For years I worked for Anheuser-Busch at Kingsmill Resort in Williamsburg, Virginia. If you are not familiar with this property, it is a gated community on the James River with a conference center, boating facility, tennis club, sports club and a golf clubhouse with three full golf courses, as well as a nine-hole par-three course. For many years the celebrated River Course was part of the PGA tour, occurring yearly, one week before the British Open.
Golf lovers will know the British Open occurs each year in the middle of July, which put the tour in Kingsmill sometime around the 4th of July...a miserable, hot, humid time to be in Williamsburg. So much so, that many of the golf stars would skip this competition altogether and just fly away to cool, breezy Scotland. But we would get enough second stringers to justify a generous amount of hoopla.
Most of the staff hated this week at Kingsmill, but I loved the excitement!
On Monday, the parking lot nearest to the Conference Center would be cleared out. The overnight guests had plenty of parking at their condos which served as hotel rooms all year round. So the large lot near the Conference Center was used for conference attendees, of which there were none during this week, and also as an employee parking area. The empty lot was then filled with dozens of rental cars used by the celebrities and press. The employees were forced to park about three-quarters of a mile away in a dirt field. Not too bad, because a shuttle would run all day to bring us to our work stations.
Monday night we would have a reception for the press and the celebrities.
Tuesday morning at the crack of dawn we held a breakfast for the press outside of the golf clubhouse, starting at six AM...which meant we had to be at work around four. The wives then had a luncheon at noon , and finally Tuesday night there was the big welcoming reception out on the golf course, which included fireworks. This event was over about ten, but there was still a few more hours left of clean up for the staff.
We were back to work early on Wednesday to set up and serve breakfast before the Pro/Am challenge.
Three days into the tournament, and most of the staff had worked more than 40 hours, most of it outside in July in Williamsburg, and most of it lugging equipment: dishes, chafers, food. But our week had only just begun. Thursday through Sunday we had to staff the bars on the golf course, in the locker room, in the press room, and especially on top of the bleachers erected at the 18th hole, accessible only by the very uppermost tier of VIPs. We also provided all the liquor and food for the hospitality suites in the condos along the golf course. Day after day of deli trays, keg beer, liquor, margarita machines, desserts, trash liners, disposable plates and silverware and of course, Solo cups.
On Sunday evening, sometime around five or six o'clock, the last golfing foursome would arrive among the cheering masses to aim for the 18th hole. Shortly afterward a winner would be announced, a check would be presented, and the crowd would disperse. I mean flee. I mean DISAPPEAR! How in the world all those people got off property so fast, I will never know. But everything, I mean everything, had to be cleaned before Monday morning.
The staff was divided into teams of four, each armed with a van and numerous trash bags, and we were sent forth to empty those hospitality suites of all food, alcohol and trash. It was a daunting task, especially if you take into account all the empty, half empty, and sometimes full kegs that had to be pulled from the rooms. On the flip side, after working like hell for a week, and being completely unsupervised...did I mention that along with the guests all the managers abandoned the property too?..after that we "may have" enjoyed a few of those beverages left behind. After one or two condos of cllearing the liquor, the rest became quite enjoyable.
One of my favorite memories of the PGA tournament was working the VIP bleacher-bar on the 18th hole. The stress was intense. As the bartender, I had to try to balance the demands of these horrible VIP rich people who wanted everything "right now" against the need to NOT MAKE A SOUND when the player was putting. This meant no dips for ice until the signs were lowered. Do you understand how people can be if they have to wait an extra moment to have their drink poured?
On one particular Saturday afternoon, a severe thunderstorm approached Williamsburg during the tournament. Play was called off and the field was emptied. I was instructed to ask all the guests on my VIP bleacher to exit and enter the clubhouse about 400 feet away. Everyone complied so beautifully.
I secured the bar and came down the stairs to look for shelter for myself when a woman came scurrying toward me. Does a rich woman scurry? Maybe there is another verb for the rich which doesn't make them sound like a cockroach looking for shelter, but she was scurrying and looking for shelter. She demanded to be allowed onto the bleachers. (If you are having a hard time envisioning this, let me remind you the bleachers were for VIPs. Of course they were large with a large covered roof.) I told her it was closed.
