When an extremely expensive, world renowned hotel in Manhattan would call us they used an address that led to a side entrance utilized by the laundry service and garbage pick-up. Going through this entrance took you down a dark, putrid tunnel where the underbelly of the hotel operated. Large bins overflowed with laundry on one side while several small dumpsters lined the other. At the end of the long hallway, bright glaring florescent lighting lit up large areas where hotel workers dressed in white scrub type uniforms rushed around carrying plastic bags or trays or boxes. There was always hurried activity going on whether we came during the day or in the middle of the night. The employees were always friendly and quickly got out of our way despite their seemingly urgent mission. It was with these employees we would wait for the service elevator. As an old hotel it only had one.

Sometimes a well-dressed representative from the hotel would meet us at the doorway of the dirty tunnel and take us upstairs with him to the room where the guest was. When there was no representative waiting we knew the call was for an employee and we were on our own.

We had learned of the alternative address early on, as they called fairly frequently. The Dungeon Entrance, is what we called it. One time we tried disregarding the separate address and attempted to go through the front, main entrance but we had barely made it in to the lobby when we were quickly intercepted by a small security detail wearing earpieces connected to little squiggly wires. It wouldn’t be a good look if it appeared guests weren’t well 100% of the time they stayed at this exclusive address. Those who fell ill were dispatched to the Dungeon, presumably to let the well heeled clients know they had lost their high end status for the time being.

One day the representative met us outside, moving the orange cones he had set up to reserve our spot. Was this their new policy, we wondered? No, we would find out later. Just this one time for someone they wanted to impress. As we took out our equipment from the side door the man told us we would need our stretcher. The patient had abdominal pains, he told, and couldn’t sit up.

The assistant hotel manager looked slightly uncomfortable leading us through the dirty tunnel. He did his best to pretend he didn’t smell anything foul. He looked more ridiculous continuing the charade in the service elevator where the confined space made the odor much more concentrated. The service elevator was unusually small, as most service elevators are considerably larger than regular elevators, in my limited experience. It was a bit challenging getting our stretcher to fit. Our hotel rep was forced to brush the expensive material of his specially designed blazer against the steel wall several times and I imagined him to be making a mental note of burning it when the call was over.

We went up to one of the top floors and were guided into a suite with enormous double doors made of thick wood. The lights had been dimmed and the curtains drawn but I could still tell the room was larger than my apartment at the time. He must have had a spectacular view of the city from this vantage point as well. I recognized our patient, despite the challenges of limited lighting. I had read some of his books and liked them. I was also a fan of his ex-wife, who had been a famous actress.

“Hello Mr. Andrews,” I said. “How can we help you?”

“So you know who I am?” he said, somewhat cheerfully. “I guess the dim lighting gave it away.”

His face lightened up when I told him what my favorite book of his was, which was not one of the more popular ones. He told me it was one of his better ones but hadn’t been received well by critics who said it was too ‘dark’.

“That’s the first time I’ve seen him smile since we’ve been here,” remarked a man who was staying with the patient. He looked over to the manager as if to imply that there was more going on than Mr. Andrews’ illness.

The patient started moaning in pain again and we went to work checking him out. He told us that he thinks he had eaten something ‘bad’.

“He had room service,” chimed in the author’s friend. “From the hotel restaurant.” The hotel representative continued with his pained look as well.

We went through his litany of signs and symptoms, took his history and checked his vitals and then tried to gently move him onto our stretcher. When he was fairly comfortable we exited the suite and headed towards the service elevator. When we got to it our world famous novelist vocalized what we had been thinking.

“Why are we using the trash elevators?” He looked at us as if it had been our idea.

“Hotel policy, sir,” said my partner. “Wait until you smell the basement.”

“Sir,” said the hotel rep, authoritatively, “We do it for privacy concerns.” He totally ignored how the separate entrance led to a different experience.

“Whose privacy? Mine?” he asked. “Or yours. Because we all know I don’t give a damn. This is ridiculous. Take me to the regular elevators.”

“They have us parked around the block,” we told him.

“You never know who has a camera aimed at our lobby,” the hotel manager tried to explain. “The hotel takes the privacy of our privileged guests very seriously and…”

“That’s a lot of bullshit and you know it,” he said. “This young lady is the first person who knew who I was without bringing up my wife. Thank you for that, by the way.”

The complaints continued as we made our way down the elevator and all the way to the ambulance. He promised to continue to complain to the owners of the hotel.

But the next time we came nothing had changed except the representatives blazer. He remembered us from the writer call and confided in us, as we were all members of the underclasses and he had put him the man down at our level, that the complaints were probably burned as swiftly as his soiled blazer had been. To the rep, the man was just someone who had jotted a few lines and ridden on the coattails of his ex wife anyway. “She was a darling of this hotel,” he told us. “The parties, the events, she gave us so much publicity when she walked through those doors.” We assumed he meant the hotel lobby doors where all the cameras were aimed.