The Sylvan Hotel - A Seattle Story

The Swing Shift

Billy Idol was on his way down.

Walkie-talkies buzzed, hissed, and scratched.

“Security to manager on duty: Nobody gets on the elevator.”

In the lobby, hotel executives excitedly chatted, busily standing by. A rock-star sighting was imminent—and an entourage swarmed. Players jockeyed for position, handlers held court, and roadies were getting their moves on. Baggage was everywhere, and the smell of hard living chased notes of orchids and afternoon tea.

Beep! In a tiny “PBX” room right behind reception, Joann tussled with a petulant switchboard. However, she was glad for the chance to rest her feet and duck for cover. It was raining cats and crazy. She transferred a call, then listened as Kathryn’s voice rose above the din out front.

“Welcome to Seattle, Mr. and Mrs. Stewart—and welcome to the Sylvan!”

“Thank you. These polished walls are divine. What kind of wood—"

Back in PBX, Joann faced rougher walls, the whitewash fading with years of wear and tear. PBX was more like a closet than an office, and, at a glance, barebones at best. Still, the modest telecoms chamber was a communications epicenter—and it was here that much was set in motion. Here, the goings-on of hospitality grind sparked between busy circuits and coursed alongside other affairs of the day. Traveling like lightning, multitudes of transmissions raced through the recesses, tearing from top to bottom; over and across; then up, down, and up again.

Joann slouched and swiveled, spinning the wheeled chair between two narrow counters. One held the switchboard panel, and a typewriter rested on the other, next to a couple walkie-talkie radios. In the corner, a second chair held its own, lodged against the doorway. Regularly dragged back and forth, it had forged a path in thin carpeting through grayish threads.

Beep! The panel lit up, and Joann worked through a stream of transfers and messages. Then, pushing herself toward an innermost wall, the “operator” peered through the window—a portal to a circular drive doubling as the hotel courtyard. Bramble shrouded the glass, but Sylvan passage soon came into focus. Taxis and rental cars whisked visitors to and from, while valets appeared and disappeared in a whir of navy jackets, gray pants, and black shoes. Iron gating ringed the genteel setting, and string lights clung to palm trees, where they could twinkle their best, come nightfall. At the center, a Mediterranean-style fountain awaited the next wish.

Joann returned to her post, but things had fallen into silence again. Growing restless, she tapped a pen, then leaned back, eyes climbing the walls.

Directly above her, bulletin boards were heavy with the business at hand. Layers of tired directories and old calendar pages battled freshly pinned forecasts, charting the remainder of 1991. Checklists loomed, and red Xs defied the black-and-white of it all, drawn through the middle of sold-out dates, like stitches safeguarding moments in time ...

Beep-beep-beep. And here we go, thought the operator. Three calls, then two, then—

“Joann! What’s with all the lobby action?” The swing-shift housekeeper was checking in.

“Hey, Lynnie! VIP stuff. You know: Make way for rockstars! Sorry; phone’s getting busy—”

“Okay; call me later!”

Joann made her way down a row of blinking buttons until the calls quieted. But lobby clatter droned on, vacillating between louder and softer as a slatted wood door swung open and closed. It was like an over-sized shutter and squeaked on hinges outside PBX to the right, at the end of a short passageway connecting reception and the back of the house—a larger office where fluorescent lights shined down on two steel desks, printers, file cabinets, and a wall of lockboxes.

Beep-beep-beep! Now things were really getting started.

"Good afternoon; The Sylvan Hotel—"

Joann repeated the greeting over and over. Her fingers flew across the numbered panel, sending calls to hotel rooms, sales offices, the restaurant, the bar, Housekeeping, Engineering, the concierge stand, and the valet booth. Then … reprieve.

The desk agent reached toward the floor, her hand encircling the neck of a miniature engraving press, roughly the size and shape of a microscope. Thud! She set the gizmo parallel to the switchboard and reviewed the VIP list. Next, she flattened a Sylvan matchbox cover and positioned a papery square of pretend-gold ink.

Now for the fiddly letters. Arranging a row of dainty metal plates, Joann lined up the first name and double-checked her spelling.

Smash! She pulled down the press handle. And … success. Whew. She hated do-overs—especially on nights with flocks of VIPS—and on nights the damn phone was ringing off the hook. But there was no room for error—or names that were too faint; names that were too bold; names that were too smeared. You had to get it right. Just enough ink; just enough pressure, and, voila: just enough panache with a promise of preeminence. You’re the tops, Mister Slayton; you’re one in a million, Missus Sherman; you’re the utmost, Mister Williams.

Smash! The high-flying crowd did love these little touches, which so nicely accessorized their respective elevations. Personalized anything was always a—

Smash-smash-smash!

Joann clipped the boxes to amenity forms and gathered up the packets. Perfectly posh packets, for perfectly posh people. Tall and tan; rich and lovely. Clean and crisp in Armani, Chanel, Burberry, and Brooks Brothers; nary a crease in their khakis, nor a scuff on their shoes.

Imagine actually being a VIP. Imagine being held in such high esteem that your name graced courtly tokens; chocolates were delivered in haste—and flowers were sent, straightaway, with cards announcing sweet somethings.