I don't remember the exact conversation that followed, but I remember she demanded to be allowed onto the bleachers. She told me she had paid too much money for the privilege and she wanted to have a drink while the thunderstorm passed. And she had a point. She was wealthy and powerful and I was just a kid blocking her from her choice of scotch or bourbon. I felt very alone in a dangerous situation.
I would again feel this way years later, when I worked at the Marriott in downtown Norfolk. For many years I worked on the 24th floor as concierge. This floor was not available to all Marriott customers, only the privileged and Marriott elite members.
At times, the fire alarm would sound (always false alarms), but I would have daydreams worthy of Walter Mitty: knocking on the hotel doors, providing the inept with wet towels and then leading them down the twenty-four floors to sunlight and life.
Always in my dream I would be interviewed by the local media, and possibly nominated for some type of national award which would put my picture and name into Time Magazine's 10 Most Heroic People of the Year. Indeed, Mitty and I could have been close friends!
Before I took that job on the 24th floor, I worked both front desk and the phone. Yes,the phone! A tiny cubicle tucked away deep in the hotel from which all telephone connections were made. A boring job, but as operator, you had many responsibilities, including advising guests during a fire. As I have suggested, fire drills come often in a hotel, usually caused by teenagers pulling a handle, but our hotel had a system in place.
As operator, once the alarm was sounded, I was to tell all guests there was no need to evacuate yet, as security would investigate the problem. If this was an actual emergency, a new siren would alert all guests to leave the building. This was an actual emergency. Everyone needed to leave the building. I continued to answer the phone as the front desk continued to ask people to leave the lobby.
While fighting the fire, other firemen came to clear the lobby both of stationary guests and also the employees. As everyone was leaving, including me, a strong arm came down on my shoulder and a voice said, "You need to stay. Keep answering those phones. Tell everyone to get out of the building." And then he was gone. And I was alone.
Eventually the phone stopped ringing. Eventually the noise in the lobby stopped. Eventually I was sitting in a quiet hotel, in a quiet cubicle, watching smoke seep through the ceiling. It was a little scary and I had no hope of a Walter Mitty's Rescue of the Innocent, just a thought of leaping the front desk and racing outside for my survival.
Sorry. I digress.
So this wealthy socialite and I were arguing about survival and liqupor costs at the bottom of a steel structure during a thunderstorm. She wanted beyond the chain I had just secured. She asked me again why she could not take shelter atop the bleachers where her bar tab was previously paid. I meekly replied the bleachers were made of steel and metal and were the highest point on a very low golf course and that anything standing on top would be absolutely fried if lightening struck.
Again, I am not making this up, but God in all His wisdom decided to let out a lightening bolt and thunder boom just as I finished my sentence. I have no recollection of that woman's face because I was at least ten feet in front of her as we ran for the clubhouse.
She may have died out there. But there was never a complaint filed against me.
Another favorite memory involves my good friend, Venus. Yes, that is her real name! She gets so much grief for that name. I know this because everyone who I tell about Venus asks about her name.
Venus and I worked late one Friday night during the PGA tournament at Kingsmill. We left the conference center, but the shuttle had stopped for the evening, so we were forced to walk the three-quarter mile to the dirt parking lot with our cars. It was fairly dark out there, but we helped each other through the woods, over the logs and over the wires.
Not surprisingly, considering the long hours of work required, we had to be back at work the next morning at ten AM. We both arrived in the parking lot at the same time. We also both watched the shuttle pull away from the lot as we parked our cars. After the initial greeting and small talk about how tired we both were, we decided it would be quicker to retrace our steps form the night before than to wait for the shuttle bus. So off we went through the woods, over the logs and over the wires.
Over the wires? You mean the ones that keep people from walking on the FAIRWAY? Yes, Venus and I walked arm and arm onto the fairway during a PGA tournament which was broadcast on ESPN. The only reason we knew we had failed was due to the THOUSANDS of people who were screaming at us to move out of the way.
