We are currently
vacationing in Hawaii, at a hotel we have regularly stayed at for over thirty
years. My family likes the place more
than I do. And here’s why. Not why they like it – let them write their
own story. Why I don’t.
Okay, here we go. And by the way, I am fully aware of how spoiled I
am going to sound.
(Note: If you have read this story before, remember, whenever I republish something, I inevitably make it better.)
(Note: If you have read this story before, remember, whenever I republish something, I inevitably make it better.)
Hubris – a man over-steps.
The throbbing center of many a classic story. And also
this one.
Background. Just
about every Christmas for the past thirty-two years, my family and I have
traveled to Hawaii where we spend a week at a very comfortable – okay, luxury
hotel. I tried to sneak that by, because
my wife insists that nobody cares about people staying in luxury hotels. If she’s right, then I guess you should stop
reading. That is, if you don’t mind
missing my humiliating comeuppance.
Assuming somebody’s
left, I’ll keep going. Hawaii’s a great
place to do nothing. You want to do
things, go to New York. Hawaii’s for
baking in the sun and cooling in the ocean.
Actually, that’s not true. There
are tons of things to do in Hawaii. We
just don’t do them anymore. After a
dozen visits, we now commit our entire vacation to tanning and napping. (Affluent and
lazy. Am I trying to drive you away?)
Anyway, here’s our daily routine. After breakfast, I head to the Attendants’
Counter to arrange for our beach chairs.
Actually, they’re not chairs, they’re chaises, but it’s too pretentious
to say chaises, so I’ll say chairs,
but you’ll know what I mean.
A cheerful attendant wheels our chairs to the spot I point
to on the beach, drapes towels over the mattresses and leaves with a tip.
That’s how it worked on our previous trips, and how it started on this
one. And then things changed.
For years, I’d sensed an unspoken hierarchy in the
way guests were treated on the beach.
Some enjoyed canopy-draped cabanas, others had “reserves” on hard-to-get
inflatable rafts. I also noticed that
certain guests had their chairs set up and waiting for them when they came
out. No standing at the Attendants’
Counter, no waiting for chairs to be dragged out, no making sure you got your
favorite spot. People just showed up and
began tanning.
On previous visits, I’d never given this unequal
treatment a moment’s thought. Well, maybe
a moment’s. Two moments tops. But this year, I found myself looking at
those preset chairs and thinking, “I wonder how that works?” – which is the
less shameful way of saying, “I want that.”
Suddenly, I was feeling dissatisfaction with my totally adequate
level of service. I suppose, like an
addict whose habit inevitably requires a boost in dosage, I had, after many
visits to this service-driven hotel, developed an uncontrollable need for an
upgrade in pampering.
All of which explains why, on the second morning of our
stay, I found myself standing by the woman in charge of the beach attendants
asking, “How does it work that some people have their chairs already out?” I was frankly surprised by the level of self-assurance
in my voice. Inside, I felt the nervous
apprehension of “Who do you think you are?”
In a business-like manner belying her green shorts and Polo
shirt, the woman explained that some guests liked to “take care of” the beach attendants at the beginning of their
stay. By so doing, the arrangement would
be set. Nodding understandingly, I said,
in a lowered voice, that I’d be interested in such an arrangement, after which
I immediately walked away. Was the matter
settled, not settled? I had no idea. All I knew was I felt an overpowering desire
to go someplace else and breathe.
Why was this so difficult?
For one thing, to me, dealings of this nature put me deeply into
“Grown-up Country”, and although I am officially old, I perceive myself,
especially in adult-type negotiations, to be significantly younger. Most troubling was what I was told was
required to set the beach chair arrangement in motion. I mean, I had tipped people my whole
life. But to that point, I’d never “taken care of” anybody.
Of course, I’m no stranger to the concept. “Taking
care of” people, a maneuver popularized in the glitzy showrooms of Vegas,
involves the handing over of unspecified sums of money in exchange for
exceptional service, like a ringside table at “Nudes on Ice.” Basically,
it’s a bribe, a pre-service payoff of uncertain amount. Say goodbye to the mathematically
determinable percentage of the check.
We’ve entered the world of the “No Limit” game.
I have to admit, not having been raised by gangsters, that the
whole idea of “taking care of” people
makes me extremely uneasy. And it’s not
just the money, though that’s part of it.
Okay, a big part. What really
disturbs me is the complete lack of clarity in the transaction. It’s all under the table. Nothing’s nailed down. And there’s no Better Business Bureau to turn
to if things go awry.
In this heady world of sky’s-the-limit hot shots, serious
high rollers peel bills of considerable denominations off huge wads in exchange
for getting exactly what they want, (with the implicit understanding that if
they don’t get what they want, somebody’s going to get hurt. I threw that part in, but I think it’s
true.) This is not my world. I’m not a hot shot. I don’t hurt people. This world makes me disoriented, bordering on
nauseous.
And now, I was in it.
TO BE CONTINUED
1 comment:
Rink-side seats for Nudes on Ice was an option? In Hawaii? Go for it!
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