Just tell him it’s done,” I said to Daria, “and get them to reship it back to his house.”

  I don’t even know if it was ever taken out of the box. They simply returned it to our office, box and all. Part of me wanted to see if there was any damage, but I was certain after talking to the maid that absolutely nothing had happened to it. We messengered it to Todd’s big Central Park South apartment in time for his dinner party—and we never heard a peep out of him again.

  * * *

  WEALTHY-TO-ENGLISH DICTIONARY

  Fantastic: Has replaced “terrific” and “fabulous.”

  Bespoke: Custom-made. It cries out “I’m special. This was made JUST for me.”

  Bootblack: Shoe shine or shoe repair.

  Nothing precious: “We don’t want to spend too much.” You would never want to say, “We want something cheap.”

  Plebey: Rich people love to mix with “the people” from time to time. Plebey means “low brow,” like a diner or a bowling alley.

  Salad: Code for “nothing too expensive,” but it also implies “we’re really tight with our money.” It’s a big lady’s term. “We want a really fantastic restaurant that does creative salads” means that if the entrées are thirty dollars, they’ll just split a salad—but they want it to be gigantic and very filling with lots of stuff. There are places that specialize in just this, like the Cheesecake Factory and Planet Hollywood.

  Artisanal: Technically it means “handmade,” but it’s a marketing term used to connote unique and special. It’s such a new term that most computer software thinks it’s a typo.

  Girl: Housekeeper. “My girl is so great at windows.”

  Man: Anyone within reach who looks like they can lift something heavier than a nine iron. “Ask the man to hang the picture.”

  Boy: A male who is needed to do something that doesn’t require as much skill as hanging a picture. “The boy will collect my luggage.”

  Cellular: Rich people stick with the formal term “cellular” for their cell phones.

  Nice to see you: The new “nice to meet you.” This implies that one is so well traveled in social circles that they assume they’ve met everyone. It also provides insurance against saying “nice to meet you” to someone you have already met.

  Marvelous: You have to be seventy years old to use this term, but it’s the right one if you enjoy a bespoke lifestyle.

  * * *

  18.

  Wake-up Calls

  Out of the blue, I got a call from Whoopi’s right-hand man Tom. “Whoopi is doing a radio show,” he told me, “and she and I are moving to New York. I’m coming out there in a few weeks to look at apartments. Do you think you can get me a good rate at your hotel?”

  “I’m not at the hotel anymore,” I told him. “I have my own company now. But I can definitely set you up.”

  “Oh, that’s great. What kind of business is it?”

  “It’s providing concierge service to luxury apartment buildings.”

  “Really? Well, that sounds interesting. We should get together. It’d be great to reconnect.”

  I got us some reservations at a really hip seafood restaurant. It was definitely the kind of place that I thought Tom would find impressive. It was cool in and of itself, but the TriBeCa vibe would make it seem even cooler after coming from L.A. I explained to him that, despite the help of Whoopi and all the other celebrities, the hotel business was still really hurting. It had seemed like the time to move on.

  When dinner was over, I asked the waiter for the check. “There’s no check,” he told me. “This is compliments of the owner. Thank you for referring so much business, and congratulations on your company.”

  “Thank you so much!” I said, doing somersaults inside. They were doing me a favor by even seating us, so eating our bill was a double bonus—not to mention the fact that the waiter announced it to the whole table, instead of just taking me aside to let me know.

  Tom looked at me, and he got this strange expression on his face. I had gotten him 50 percent off on his hotel room, and now I got a $200 dinner comped without even asking for it. He was witnessing the magic behind being a concierge.

  From then on out, Tom and I spoke all the time. “What did you do today?” he’d ask. “Tell me about your job. This is crazy. How was this week? What happened?”

  My wheeling and dealing really struck a chord with him, because he told me he wanted me to be a g
uest on Whoopi’s show the week of its launch. Obviously I was thrilled at the opportunity—but terrified at the same time.

  “Our producer is going to call you this afternoon,” Tom said. “He just wants to preinterview you.”

  Oh my God, I thought. This is weird. I’m going to be on a national radio show. I’ve never been interviewed live before. I’ve only been interviewed in articles.