Pushing through the swinging door to reception, Joann placed her completed matchboxes in the right-hand corner of the big desk, just below the marble countertop. They’d sit there until rescued by Room Service, so she made sure to turn the bundle upside down. That way, the prized keepsakes were covered by their corresponding forms, safe from nosy nellies, and am-I-getting-one-of-those types of questions.

The pile teetered precariously, like a posh house of cards. Joann looked across the lobby. Come on, Room Service: Order up! She paused, turning the stack over again.

Jillian Tundbran.

A name shined at the top of the matchbox heap.

What would it be like to get to the highest floor—hell, even the rooftop? What would it be like to get to your grown-up destiny? Was happy-ever-after a real thing? And did it last? Or did that kind of happiness have a catch? Maybe “epic” came with an extra side of scary; a greater chance at falling, after having climbed so far. Maybe the hardest-won wins were even easier to lose. Just one strike of a crazy-hot match, and you’d be down in flames; buried in ashy depths after—

“The fire looks so inviting. Should we wait over there until our room is ready?

“Yes, ma’am; it will just be a few minutes.”

A line of guests started to form, but Kathryn was already up to her neck in it.

“Yes, sir, I’ll try to find you one with a bigger bathroom. And away from the elevator ... No, sir, we don’t have ice machines ... A higher floor? Yes, sir … I understand …”

“I can help who’s next!”

Joann jumped in, marveling at her friend’s ability to sound so concerned about Mister I-Deserve-Everything. Following Kathryn’s lead, she grabbed a pen, politely smiling.

Three more parties were quickly squared away with keys—but a new barrage of calls bombarded the switchboard.

“Kath—just holler if you need me!” And back through the swinging door to PBX.

Call routed. Call routed. Call routed.

Then static scratched between the radios.

“Donahue’s pissed ’cause he can’t get on the elevator.”

Buzzzzz … pop … whiiiiine.

“I don’t care if he’s pissed. Nobody’s getting on ’til Idol’s off.”

Static.

Pop. Whiiiiine …

Static.

Joann adjusted the radio again.

There. –All tuned in for Phil Donahue versus Billy Idol!

Kathryn pushed through the swinging door.

“Hey, can you call Room Service? The desk is a mess with all those matchboxes.

Tell Finn to get over here and get ’em—thanks!”

She hurried back to reception, and Joann dialed Finn. The room-service attendant was generally a good sport, but she knew he would bristle at the summons.

“Joann, I’ll get to it as soon as I—”

A row of switchboard buttons turned an angry red.

“Okay; thanks, Finn—gotta go—the phone’s nuts!”

She hung up before he could launch into a lecture about the many other room-service procedures presently requiring his attention. Five lines were already waiting, and three more calls were impatiently beeping.

When the phone lines slowed, it was time to start reservations.

Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack. Joann’s fingers now flew across the computer keyboard. Careful-but-quick-careful-but-quick-careful-but-quick. You didn’t want to be the reason for screwing up someone’s honeymoon night, birthday, or anniversary. Given its understated grandeur, vintage ambiance, and exquisite fireside setting, the Sylvan was a popular special-occasion hotel. –There was always a chance that reservations had been made for celebratory reasons, even if the guests hadn’t indicated as such.

And done. Next up: Mini-bar billing. –A heinous task, so best to just get it over with. Then the “busy work” would be out of the way, which meant Kathryn’s turn at the switchboard would allow her time for grown-up chores—like all that paper correcting.

Joann eyed the stack of teacher files shoved next to the typewriter. Kathryn had graduated from SU and was now making inroads as an elementary instructor. She was substituting regularly but would stay on at the hotel, part-time, until a full-time position was secured with Seattle Public Schools. Currently, Kathryn was assigned to a longer-term placement, which meant the job didn't end when the bell rang—so planning and prep often accompanied her to the Sylvan. Luckily, their manager was fine with Kathryn taking advantage of the downtime, as long as the girls didn’t slack on hotel duties.

Yeesh. That mountain of folders looked like a serious pain in the ass. But Joann was facing challenges, too. Having earned a communications degree from UW, she was exploring the advertising world. Two internships had been a good start, but she still needed to make contacts—and, as a writer, she needed to build a portfolio. How to get on with all that wasn’t exactly clear, but she’d have to find out—so she could get on with life! Life … with a grown-up job.

A grown-up job officially made you somebody. An important somebody. A respectable somebody. A somebody who mattered. A grown-up job also kept you safe.
Safe under the kind of roof that a grown-up paycheck put over your head. It didn’t have to be a big roof, but under those shingles, you’d be secure from all the storms outside, in a wonderfully peaceful place. Rooms with character; flowers; candlelight. A book by the fire; hot food on the table … and maybe that grown-up paycheck would even pay for an adventure—like an escapade in an exciting city—with exciting friends! Then you’d have a few pennies—or quarters—left over for a rainy day.

Sloosh. Water doused the PBX window.

Okay, more like rainy days. Joann watched as the glass blurred, then cleared again. To the left, a posted piece of paper yelled, “Calls must be answered within THREE rings.”