Beautiful. Boo-ed off TV in uniform. I would love to have the tape of Jim Nantz ranting about that one!
(P.S. I love you Venus!)
Golf lovers will know the British Open occurs each year in the middle of July, which put the tour in Kingsmill sometime around the 4th of July...a miserable, hot, humid time to be in Williamsburg. So much so, that many of the golf stars would skip this competition altogether and just fly away to cool, breezy Scotland. But we would get enough second stringers to justify a generous amount of hoopla.
Most of the staff hated this week at Kingsmill, but I loved the excitement!
On Monday, the parking lot nearest to the Conference Center would be cleared out. The overnight guests had plenty of parking at their condos which served as hotel rooms all year round. So the large lot near the Conference Center was used for conference attendees, of which there were none during this week, and also as an employee parking area. The empty lot was then filled with dozens of rental cars used by the celebrities and press. The employees were forced to park about three-quarters of a mile away in a dirt field. Not too bad, because a shuttle would run all day to bring us to our work stations.
Monday night we would have a reception for the press and the celebrities.
Tuesday morning at the crack of dawn we held a breakfast for the press outside of the golf clubhouse, starting at six AM...which meant we had to be at work around four. The wives then had a luncheon at noon , and finally Tuesday night there was the big welcoming reception out on the golf course, which included fireworks. This event was over about ten, but there was still a few more hours left of clean up for the staff.
We were back to work early on Wednesday to set up and serve breakfast before the Pro/Am challenge.
Three days into the tournament, and most of the staff had worked more than 40 hours, most of it outside in July in Williamsburg, and most of it lugging equipment: dishes, chafers, food. But our week had only just begun. Thursday through Sunday we had to staff the bars on the golf course, in the locker room, in the press room, and especially on top of the bleachers erected at the 18th hole, accessible only by the very uppermost tier of VIPs. We also provided all the liquor and food for the hospitality suites in the condos along the golf course. Day after day of deli trays, keg beer, liquor, margarita machines, desserts, trash liners, disposable plates and silverware and of course, Solo cups.
On Sunday evening, sometime around five or six o'clock, the last golfing foursome would arrive among the cheering masses to aim for the 18th hole. Shortly afterward a winner would be announced, a check would be presented, and the crowd would disperse. I mean flee. I mean DISAPPEAR! How in the world all those people got off property so fast, I will never know. But everything, I mean everything, had to be cleaned before Monday morning.
The staff was divided into teams of four, each armed with a van and numerous trash bags, and we were sent forth to empty those hospitality suites of all food, alcohol and trash. It was a daunting task, especially if you take into account all the empty, half empty, and sometimes full kegs that had to be pulled from the rooms. On the flip side, after working like hell for a week, and being completely unsupervised...did I mention that along with the guests all the managers abandoned the property too?..after that we "may have" enjoyed a few of those beverages left behind. After one or two condos of cllearing the liquor, the rest became quite enjoyable.
One of my favorite memories of the PGA tournament was working the VIP bleacher-bar on the 18th hole. The stress was intense. As the bartender, I had to try to balance the demands of these horrible VIP rich people who wanted everything "right now" against the need to NOT MAKE A SOUND when the player was putting. This meant no dips for ice until the signs were lowered. Do you understand how people can be if they have to wait an extra moment to have their drink poured?
On one particular Saturday afternoon, a severe thunderstorm approached Williamsburg during the tournament. Play was called off and the field was emptied. I was instructed to ask all the guests on my VIP bleacher to exit and enter the clubhouse about 400 feet away. Everyone complied so beautifully.
I secured the bar and came down the stairs to look for shelter for myself when a woman came scurrying toward me. Does a rich woman scurry? Maybe there is another verb for the rich which doesn't make them sound like a cockroach looking for shelter, but she was scurrying and looking for shelter. She demanded to be allowed onto the bleachers. (If you are having a hard time envisioning this, let me remind you the bleachers were for VIPs. Of course they were large with a large covered roof.) I told her it was closed.
