A scene from “Position 6”
Perry has left a package for Scott Coleman in the name of Beckwood. There is an awkward moment.
The man extended his arm as a barrier in front of the woman, presumably his wife, who was walking next to him. She stopped as abruptly as he had.
“Hey Maggie.”, he said, “Ain’t it neat how them doors work, ya’ll get close and, Hot Damn, they open up just like Moses, there at . . . . what sea was that.”
“It was the Red Sea, Charlie, besides, you’ve seen these before, they’ve got’em there at the Macy’s store near Freeport Intersection.” The woman waited with exasperated impatience as the man stared curiously at the glass doors pulsating in the open position.
“I know, but I still think it’s the damndest thing, though. Hey . . . . ain’t that the damndest thing?”, he said to Scott Coleman caught in mid-step, immediately behind them.
“That’s the damnedest thing.”, Coleman said, unable to restrain a condescending grin.
Clutching the man’s arm, the woman moved forward allowing those who had been forming behind, including a large band of slightly inebriated conventioneers, to cross the threshold of the hotel’s main entrance. They lurched ahead, cascading into the main lobby. Scott was pushed along by the group whose name tags read FREEPORT CREDIT UNION until, suddenly, someone said, with a whisper of intoxicated inspiration,
“This ain’t the Holiday Inn.”
One of them turned to the doorman, who was wearing a green oversize uniform, garishly appointed with yellow braid and large gold buttons. The heavily padded shoulders and baggy pants caused him look like a boy in a man’s clothing. The conventioneer snapped to attention, saluted first, then bellowed.
“Sir, general sir, is this the Holiday Inn?”
“No.”, replied the Doorman, respectfully giving wide berth, obviously annoyed and without smiling.
“Welcome to the Downtown Hilton.”, he snarled, as the nearby onlookers gave way, good naturedly, realizing the potential for an uncoordinated, and possibly reckless, change of direction.
“We’re out’a here.”, someone said. Automatically.
As if on cue, some of the conventioneers locked arms and rotated, like a perfectly choreographed chorus line, around the man who had issued the command. Then, to scattering applause, the group took dead aim on a path of retreat, marching proudly through the doors and returning to the street.
The scene had been a needed moment of comic relief as Coleman watched as the last ofthe crowd slid through the door, chasing after the others now bouncing aimlessly down the boulevard. The polished marble tile floor of the lobby glistened, mirroring the antebellum concrete columns stretching to a 50 foot ceiling. He crossed a broad expanse of plush burgundy red wool carpeting to the house phone, located next to the bell captains’s station. The bell captain, standing behind his desk and watching curiously, was a rotund black man who had been with most of Atlanta’s upscale hotels during his 35 years in the hospitality business.
All first floor attendants reported to the captains desk, serving at his pleasure. From there he tendered all assignments, the best of which were handed down to his favored progeny. He knew all the deep pockets, but convention guests and newly weds were the most sought after prize. Their sense of gratuitous responsibility was often blind sided by liquor, euphoria, or both.
The bell captains desk was like a toll booth for the main floor service employees; everyone paid the going rate, usually ten percent. It could be more, or less. More for those who were new. But for those who had fallen out of favor, it was often considerable. The captain stood quietly behind his desk, monitoring every movement of his staff, methodically stroking a well manicured goatee.
Scott picked up the phone, calling the reservations desk. “May I have the room of Scott and Sandie Coleman, please.”
The reservations assistant checked briefly, then transferred the call. “Hello, this is Sandra Coleman”
“It’s me. I’m downstairs . . in the lobby”
“Scotty, where have you been?”
“I’ve had a bad night. But, he left a file for me . . . here at the hotel. Where are you?”
“It’s room 916.”
Scott hung up, then threaded his way through the early arrivals now beginning to gather in the lobby near the main reservations area. The bell captain’s crew, now in numbers approaching brigade level, worked at a quickened pace. Their corpulent leader still tugging at his beard.
Scott greeted the clerk at the hotel services desk. “Good morning.”
Feeling uncommonly confident for a man who hadn’t shaved, bathed, or changed clothes for more than two days, he was at the point where he simply didn’t care. Satisfied the worst, at least for the time being, was now behind him.
“Good morning, sir.” She was young. Her reply was officious.