The desk agent sighed. Hopefully a grown-up job would free you from switchboards! But the best part of having a grown-up job would be that, outside of work, you could really do what you wanted. Your life. Your rules. Your keys. Your place. Tee, hee—your answering machine.

There was just one catch: A lot of grown-up jobs seemed like they could get boring. Way too boring. And that wouldn’t do for Joann. She wanted a little sparkle with her “safe.” –Which had led her to advertising. Plenty of sparkle there, and, as a copywriter, she’d be paid to be creative! So she’d have “the big job” that would make her a real grown-up—but a grown-up who’d dodged the dreariness.

Beep! –And the damn switchboard.

Beep-beep-beep! Not yet, yelled the little red lights.

Static; pop; static. Not yet, scratched the radios.

“Concierge to Security. Phil Donahue has boarded … Idol tour bus. Not … authorized.”

“Valet to Security. Donahue … yelling at Idol … monopolizing … elevator.”

Joann pushed through the swinging door to the front desk. She and Kathryn watched security head to the driveway, valets trailing closely behind. Finn stopped by to pick up the matchboxes, then trailed behind the valets, hoping to catch sight of a mogul meltdown.

Donahue versus Idol: Round two!

Just another day in hotel land.

Beep-beep-beep! A perturbed switchboard beckoned. The desk extension could only access one line, so Joann high-tailed it back to PBX. Inside the small room, a row of red lights was also off and running: Me-me-me, they shouted. Uh-oh; uh-oh; uh-oh, they warned.

At the Sylvan, a lively chorus of callers was bound to keep you tethered.

***
Seven forty-five and three check-ins to go. Kathryn had powered through the arrivals list! The pace was often non-stop—but, on nights like tonight, the front-of-the-house staff was able to enjoy a break.

“Okay,” said Joann. “Let the paper correcting begin!”

Kathryn plopped down in PBX, and now Joann stood out front—but against the swinging door, holding it open at the threshold. There, she could monitor the desk and chit-chat with her friend.

Ahhh. Gotta love the lull. Once you got through check-ins, the lobby could wind down significantly. But, even on the craziest of nights, the swing shift was the best shift. Morning shifts started too early, and you were subject to surveillance by the entire management brigade. Graveyard shifts started too late and were too lonely. The swing shift … was perfectly in between. You’d have the morning for errands, exercise, sleeping in, or whatever. Then work started at 3 p.m.; management left at 5 p.m.; and you clocked off at 11 p.m.—just in time for a social life! Plus, Sylvan evenings were the best. The crown jewel of Seattle’s hotels shined its brightest during those hours. Stepping through the doors … was like stepping into a fairytale.

Only two months ago, Joann had dined fireside at the Sylvan with her boyfriend and his parents. Perched on a green velvet sofa, she couldn’t help but think that a person could fall in love with the place. She’d been there before, but this time, Joann was seeing it differently—or maybe she was really seeing it. Because somehow, the Sylvan seemed to be glimmering more than ever. Joann gulped. She was smitten with the Sylvan.

Standing behind the lobby desk, a pretty girl in navy happily smiled at passing guests. Joann had also been working in reception, employed one year at a law firm—but in that moment, she knew her heart belonged elsewhere.

The Sylvan continued to cast its spell, and Joann continued to watch the girl in navy. How lucky to have a job in such a beautifully warm atmosphere, far from the beige trappings of a sterile office. Going to work would be like … going home! So Joann applied, head-over-high-heels enchanted with the hotel. And it really did feel like home. But not home where you had to walk on eggshells. Not home with a leaky basement or a too-loud TV.

More like home where a tweedy grandpa waited, with tobacco pipe lit and wisdom for the taking. Home where a worldly nana clucked, “Tell me everything,” while she settled you into a fortress of a chair. Home where a pocket watch glinted, stopped atop an heirloom desk, next to an alabaster bust and a vase of yesterday’s cuttings. Home by the hearth, curled up in a patina of bright embers, dog-eared chapters, waxy wood, and falling petals—perhaps a little old fashioned, but timeless, artful, and true.

The Sylvan was a real-life fairytale.

Beep-beep-beep! Wake up, Sleeping Beauty!

Ah yes, thought Joann. Living the dream.

The switchboard was back at it—so it was back to reality. Kathryn took the call, and Joann walked all the way out to the front.

Thump! Navy jackets jostled behind a big window to her right. Set above a wide ledge, it separated the valet booth from reception and could open like a door. Cloudy white panes blocked the boys from view, but sounds of laughter signaled a courtyard slow-down as well, then gave way to more muffled tones.

What did they talk about out there? The desk agent placed her hand on the tiny hook, then hesitated. For the most part, Sylvan valets liked that “door” to stay closed. So it would, she thought. At least … until he was working again. Robert was her favorite of their navy-and-gray-clad cohorts, and another reason the middle shift was the place to be. Work just didn’t feel like work when he was around. It was something better—and working the swing shift meant that they were usually scheduled together.

Joann smiled. She and Robert were just friends. But other than Kathryn and Lynnie, there was no one whose company Joann preferred more. Well, and she liked her boyfriend, of course!