In My Head, a Playwright Was Screaming

On Sting, the Ritz Carlton, and the writing career I almost didn't notice I was losing

My guilty pleasure: I'm a fangirl. I love my celebs. Cheesy award shows, fashion don'ts — I am in. I am also, inconveniently, a social justice theater artist. And the two personas aren't as incompatible as they sound. I got my punk rock ethos and a lot of my rebel politics from my celebrity crushes. Sting introduced me to Amnesty International, John Doe was a voice for the working man, and Patti Smith taught me that People Have the Power. I learned my activism in the mosh pit and I'm pretty sure that's why it stuck.

So naturally, I moved to New York City and became a luxury hotel concierge.

I can't help it. I not only like celebrities, I like stuff. Fancy stuff. High fashion, exclusive perfume, great shoes. Why not? I'm a human and like a lot of humans, I'm a magpie. If it's shiny and it's pretty, I want it. But if we went back in time and spoke to my 20-year-old self, she would have told you she was in New York to work in THEATER. That her goal as an Indigenous playwright was to uplift her people. And she did — as much as she could on fumes and multiple roommates. But then my mum sent a final rescue box of emergency Kraft Dinners, and I realized I needed a job. A job that paid, with benefits.

Then I found the hotel industry. After all, it was the same skill set I'd perfected as a waitress, only with better shoes. Wait on people, develop a tolerance for wild mood swings, cultivate your regulars. Simple.

At first glance, New York can seem stratified. The rich are the rich and the rest of us are there to serve them. But unlike London or Toronto, the city is surprisingly accessible when you learn how. It's a series of doors, and if you know where to look, where to knock, they open. I learned about the doors when I started at the Ritz Carlton. My first job was as a telephone operator and the first call I picked up was from Al Pacino. That's when the seduction began. The Head Concierge took an interest in me, showed me how to push a reservation, and we were off.

— — —

I have a lot of stories from that time. Brad Pitt is genuinely that beautiful in person. Angelina Jolie is surprisingly nerdy. Carol Burnett is exactly that kind. Harvey Weinstein was exactly that horrible.

I knew how to get a private helicopter, box seats for the Super Bowl — cost: one year's rent if I lost them, which was TERRIFYING — and a reservation at Babbo during its celebrity heyday when the waiting list ran three months long. 8:30, never 8, for the privileged few: celebs, royalty, friends of Mario. 9:30 for the rest, but only if the manager trusted me that week. And on, and on.

I wore my hair in a controlled bob. Neutral nail polish. Conservative, quiet, invisible. The job was to blend into the background. We were excellent at it.

It was also an excellent job for a writer. I met people from every spectrum of culture, status, and lifestyle. I had extraordinary perks — dinners from world-class chefs, haircuts from top stylists who knew how to twist my problematic ethnic hair into that restrained helmet, receptions at the UN, rides on the Tall Ship in the Hudson, opening nights at the clubs, and constant access to wildly expensive Broadway shows. Shows I could never, ever afford as a working playwright.

Which was fine. Because I was a playwright who wasn't writing.

The irony was not lost, believe me.

And then there were the other requests. The ones that arrived wrapped in a Black Amex and an expectation. The ones that let me know I was getting close to lines I hadn't signed up to cross.

"I had given up the power of creating the narrative and embraced being part of it instead."

One afternoon a client gave me tickets to Three Days of Rain — an impossible get. Small Broadway house, Julia Roberts, Paul Rudd, Bradley Cooper. I'd already seen the show and had a function that evening, so I called in a writing partner, a fellow playwright and devoted fan of Richard Greenberg's work. This was his first time seeing me in uniform, behind my desk in our spectacular Art Deco lobby. He came in impressed. The lobby was doing its magic and I was feeling myself.

Then he said it.

"Why do you want to write? This is great."

And that was the problem. The job was great. It was fun. It was eating my writing career and I hadn't even noticed.

I began clinging to my writing the way you cling to the version of yourself you're afraid of losing — checking in on it, making sure it was still there, but not quite trusting it enough to pick it up.

— — —

When I moved to the InterContinental Times Square, I was thrilled. High-profile theater guests. My people. I got to upgrade Christopher Durang. Help Edward Albee find a restaurant.

One day, Rufus Norris — then Director of the National Theatre in London — came to town to open their revival of Angels in America. I knew that because I had been invited to opening night. Not as a concierge. As a guest of the National. I was part of an emerging playwright group from the Public Theater, and Rufus had invited us all. We met at the party. We talked about my work. He was warm, genuinely curious, asked real questions.

The next morning, he came to my desk for a car.

He looked at me. I could see the flicker of recognition, but he wasn't sure. The bob. The nails. The marble lobby.

And in my head, a playwright was screaming.

Wait! Do you want to read my play?

That was my last year at the hotel.

Vickie Ramirez is an Indigenous playwright and theater artist based in New York City. Her work includes plays exploring the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Relatives crisis.