When you start at the Westin, you're not just getting a job — you're joining a strange and wonderful circus. Officially, the department is called Service Express, but a lot of folks around the hotel have long referred to it as Circus Express, and for good reason. You juggle luggage, room service, calls, toothbrushes, guest drama, late-night weirdness, and VIP secrets — all while keeping a smile on your face like it's your first day at clown school.

Part of becoming one of us meant getting your radio. Now, this wasn't some sleek Bluetooth thing like today — this was a brick of a radio, like something pulled straight off Hill Street Blues. It had a massive battery pack you strapped to your belt, cables and cords you had to weave through your uniform, and a plastic mic you clipped near your collar like some kind of war correspondent.

The uniform didn't help either. A deep navy polyester suit, with gold stripes that looked like pilot wings, but with none of the cool. Hot as hell in the summer, stiff in the winter, and always made you look like you were either landing planes or trying to sell timeshares on a cruise ship. Thank god we didn't have the bellhop hat or gloves — though some of the older guys kinda missed them.

Getting Your Number

Once you had your radio — you needed your radio number. This wasn't random. It was a rite of passage. Every bellman had a number in the 900s. 900 was the general "buster" code — a catch-all. 999 was reserved for the Service Express Manager — the boss. And the rest? Those were earned, chosen, and passed down.

So I'm standing in the bell closet, surrounded by the old guard: Bob (senior Bell Captain), Elmo (who started back in 1947), and a few of the other originals. They took one look at me — the new guy — and started debating what number I should be. It wasn't random. It was like picking a racehorse. They leaned in, made comments, side-eyes, whispered a bit — sizing me up like they were placing bets at the track.

"What do you think? 914?" "No, no, he's not a 14. Too soon." "940. Let's go with 940."

Bob gave the final nod. "You're gonna be 940."

Turns out they gave me that number to honor a bellman who had recently left — John Bellman, oddly enough — a real character by all accounts. So now I was 940, and in this world, your radio number becomes your name. Even now, years later, it wouldn't be weird to walk into a dive bar and hear someone yell "940!" across the room.

The First Call

With number in hand, I did the thing all new hires do:

"940 to Base… radio check."

There was a pause. A little crackle. Then Base came back:

"Radio check loud and clear."

And just like that — I was in.

The Lingo

Now came the code words. A whole new language you had to learn fast if you didn't want to sound like a rookie.

MBK = Mini Bar Key. LPU = Laundry Pick-Up. OCC Check = Occupancy Check — to make sure the guest had actually checked out. (Sometimes they had. Sometimes they didn't. Sometimes it got weird.) "Check-out, who's up?" = There's a guest leaving, who's taking it? "Did you get away?" = Did you get tipped? If you didn't, sorry — you're still "up" for the next call.

You had to listen, move fast, and know your codes. If you fumbled, Base would hear it. Everyone would hear it. But if you nailed it? You were in the club.

And so began my real start at the Westin Seattle — as 940, polyester suit buzzing, radio mic swinging, listening in on the secret language of the hotel underground.