Happiness is Fleeting

The owner of a West Hollywood boutique hotel called to explain that he was suffering another herpes outbreak and needed a prescription for Zovirax. He added that, since outbreaks occurred every few months, he’d like five refills. Would I fax the prescription? After sending it off, I decided I needed to examine him to justify such a large amount. He agreed, adding that he was staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel.  

I perked up. I’ve been the doctor for the Beverly Hills Hotel four separate times since the 1980s. But I don’t market myself aggressively, so four times a more enterprising doctor has snatched it away. It’s been years since it called. I hurried to the hotel; afterward the owner thanked me for my concern. Naturally, I didn’t charge him. Leaving, I stopped by the concierge to inform him that I’d seen a guest and to mention my availability.

“I remember you, Doctor Oppenheim. From the Bel Age a long time ago.” We had a short, pleasant exchange, and he accepted my business card. I walked to my car with a light step. Not only had I pleased the owner of one hotel, there was a chance I’d acquire the Beverly Hills again.

Happiness is fleeting. A few hours later, the owner called. Angrily, he informed me that he’d gone to three pharmacies which had refused to fill the prescription. I was puzzled, and then I realized what had happened. Early that year I had purchased the new, high-tech prescriptions that the law now requires. They look like ordinary prescriptions, but if a thief tries to duplicate one, “void” appears faintly on the copy. Faxing apparently triggers the same process. I apologized and telephoned a pharmacy to give him his medication.

The Pleasures of the Beverly Hills Hotel

My September 3 post brings back memories of the Beverly Hills Hotel.

I love it. The hotel sits in a residential area of a city with benign parking laws, so I can leave my car on adjacent Crescent Drive. Because management ignores the tiresome obsession with security, even during the wee hours, I walk to the nearest door and never find it locked. I’ve made 135 visits.

I’m not the only doctor who loves the Beverly Hills Hotel. Although the oldest (built in 1912), later arrivals – Bel Air, Peninsula, Sofitel, and L’Hermitage share its reputation for opulence and expensiveness. However, something about it attracts the fawning attention of doctors, including those who don’t serve hotels.

I’ve never met the general manager. He has the authority to designate a hotel doctor, but GMs tend to leave that decision to guest service personnel. That works out fine for me – over the long term. Over the short term, aggressive doctors exert their charms. I’ve acquired and lost the Beverly Hills Hotel four times.

For an exciting year during the eighties, it called, and I visited Leonard Bernstein twice (I can mention his name because he’s dead). Then calls ceased. They resumed several years later before stopping again; this was probably the work of the unhappy celebrity whose visit I may have mentioned earlier. The hotel closed for renovations in 1994, reopening a year later with concierges who knew me from previous jobs -- always a good sign. Sure enough, calls began arriving. By this time, Doctor Lusman was on the scene (google “Jules Lusman”; you won’t regret it). He took over until he lost his license in 2002.

All luxury hotels call now and then, and a few call regularly, but I lack the key to winning their ongoing loyalty. This might involve something as straightforward as charming the general manager or as devious as money changing hands. I don’t know.

An Encounter at the Beverly Hills Hotel

In 1995, a man wearing only pajama bottoms dashed into the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel as I stood at the concierge’s desk.

“Don’t pay him!” he screamed.

Without lowering his voice, he denounced my competence and asserted that, once he informed the general manager, I would never again enter the Beverly Hills Hotel.

He had consulted me for a painful anal condition. I didn’t find anything wrong but gave some suppositories from my bag. He showed no interest in suggestions for sitz-baths and stool softeners, finally interrupting to declare that he needed substantial pain relief, preferably by injection. He heard my explanation for declining in sullen silence.

I left the room without the usual pleasantries and made a beeline for the concierge but not to get paid. I never ask for money after a visit turns out badly. If the guest isn’t planning to complain, the sight of my charge on the bill might change his mind. In these situations I try to neutralize damage by warning that I’d seen a guest who might cause difficulties. I had barely begun when the man’s entrance made this superfluous.

I kept quiet, and he eventually ran out of gas and stalked off. To my relief, several amused employees urged me not to worry. This guest was well known to them. 

Security

Cheap hotels skimp on security. I park, enter, and wander about at any hour, and no one bothers me. Luxury hotels also make my life easy. Visiting the Beverly Hills Hotel, I park on the street nearby and walk toward the nearest door which remains unlocked even during wee hours. When I press a button on the elevator, it obeys.

In between lies trouble. A Marriott, Hyatt, Hilton, or Holiday Inn has innumerable doors because fire regulations require them. But if I want the door to open, it’s the main entrance or nothing. The elevator requires a room key card before it responds. In the past I waited for a guest to enter, but technology is improving, so that often doesn’t work. 

A desk clerk who decides I’m not a suspicious character will make me a card, but I’ve whiled away many hours waiting for a security officer to escort me to the room, and it may take a firm effort to prevent him from following me inside.

Crushing My Hopes

I didn’t recognize the number on caller ID, and when I heard “This is Adele from L’Hermitage” I nearly dropped the phone in my excitement.

L’Hermitage never calls. I serve many luxury hotels (the Langham in Pasadena is the most luxurious of all), but the celebrity Beverly-Hills-area establishments (Bel Air, Four Seasons, Beverly Hills Hotel, W, Beverly Wilshire….) as well as L’Hermitage pay me no mind. I don’t market myself, and plenty of doctors are eager to serve them.

