My Life as a Bellboy

“Need Help with those Bags, Ma’am?”

I never imagined I’d hear myself saying those words on a daily basis. With my journalism degree in hand, I thought the questions I’d be asking were of the political, social or economic variety. Something along the lines of, “Mr. President, could you please explain your political, social and economic policies?”

Then luggage became my life. A month after graduation, I said goodbye to my family and girlfriend and set out for a job in Montana. I chugged out of Wisconsin in a 1987 GMC Jimmy—a $50 fixer-upper special a couple road trips shy of a quarter of a million miles, and somehow made the 1,500-mile trip across four states without the brakes failing, a wheel flying off or the transmission exploding. I arrived in eastern Montana to find a sprawling, century-old lodge 5,000 feet above sea level and nestled at the foot of the mountains. Welcome to the office, I thought.

My career path to bell boy began last summer as I was reporting full time for The Associated Press. For me, filing stories about the latest disaster, crime or scandal left something to be desired. I was trading my last free summer for a line on my resume. I stayed in the office all that summer, but I vowed that after graduation I’d toss the resume out the window and do something for myself.

Graduation came, and I scoured the internet for work: a waiter on Alaskan cruises, a ranch hand in Colorado, a shuttle driver in Martha’s Vineyard. And then, this job fell into my lap: Bell boy in Glacier National Park. I didn’t even know what a bell boy was. Next thing I know, I am one.

It didn’t take me long to learn the essentials of the bell boy gig. You take the luggage. You carry it. You put it in the room. Not to say the work was easy; to retain the lodge’s “rustic charm,” there were no elevators on any of the hotel’s four floors. Bell boys became human lifts.

Every day my coworker and I stood on the front porch greeting families, couples and colossal coach busses teeming with senior citizens. Along with them they brought luggage. Lots and lots of luggage. An x-ray of their behemoth bags would surely reveal concrete mix, the complete Encyclopedia Britannica set, and the missing weapons of mass destruction.

After a couple weeks of this workout regime, I developed calluses the size of Mount Rushmore and grizzly-like trapezius muscles. I climbed more stairs than Richard Simmons has ever dreamed. Basically, I got paid to get into shape.

Bell boys make a mere $6.35 an hour, similar to the pay for front desk clerks, maids and most of the other employees. But one thing separated us from the pack: Tips. On a good day we made more than $100 extra, even after my co-worker and I split the loot.

My biggest tip was from two California women who drove a sleek 2004 Lexus convertible. The fashionably mid-40ish pair showed up at the height of the summer rush, stayed in one of the nearly $200-a-night rooms and packed up to continue their month-long road trip four days after arriving. Surprisingly, they owned just a pair of small leather bags between them. I carried their luggage down the stairs with minimal exertion. After I slipped the last bag into their trunk, one of the ladies pressed a single bill into my palm.

Manners dictate that you don’t count your tip in front of the guest. Usually, however, I could ascertain the currency with a discreet glance at the president on the bill.

With this bill, two things struck me as odd. One, the bill was crisp and unwrinkled. Two, there was a bearded man I didn’t recognize where Washington, Lincoln or Hamilton was supposed to be.

It wasn’t until I really looked at the bill in my hand that I realized what I was holding: a brand new $50.

As I stood there slack jawed, the women hopped in the convertible and pushed a button on the dash. The car roof morphed and retracted like Optimus Prime and with the top down they sped off into the mountains. I didn’t know it at the time, but that tip nearly ruined my summer.

I started taking note of what cars guests drove, how stylishly they dressed and where they came from. I wasn’t interested in helping the older Ohio couple in the ‘94 Taurus. Instead, I gave the elegant couple in the Lexus with Texas plates my full attention.

Guests became human ATMs, and I avoided them if I wasn’t working. I resented it when they asked directions or inquired about the weather. I pointed them to the map on the wall or the forecast taped to the counter. I knew something was wrong when an old lady asks me the best route to Missoula and I fought an urge to body slam her over the stuffed mountain goat in the lobby. Where did this angst come from?

Each of the short-lived jobs I’ve held have fallen into the same pattern. The first few weeks are exciting and invigorating. After the freshness wears off, going to work everyday becomes more of a chore. And then in the last weeks, my energy—and my enthusiasm—returns.

There’s closure and a sense of satisfaction that last week of work. It’s like finishing a really long Russian novel. No matter how hard it was to get through, you’re glad you made it. This was what my last week as a bell boy was like.

Clean the bathtub? Done. Bring in more firewood the size of brontosaurus thighs? No problem. Drive a disgruntled guest over to another motel? Of course! I got to know guests’ names again. I actually spoke to them when they inquired about the weather rather than just pointing to the forecast.

Ironically, I got some of the best tips of the summer that final week, when tips were an afterthought. And for the moment, I wished I could be a bell boy for the rest of my life.

I’ve concluded that being a bell boy isn’t fundamentally different than any other job. You live through work day in and day out (and sometimes night in and night out) and you pick up its routine, learn its lessons, and laugh at its absurdities.

I don’t know if I liked my bell boy job more than reporting. Each had its simple pleasures, like raising the flag in the blood-red dawn or crafting a description that nailed someone’s personality, and each had its frustrations, be those crabby guests or cranky editors. But I know that whatever it is I’m doing, I’ll enjoy it more if I don’t view it as a paycheck, stepping stone or a resume builder.

During one of my final nights as a bell boy I had a late-night conversation with a visiting Presbyterian minister. We spoke on the front porch in view of a full moon. The minister told me that after holding a variety of jobs, including in hotels, he’d enrolled in Princeton Theology Seminary at age 42. He was now nearly 50, and was visiting this park for the first time with his new wife.

“Life is long,” he told me. “There’s so much pressure to get it all together at such a young age. But look at me. It’ll come.”

Six months after graduation, I’m still figuring out what to do with my degree (and my life). But I’m much less anxious than when I first stepped into the real world. And if I end up being a bell boy again, I could probably handle that, too.