“Do you have something here for Beckwood. “, he asked, realizing there was no value in small talk.
The clerk turned to a wall file located over a credenza located behind the counter, pulling out a letter sized manila envelope, she placed it on the counter. Little did he realize that such a simple request would lead to a much more complicated situation.
“Do you have piece of picture I.D., Mr. Beckwood?” she said, with routine indifference, and sounding more like a statement than a request.
While attempting to protect Scott’s identity Perry had neglected to consider a certain, and rather obvious, hotel security policy. It was clear that Scott needed to find a more benevolent aspect of the young lady’s rather impertinent personality.
“I have to apologize.”, he said, believing this was an excellent opportunity to take advantage of his disheveled appearance.
“I got into town last night and I’m still waiting for my luggage which contains all of my identification.”
“The policy for identification is strictly enforced, Mr. Beckwood.”, resting her hands on the envelope as though it were in protective custody.
The ambivalent expression which descended upon the girl’s face suggested the need for another approach.
“The contents of this envelope is very important.”
He began to withdraw the money clip from his pocket. Only the hand clutching his arm prevented him from revealing his intent.
“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Beckwood.”
The young man was tall, his uniform impeccably tailored and pressed; the name tag was perfectly centered over the left breast pocket: WARREN SIILS. The young woman behind the desk looked over with more than an admiring glance.
“WARREENN . . . . It’s nice to see you.” Scott said, starring awkwardly into the young man’s confident smile. The money clip crept slowly back into his pocket.
“Is Mrs. Beckwood with you?”
“No, Warren. . . . ah . . . Not this time.”
“Is this yours.”
The bellhop carefully slid the envelope from under the girls tentative grasp, placing it in Scott’s hand.
“Why . . ah . . . yes, Warren. Thank you.”
Addressing the young lady, the young man spoke with a silky drawl.
“Mr. Beckwood has always been one of more appreciative guests.”
“I understand.” Her disposition no more animated than before.
“Are you going up, Mr. Beckwood.”
“Yes I am, Warren. Can you accompany me to the elevator?”
Neither spoke until they reached the middle of the lobby.
“I don’t know exactly how to thank you.”
“Sure you do.”, the young man said with an impish grin.
“I admire your resourcefulness.”, Scott said, replying with an all knowing smile of his own.
“It’s a matter of survival.”, the bell boy said.
“If you’re going to make any real money in this business you need to develop alternative profit centers, if you know what I mean.”
Scott shook his head in a manner suggesting the lesson was well learned.
Stopping at the elevators, he removed his money clip. The bell boy watched with business like anticipation as Scott peeled off two fifty dollar bills, then pressed them into the young man’s hand.
“I guess this is an important envelope, Mr. Ah . . “
“The name is Coleman, Warren. Scott Coleman. What about the young lady?”
“I’ll take care of her.”
Then, glancing at the money clip that Scott continued to hold in his hand, the young man assumed a more serious pose.
“You know, Mr. Coleman, it’s a good thing I caught you before you tried to ply that frigid bitch with cash. That stuff may work in the movies, do it here and hotel security jumps in your shorts.”
“As you can see, Warren, I haven’t had much experience with these matters.” Feeling a little foolish.
“It’s alright. We’ve got to be careful. We never know when management is running a scam on us. You could have been one of their people.”
“How did you know I wasn’t?”
“The Man knows everything.”
The bellboy gazed across the lobby. The bell captain was watching them from behind his desk, still stroking his goatee. Scott slipped another fifty dollar bill from the clip still in his hand. Taking a pen from his pocket he addressed the envelope, handing it to the bellboy, along with the cash.
“This is for the Man”
“This isn’t necessary, Mr. Coleman.”
“See that this gets the right amount of postage, and thank you both for saving my ass.”
Folding the bills twice to a quarter of full size, they disappear into the young man’s neatly pressed pocket.
“He always gets his percentage.”
“Believe me, Warren, it’s worth it.”
The young man extended his right hand.
“I’m indebted to your generosity. Perhaps I can be of service again.”
“I hope that won’t be necessary.”
Shaking the young man’s hand Scott turned to take his place in the elevator.
“By the way, Warren, how does the Man know that he’s getting his share?”
As the doors closed the bell boy snapped off a slick two fingered salute.
“The man knows everything, Mr. Coleman.”