The Diary of a (Beatles) Chambermaid
On Friday night, I turned down the Beatles'
beds and tidied up the rooms in the Warwick hotel, falling over George
Harrison's black leather boots, which he wasn't wearing at the time, and
spilling a bottle of 7-Up over the living room rug. “Don't mind it, Love”, said
Paul McCartney. Then I walked in on
Ringo Starr hunched over a phone in another bedroom, “Shut the door, you leave,
please, Love.” And bumped into John
Lennon with my arms full of linens.
On Saturday morning, early, with the Beatles
sound asleep in their bedrooms of the Governor's Suite of the hotel’s entire
33rd floor, I was back cleaning up the gorgeous crimson, gold, black and white
living room, dining room and bar after the party they threw until 3:30 am and
oh my aching back. Kids, those Beatles
do throw a party, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Bless those billion-dollar boys. They may be
prisoners of their Beatlemanic fans, but they know how to pass their time
locked in. What a morning after in that
living room. They called in some of their friends, like the Impressions, and
with their portable stereo, knocked out rock and roll. With everything to drink, from Bucha to Scotch,
with fried chicken wrapped in tin foil and telegrams and flowers and gifts,
that living room was a chambermaid's nightmare.
Five girls tried to crash the party and nearly
made it. They climbed three flights in a building under construction next to
the Warwick, wiggled through a 16-inch air shaft into the hotel, and got thrown
out. The guards earned their money.
How did I get into the Beatles
suite? I swear on my chambermaid's
outfit that it is a secret I'll take to the grave, which I feel is imminent
after this Hard Day's Night. Anyway, before they got into town, Friday, I was
there with news photographer George Madsen. The suite has a big double bedroom off
the living room. Ringo and Paul slept there. Two other double rooms and a
single George and John had their own rooms. In the elegant dining room, which they didn't
use, was a marble top table, chairs with crimson seats and frames of gold
metallic bamboo. Big black patent
leather chairs in the living room, scarlet upholstered settees, marvelous views
of the city--- the works.
Friday night, about 8 pm, with my arms loaded
with towels, I went with chambermaid Esther
Latorres to turn down beds and clean up. Esther is a stunning brunette,
gently poured into a fitted black and white maid's uniform. She's been with the
hotel three years. All Esther knew about me was that I was a new girl on the
job. I was still wearing the day uniform, pink and white and rumpled, hanging
around my ankles and baggy around the chest and waist. All I contributed to our
duet was making Esther look lovelier. We went through the cops and guards. They
kidded around with Esther, who just smiled big at them and knocked at Lennon's
door. “It's the maid, “said Esther. “What
can I do for you, love?” “We want to clean up”, said Esther. John asked us to come back after a while, then
into George's room, where I fell over his boots because I was gawking at his
red and white TWA Flight bag. On the bag
in big white letters was ‘George Harrison MBE’, meaning Member of the Order of
the British Empire and honor Queen Elizabeth recently conferred on the boys. George is neat. His gray suit was carefully
hung on a chair.
Then, into the big living room, George and
Paul, in turtleneck sweaters and tight dark pants, were in there. Paul was
sitting on one of the big red settees with a young girl with straight hair, and
it was obvious they had just met, and it was sort of a business meeting. Opposite them, on the other big settee, was
George, reading papers and magazines. Four framed gold records for Beatles XI
leaned against the wall, and the radio was blasting.
I was emptying ashtrays, spilling the 7-Up,
and listening to Miss Long Hair tell Paul how the Beach Boys were real fans of
his. Just then, there was a recording of the Beach Boys, and George said, “You're missing the intro, Paul.” Paul listened and said,” Great, great.” Miss Long Hair kept talking.
Paul looked up at me and asked,”
Are you Mrs. Lennon?” This is the
chambermaid who was assigned to them beginning Saturday. “No, she's British,” I told Paul. Somehow it came out with an English accent, to
my surprise and his. “Where are you from then?” asked Paul. “New York,” I told him, this time, it sounded
southern.
Miss. Long Hair started in again, and I joined
Esther in the bedroom. Ringo, looking agonized, was on the phone. He politely
waited while I puttered around. Esther had done everything, then asked us to
close the door. Lennon, also in slacks and a turtleneck, came into the room and
sat a while. We finished straightening up, and then we went one floor below
where the Beatles' manager and entourage were busy in their rooms.
More cleaning up, some more kidding with the
guards. “When do you get off, sweets? “ They asked Esther, after one look at me
in my sad sack costume. Esther charmingly told them, “At midnight, when my
husband picks me up.”
Saturday morning, I stayed with Anne Lennon,
another shapely brunette, long enough to clean up that living room, leaving
when the Beatles finally got up for breakfast. One hour with Anne was enough. We picked up broken glass, chicken under the
sofa, a torn-up telegrams (I love you. Call me and I love you, waved to me),
wheeled out glasses, piled up the record albums, washed the ashtrays, swept the
floor of the bar and scrubbed it while I rearranged the furniture and waited
for the boys to wake up so we could vacuum.
The boys overslept, and their manager had to
scream and yell outside the doors to get them moving. “Come back later, girls,”
the manager said, as the breakfast trays came in, orange juice, corn flakes,
milk, eggs, sausage, toast, tea.
I took off for other duties. I
decided to get out before I had to do any more hard labor. My last thought was
of the Beatles. “Tell the boys to watch where they walk if they're barefoot,” I
told their manager. “We picked up a lot of it, but there might still be some
broken glass around.” “God bless you,
Love,” said the manager.
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