The Beverly Hills Hotel is a borderline exception. I’ve been its doctor four times since the 1980s, making about 150 visits. Each period lasted a few years before a more entrepreneurial physician snatched it away. It’s been ten years since the last call, but I remain hopeful.

The L’Hermitage guest needed to speak a doctor, Adele informed me. Was I available? I was.

“I need help,” said the guest.

I listened, and my heart sank as I realized that L’Hermitage had not seen the light.

You can guess what had happened. His request rejected by L’Hermitage’s regular doctor, the guest was demanding that the staff find someone else. 

Recovering from my dashed hopes, I explained that I could not accommodate him. Going beyond the call of duty, I discussed his options, emphasizing that harassing the staff would not solve the problem. This was stretching a point because there are always a few doctors who would not resist.

"Welcome to the Biltmore. Are You Checking In?"

That is not my favorite greeting, because it means the valet doesn’t recognize me. My response is always: “I’m the hotel doctor. I’ll be here twenty minutes. They hold my car.”

That’s my mantra to parking attendants, delivered a thousand times and followed by a moment of tension. Will he smile, accept my key, and park my car nearby? Or will he hand over a voucher, jump behind the wheel, and drive off into the bowels of the parking structure?

I have no problem tipping attendants, but I hate paying ten to twenty dollars to park. Accepting the voucher makes that a possibility, so I repeat the mantra, hoping he will reconsider or appeal to his boss who might know me or decide an elderly doctor with his bag deserves VIP status.

Once I accept, my next step, after caring for a guest, is to ask the desk clerk or concierge to validate. Sometimes they comply, but now and then…

“Sorry. The hotel doesn’t handle parking. It’s a separate company.” Hotels often outsource parking, but luxury hotels always accommodate me. Chains are unpredictable, even those where I go regularly. But once I hear this, I pay because I have a rule against arguing with hotel staff. Validation sometimes requires only that the employee scribble “comp – hotel doctor” on the voucher. Once, when refused, I scribbled it myself, and it worked, but I don’t do it. The chance of getting caught is very low, but the consequences are so humiliating that it’s not worth the risk.

After thirty years, I know the nearest street parking for every hotel; if it isn’t hot or raining, I’m willing to walk a few blocks. Downtown is a problem because, even during wee hours, homeless men hurry up, offering to watch my car. In the immense wasteland near the airport and hip entertainment sections of the Sunset Strip and Hollywood, street parking is often impossible. As with so many amenities, Beverly Hills is a pleasant exception.

I loved the temporary handicapped pass I used for six months after breaking my leg in 2003. Its benefits are no secret to the able-bodied; it turns out that eleven percent of Los Angeles drivers have one including not a few running the treadmills at my gym.

Human Nature

An elderly Mexican psychoanalyst was attending a psychoanalytic convention, but a cold was making her so miserable that she wanted to return home early.

This seemed an excellent call in many ways. It arrived during the evening rush hour, but the Royal Palace was only two miles away. It was my first visit to that hotel, always a delight, and I planned to introduce myself to the management. Finally, the lady’s stuffy ears dominated her concerns, so she probably wouldn’t demand useless antibiotics which Latin American doctors prescribe for colds as often as we do.

Everything proceeded smoothly. I finished my traditional lecture on preventing ear pain when flying (generous use of nasal sprays); she expressed gratitude and laid down an American Express card.

American Express charges a larger service fee than other credit cards, so some companies that handle transactions don’t cover them. That includes mine, but I wasn’t concerned. So far everyone has had cash or another credit card, but on learning that I only accept Visa or Master Card, she expressed dismay. She only used American Express, she explained. Her plane left the next morning, and all she had was cab fare.

While I considered my next move, she snatched the phone, dialed the front desk, and poured out her distress. The doctor they recommended wouldn’t take her credit card; she had no money, and she needed help. I cringed at this terrible P.R. She wasn’t complaining about me, but it’s never good for a hotel to hear a guest having problems with the doctor. Luxury hotels will advance money and add it to the bill, but the Royal Palace, while comfortable, was not in that class. The desk clerk suggested she find an ATM.

Long ago, I drove a guest in search of an ATM, and I’ll never do it again. Begging my forgiveness, she swore that when she returned to Mexico City she would phone with the number of an acceptable credit card. I had no other suggestion, so I brushed off her apologies, and we parted on good terms.

That was several weeks ago; I don’t expect to hear from her.

My practice where almost no one see me a second time and everyone lives far away is a supreme test of integrity, and it’s discouraging how few measure up. Guests have already agreed on the fee before I arrive, so it’s rare that I leave unpaid. When this happens, guests are invariably upset and embarrassed. Once home and aware that there will be no unpleasant consequences if they don’t pay, only about twenty percent come across.

Michael Jackson's Doctor

According to the Los Angeles Times, police are looking for Michael Jackson’s doctor. That brings back memories. In 2001, I received a call from a concierge at the Beverly Hills Hotel asking if I could see a celebrity. When a concierge speaks of a "celebrity" instead of giving the name, it means she suspects there might be a problem. So I asked if it were Michael Jackson. She admitted it was. I told her that I had some experience with him, and during my last visit we had agreed that he wouldn't call any more. I told her I planned to hold him to that agreement. She was entirely sympathetic, but that was the last call I received from the Beverly Hills Hotel.