It happens a lot more than you would think: People travel without credit cards. They actually think they can get around in this day and age without a credit card to their name. Mind boggling, right? Naturally, some people will lose them. Maybe on a flight when reaching for their cell that just dropped under their crammed seat, or forgetting it with the cashier when buying their duty-free Scotch. Make sure you are prepared.
The bottom line when it comes to swanky hotels is: not having a credit card is a major no go. Unless, you have a round-the-clock assistant who can fax or e-mail a third party payment agreement, you will be S.O.L, my friend. This even includes celebrities, athletes and drug dealers who often whip out a bulge of cash that makes me turn my head twice.
At my current place of work, I would say on average we have at least three rooms that will be trashed or full of broken furniture. Shit, one guy lit his curtains on fire once. I am talking about damage anywhere from $300 to thousand of dollars worth damage. And many hotels have recently undergone tens of millions, if not hundreds of millions of dollars in renovations. Not to mention, most rooms have a mini bar worth about $700. Getting the picture? The credit card is a shield, protection, condom. Call it whatever you want. It’s the hotels life line when shit hits the fan.
Last night this punk rocker guy comes waddling in to my hotel, with more tattoos then body parts, his suitcase in tow, at about 4 a.m. Anyone usually rolling in at this time is getting a very expensive room for a very short booty call, or is up to some illegal shit. This guy however just wanted to go to “sleep,” as he claimed.
First thing he says as he approaches the manager at the front desk is, “Hi, I’m Curtis Lenoir, stayed here for about three months, spent $100,000. Just flew in, I need a room.”
The manager responds, “Sure Mr. Lenoir I just need an I.D. and credit card and I will set up a reservation for you.”
Curtis replies, ” Okay, really? Really? I don’t have a credit card. Check my history, I’ve spent $200,000 here, six months ago. I just need a fucking room, I’ve been traveling for 20 hours.”
The manager quickly retorts, ” Sir, we need to have a credit card. It’s hotel policy.
Mr. Lenoir replies, “Look at you with your fake smile. Disgusting. Treating me like this. Everyone at the _______, treating me like this after all I’ve invested into this hotel.”
“No, no, Sir I’m trying to help you,” the manager pleaded.
“This place sucks, it’s not like the _____________(another one of our properties). Fucking city of Lost Angels,” he bickers.
” The __________ is a nice property the manager replies.”
“Really, you ever fucking been there?” firing back.
At this time two security agents, a front desk person, and I were all within ten feet of Mr. Lenoir.
He then proceeds to give $100 cash to the manager. “Here, for your troubles. I’m sorry, I’m just tired.”
The manager graciously refuses about 15 times.
Mr. Lenoir, the punk rocker, shouts, “I don’t even fucking know what you are saying right now.”
This proceeds to a quiet staring match between Mr. Lenoir and my manager that lasts two minutes.
“Sir, I’m going to need a third party authorization form faxed to the hotel. I can set up your reservation in the mean time.”
He places the $100 tip on the front desk and walks away.
“I gotta make a phone call, Can you watch my stuff?” he says walking away.
“Yes.” she says.
He walks outside to the front door where, four girls are hanging out, smoking.
The manager asks me to get his I.D. so she can start making his reservation.
I proceed to walk outside, where I come across Mr. Lenoir accosting the girls who aren’t having one minute of his rudeness. In fact they begin the name calling back. I interject asking Mr. Lenoir for his I.D to get the reservation rolling. He gives it to me.
And as I walk back to the front desk, lo and behold, his I.D. states he is not a Mr. Lenoir, but someone else entirely. All cards are betting against this guy. I knew it!
He comes back five minutes later.
“Do you have my room ready?” he asks.
“Sir, no form has been faxed yet.”
Tears begins falling from his face, his voice pitch crackles high, “I just want a room. I need to sleep. I’ve been traveling from New Zealand to London to Paris to Toronto and now the city of Lost Angels. No one wants to help me. You gotta apparently fend for yourself. And now these girls in your front driveway just called me a cunt.”
“Sir, is there anyone you can call?”
He put his Aussie cowboy hat back on. “I’m making some phone calls in the morning!” he screams and leaves the property.
After the odd incident, there was a weird feeling in the air. What really was going on with this guy? He was cocky, mean, giving, sad and then gone forever. Who was this mystery man and what was he all about?
Working at a hotel, especially on an overnight shift, you seem some crazy shit. This incident was most likely a result of a famous white powdery often found in hotels throughout L.A., or maybe the guy just had bipolar disorder, or maybe he truly needed a fucking nap.Whatever the case, you never wanted to be stranded at 4 a.m. in L.A.
DON’T BE THIS GUY. BRING YOUR CREDIT CARD AND HAVE A BACKUP!