  The producer was nice and normal and funny, and we had this ten-minute conversation about my job. I told him about some funny clients and a few techniques I used to help me with my work. Just like that, I was going to be on the air the next day.

  I obsessed over how to act, and I obsessed about what I was going to say, and I obsessed about what I should wear right up until it was time for the show. It was kind of fun heading to the radio station, being on the list, and passing through security. They took me down a hall of studios, glass windows everywhere, until I saw the red ON AIR sign. I walked up and paused right before the window into Whoopi’s studio. I tried to calm myself down and act nonchalant, like I’d known Whoopi for years—even though we’d never met and I’d only spoke to her on the phone twice.

  Do I just stand here until they’re ready for me? I wondered. No, they probably need to know that I’m here. I channeled the outgoing side of me, the Michael who can walk into Penn Station and demand entry for a string quartet, and stepped forward with a big smile and a wave.

  “Hold on,” Whoopi said, over the air. “Michael Fazio’s here! The concierge extraordinaire is here with me. Tune back in right after this commercial break and you’re going to meet my friend Michael.”

  I came into the room and instantly some of my anxiety dissipated. It was like I was connecting with a friend that I hadn’t seen in years. “Tommy told me what happened at the restaurant!” Whoopi said. Tommy had told her this and Tommy had told her that. “I love your job. I should’ve been a concierge. I’d be so good at it!” She was right; she would have been good at it. She definitely knows her stuff.

  She interviewed me for a bit, and I shared some funny war stories about the profession. “Michael’s going to come back on Friday, and he’s going to take your phone calls.” I am? “So if there’s anything you want to ask him, you call back on Friday.”

  I scrambled to think of any more stories that I could offer, so there wouldn’t be any dead air.

  “This is going to be great,” she insisted. “I want you to come back and we’ll take some calls, and maybe you can fulfill some requests for the listeners.”

  Yes, Ms. Goldberg. Whatever you say, Ms. Goldberg. Right away, Ms. Goldberg!

  I returned to the show on Friday with my notepad at the ready. I expected some Tiffany to be calling from Las Vegas, dying to go to Pure and asking for my tips on how to get in.

  “If you want Michael to do something,” Whoopi said, “don’t ask him to do it for you. Ask him to do it for somebody that you want to help.”

  The very first call came from Ohio. “My best friend’s brother is really, really into the wrestling, and the WWE is having a big show in Columbus. He would just love to meet the stars.”

  “Okay,” I said. “That’s great. What’s his passion about wrestling?”

  “He has cerebral palsy and he’s in a wheelchair. He just loves the theatrics. They’re like superheroes. I want to get tickets for him, but I really want to be able to make it super-special. Like front row seats or something.”

  “Stay tuned,” I said. “My job is all about front row seats. Let’s see what we can do and we’ll report the results back here next week.” It wouldn’t be that hard, I figured, but we had to elongate the suspense.

  It turned out that there was nothing available; the WWE really did have a big following. I knew every backdoor trick to getting front row center—and it was usually accompanied by a big price tag. But did it work the same way in Ohio? Was I going to be stumped on a national radio show by a Midwest wrestling match?

  Wait a minute, I thought. I’m on a national radio show hosted by Whoopi Goldberg. It’s not like I needed the tickets for Alan Chiles. My usual strategy would have started with the venue. Then I’d move on to a broker. Then I’d track down the wrestlers’ reps. Cutting to the chase, I knew I just needed to go straight to the top.

  I can find anyone anywhere, and in a few clicks of the mouse, I had a direct name and number for the person who handled all PR for the WWE. “I’m working on Whoopi Goldberg’s radio show,” I told them, “and we have a listener who’s a huge fan. Can we take this over the top? Can he actually go backstage? What can you do?”

  They vetted the guy’s story—and then they rolled out the red carpet for him. They arranged for him to come during the day when they do all of their rehearsals. There was a preshow dinner backstage, which he was welcome to stay for. The wrestlers took tons of pictures with him, even ones sitting in his wheelchair. They went all out and over the top, as wrestlers are wont to do.

  The original caller contacted Whoopi’s show next week, absolutely beside himself. “I’m going to put my friend on the phone.”

