I moved to Seattle in 1997 with two goals: go to graduate school at the University of Washington, and climb bigger mountains than back home in the Sierra Nevada. I had seven years of hotel and casino experience under my belt — Harrah's Reno — and I figured that would carry me while I studied microbiology and exobiology. Space bugs, weird science, higher learning. That was the dream.
But dreams need rent money.
By the time things got tight, I had exactly $4.12 to my name. I was stealing soy sauce and spice packets from the Chinese restaurant up the street. Fortunately, I'd been smart enough to buy a 10-pound bag of rice — which became dinner more often than I'd like to admit.
Before full desperation hit, I tried to find anything science-adjacent. Lab work. Glassware duty. Tutoring bio undergrads. Nobody was hiring.
So I leaned on what I knew: hotels.
I walked into the Westin Seattle — a 900-room skyscraper of hospitality — and put in an application. They offered me a job as a minibar attendant. Not exactly thrilling, but it was a foot in the door.
Then, on what was supposed to be my very first shift, fate intervened.
The graveyard bellman — a guy who was already something of a legend for all the wrong reasons — showed up drunk, got into a screaming match with the MOD (Manager on Duty), and escalated it into a full-blown fight. In the lobby.
They needed someone. Fast.
Enter me.
They took one look at my resume, saw I'd worked front desks and bell stands in Reno, and asked, "Can you start tonight?"
I said yes before they finished the sentence.
Just like that, I skipped over minibars and went straight to the graveyard bell stand — one of the strangest, loneliest, most mysterious shifts in hotel life. No fanfare. No welcome packet. No training tour.
Just a blue polyester uniform, a giant radio, a master keycard, and a quiet nod from the night crew.
I was now officially a Westin bellman. And I had no idea what I'd just walked into.