The phone rang and I frowned. I was exhausted. It was New Year's Day 1993. Actually, it was New Year's Morning, since it was 2:45 a.m. I knew the time because it displayed on the wall-mounted black digital phone along with the room number, 614.
This filled me with excitement, despite my drowsiness. It was a tentative excitement. It was the excitement of knowing I was about to make another good tip, mingled with the dread of having to enter that room again.
I was working a double on room service, and I had experienced a broad spectrum of customer types throughout my shifts. The polite older couple who over-tipped me for delivering champagne was amazing. The wasted college-aged zombies who ordered chicken fingers and tater tots who fired tots at me as I exited their room were not so amazing.
The people in 614 were the most memorable that night. Well, aside from the two women who ordered a pitcher of sangria at the Jacuzzi on the 10th floor and made out for a moment before the brunette signed for the order, drops of chlorinated water blurring the blue ink of her signature.
I did some serious soul-searching afterward. Was that brazen kiss an invitation? Should I have slipped back upstairs with another round of drinks on my own dime?
But it got busy and several hours passed before they crossed my mind again. By that time they were probably back in their room, grinding in the New Year together. Meanwhile, my midnight celebration was downing one of the whiskey shots that the bartender snuck to the kitchen staff behind the dumpster out back.
Intriguing customers like the hot tub girls were rare during my brief career at the Summit Regency Riverside hotel in Flint, Michigan. Flint was a dead-end Rust Belt city and generally not the backdrop for exciting social encounters. Most visitors were drab middle-aged businessmen working in the auto industry.
The fifteen-story glassy hotel stood out prominently along the gloomy Flint skyline as the tallest building. It was on Saginaw Street, across from the city college where I was taking classes.
Peter Smith was the name associated with room 614. He checked in on December 31st, with a checkout time of 11 a.m. on the 1st.
Mr. Smith had signed for four room service orders. Dinner at 615 p.m., vodka drinks at 9:45 p.m., two bottles of champagne at 11:40 p.m., and calamari with more drinks at 1:40 a.m. Now the phone was ringing with order number five.
"Good morning, you've reached room service at the Summit Regency. This is John speaking, how may I help you?"
My voice sounded gravelly from exhaustion. In addition to running room service orders, I had been waiting tables, bussing, running out food orders, and washing dishes.
"Four eggs Benedict. Bacon. Sausage. Pitcher of coffee. Pitcher of orange juice. Bottle of champagne, same kind. Room charge, thirty percent tip. Deliver at 9:45. Open the door. Leave the cart. Remove empty trays."
Click. His voice was deep and thickly accented. He sounded Russian. His words were slurred from partying.
Mr. Smith didn't look like a Mr. Smith. He had an Eastern European appearance to him. Tall, big-shouldered, receding black hair, pale skin, a crooked nose that looked oft broken, asymmetrical yellowing smoker's teeth. Thirty-something, with a hint of crow's feet and a paunch.
He wore an ill-fitting gray sports coat, a white turtleneck shirt, black pants, and black Oxford shoes. No belt. A thick gold chain with a cross hanging at his sternum. His outfit struck me as an attempt at cleaning up for a New Year's Eve celebration. His normal getup was probably a sweatsuit and sneakers.
The dinner order last night was two fish and chips platters and two grilled salmon dinners. A whole key lime pie for dessert. Pitchers of cranberry juice, Coke, and ginger ale. He left a generous tip.