  The friend was so excited that it was hard to understand him at first, but it was very easy to make out the “thank you”s and the word “awesome” that he must have said ten times. The thrill of what he got to experience was palpable. But it still felt a little awkward, because I figured any intern could have accomplished the same thing with the power of Whoopi’s show behind them. But maybe I did have something special. After all, I knew how to ask, I knew who to ask, and I got it done quickly.

  I looked at Whoopi while she was talking to him on air. She winked at me. It wasn’t a scene from a Lifetime TV movie. It was just her and me enjoying a little private acknowledgment that we gave this guy a little lift.

  As Whoopi wrapped it up to go to commercial, the guy said, “I love you Whoopi, and I will be listening to you every morning.”

  Her voice cracked as she signed off. It was a pretty great radio moment.

  “That was wonderful!” the producer told me after the segment. “We’re going to make an experiment. We’re going to take requests on Wednesday and pay them off on Friday so there’s not this lapse. Can you come back?”

  “When?” I asked him, not believing what I was hearing.

  “Every Wednesday and Friday?”

  “I’d love to.”

  The next time I was there, the caller had a similarly touching story. “My son-in-law and daughter have been married for six weeks,” she told us. “He was deployed to Iraq, and his twin brother was just killed last month. He’s coming back for four days in three weeks. We live in San Diego. I don’t know where to send them. Could you just tell me what I could do to make for a really magical evening? Anything, just so they can have a memorable night out. I don’t even know what to plan for them.”

  “What do they like?” I asked her. “Tell me a little bit about them.”

  “He’s all about the water. He loves fishing and he loves sailing; things like that are really his favorite.”

  “All right,” I said. “I have a couple of ideas.”

  I remembered researching the $300,000 yacht I got for Zinovy’s client. A little homework revealed that Royal Caribbean had a few short cruises from California to Mexico. It was a pretty generic itinerary, but it would be on their brand-new ship. Another few minutes of snooping scored the executive list for the company. I called the company, and once again it couldn’t have been easier. I was Michael “the concierge expert,” calling from a national radio show starring Whoopi Goldberg.

  The young couple got the captain’s suite. It was as if they stepped into an episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, with every decadent amenity possible on their three-day cruise to Mexico.

  The radio show became all about “queen for a day,” and what I could make happen for people. The calls got sappier and sappier over the course of a year, and the callers almost started to compete as to who had the saddest story—and therefore deserved the most free stuf
f.

  “Listen!” Whoopi eventually said. “You can call for liver but you can’t call him for a liver. Michael’s the kind of guy who can find the best liver for you—but not a liver for you.”

  Then I got a call in Abigail Michaels office from Adam Farris. Adam was a developer who owned a couple of apartment buildings in the city. He was toying with hiring Abigail Michaels to provide concierge service in some of his developments. “Let’s see how good you are,” he said, like I was on some sort of audition.

  “Try me.” I couldn’t stand people who started their communication with such a cliché challenge.

  “I want you to get me a PlayStation for my son.”

  The PlayStation was the toy of the season. If he had asked me months before, it probably wouldn’t have been a big deal. But he asked me three days before it was coming out. People were already camping out in front of the stores.

  In other words, it was the kind of challenge that stirred up a lot in me. I was completely over having to prove myself. But I knew that I was wired to wow people, and I thrived on doing it anyway.

  Who do I know at Sony? I thought. Who do I know at Best Buy? Who do I know at Circuit City? I started doing my networking calls, putting my request out to every possible resource. The response was universally negative. “Oh my God,” a typical contact told me. “I don’t know. The waiting list is a mile long with names like Steven Spielberg and Tom Cruise.”

  “Oh, I know,” I said. “I know you can’t—but you will for me, right? I know it’s impossible. It’s only my whole company’s face that rests on this one request. The thing is, Adam’s so great. He’s such a nice guy.” Why am I still being so old school and begging? I wondered. Would it be considered bad if I used my new trump card? Or is that just a new part of my concierge craftiness that I have in my arsenal?

  All right, maybe I was being a little bad.

  I wasn’t getting real concrete evidence that anyone was going to come through. Finally, I pulled my trump card with a publicist. “Hi,” I told her. “I do segments twice a week on the nationally syndicated radio show Wake Up with Whoopi!”