I don't remember the exact conversation that followed, but I remember she demanded to be allowed onto the bleachers. She told me she had paid too much money for the privilege and she wanted to have a drink while the thunderstorm passed. And she had a point. She was wealthy and powerful and I was just a kid blocking her from her choice of scotch or bourbon. I felt very alone in a dangerous situation.
I would again feel this way years later, when I worked at the Marriott in downtown Norfolk. For many years I worked on the 24th floor as concierge. This floor was not available to all Marriott customers, only the privileged and Marriott elite members.
At times, the fire alarm would sound (always false alarms), but I would have daydreams worthy of Walter Mitty: knocking on the hotel doors, providing the inept with wet towels and then leading them down the twenty-four floors to sunlight and life.
Always in my dream I would be interviewed by the local media, and possibly nominated for some type of national award which would put my picture and name into Time Magazine's 10 Most Heroic People of the Year. Indeed, Mitty and I could have been close friends!
Before I took that job on the 24th floor, I worked both front desk and the phone. Yes,the phone! A tiny cubicle tucked away deep in the hotel from which all telephone connections were made. A boring job, but as operator, you had many responsibilities, including advising guests during a fire. As I have suggested, fire drills come often in a hotel, usually caused by teenagers pulling a handle, but our hotel had a system in place.
As operator, once the alarm was sounded, I was to tell all guests there was no need to evacuate yet, as security would investigate the problem. If this was an actual emergency, a new siren would alert all guests to leave the building. This was an actual emergency. Everyone needed to leave the building. I continued to answer the phone as the front desk continued to ask people to leave the lobby.
While fighting the fire, other firemen came to clear the lobby both of stationary guests and also the employees. As everyone was leaving, including me, a strong arm came down on my shoulder and a voice said, "You need to stay. Keep answering those phones. Tell everyone to get out of the building." And then he was gone. And I was alone.
Eventually the phone stopped ringing. Eventually the noise in the lobby stopped. Eventually I was sitting in a quiet hotel, in a quiet cubicle, watching smoke seep through the ceiling. It was a little scary and I had no hope of a Walter Mitty's Rescue of the Innocent, just a thought of leaping the front desk and racing outside for my survival.
Sorry. I digress.
So this wealthy socialite and I were arguing about survival and liqupor costs at the bottom of a steel structure during a thunderstorm. She wanted beyond the chain I had just secured. She asked me again why she could not take shelter atop the bleachers where her bar tab was previously paid. I meekly replied the bleachers were made of steel and metal and were the highest point on a very low golf course and that anything standing on top would be absolutely fried if lightening struck.
Again, I am not making this up, but God in all His wisdom decided to let out a lightening bolt and thunder boom just as I finished my sentence. I have no recollection of that woman's face because I was at least ten feet in front of her as we ran for the clubhouse.
She may have died out there. But there was never a complaint filed against me.
Another favorite memory involves my good friend, Venus. Yes, that is her real name! She gets so much grief for that name. I know this because everyone who I tell about Venus asks about her name.
Venus and I worked late one Friday night during the PGA tournament at Kingsmill. We left the conference center, but the shuttle had stopped for the evening, so we were forced to walk the three-quarter mile to the dirt parking lot with our cars. It was fairly dark out there, but we helped each other through the woods, over the logs and over the wires.
Not surprisingly, considering the long hours of work required, we had to be back at work the next morning at ten AM. We both arrived in the parking lot at the same time. We also both watched the shuttle pull away from the lot as we parked our cars. After the initial greeting and small talk about how tired we both were, we decided it would be quicker to retrace our steps form the night before than to wait for the shuttle bus. So off we went through the woods, over the logs and over the wires.
Over the wires? You mean the ones that keep people from walking on the FAIRWAY? Yes, Venus and I walked arm and arm onto the fairway during a PGA tournament which was broadcast on ESPN. The only reason we knew we had failed was due to the THOUSANDS of people who were screaming at us to move out of the way.
Beautiful. Boo-ed off TV in uniform. I would love to have the tape of Jim Nantz ranting about that one!
(P.S. I love you Venus!)
