I Hold the Keys, Bitches

People say to me all the time; “Sara, you’re so glamorous, so well-informed! What is it that you do for a living?”
You mean aside from being fucking awesome? Well, I’ll tell you. I’m a concierge.

Now most of you don’t know what that is because, how shall I say this nicely? You’re too poor low-brow. For a small fee (not that small, really. Send checks) I shall explain.

Audrey Horne, Concierge

Audrey Horne, Concierge

As Audrey Horne discovered when she trained as a concierge at the Great Northern Hotel in Twin Peaks as part of her efforts to learn the family business from the ground up, a concierge does a little bit of everything. But only for rich people.

Yes, I have a spare key to your apartment. But being a concierge means more than being able to go into your condo and rifle through your medicine cabinet while you’re at work. Much, much more.

On a daily basis I do things like make dining reservations for rich people, recommend hairdressers and yoga studios to rich people, feed biscuits to rich people’s dogs and shoo poor people away from rich people’s parking spots. I tell them what plays to see, get them basketball tickets, enforce their restraining orders and order flowers for their mothers.

I can get you anything- for a price. Cocaine? A blowie? No problem. I know people. Really. I actually know people. Hookers and drug dealers. You have to, to be a really top-drawer concierge.

And I’m discreet. I won’t say a word about the girls with duffle bags and vinyl boots who parade in and out of your apartment when your wife is out of town, even though it’s patently obvious when a girl has a double-ended dildo in her bag. You have to know that. It’s just something about the way she carries herself. I won’t mention anything about the vast quantities of liquor and prescription pill bottles that the porter has to lug away from your door on the regular. And I won’t tell anyone when you ask me to recommend a dry cleaner that can get shit and blood out of your fur throw rug. I won’t tell anyone but you, gentle reader.

And I don’t wear brooches. What am I? An old lady?

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This entry was posted in Drugs, Hookers, Sara, Soul-killing Day Job, Twin Peaks, Uncategorized and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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