A Recital in the name of the moment.

She is a supermodel, or at least people always ask her if she is one. No, she just hangs out with her model friend, who happens to be tall too. What is it about being a tall woman? People always assume you're either an athlete or a model, or just corn-fed. She wonders.

She doesn't look corn-fed though. Maybe a little heartbroken, or just sick of carrying the weight of the truth. Beautiful brown skin. A short black dress, with the sides cut out. And high heels. Her very presence is powerful, impossible to ignore. Her best friend, tall too, struts around the lobby of this 5 star hotel like a catwalk, on the arm of the boyfriend she has come into town to visit. Little does she know, she is one of many.

Maybe she knows and maybe she doesn't care. How are people supposed to have one and only these days with all the travel, the technology and the time flying by in the fashion that it does, anyway? Doesn't the strongest connection between two people always prevail? So, what's the point of monogamy? That's what the model friend tells herself.

The tall girl with the black dress with the sides cut out feels differently though as she spots the piano, her saving grace tonight, silently sitting in the middle of this dimly lit, moody lobby. As the model friend and the rich boyfriend glide outside to smoke cigarettes and stare into each other's eyes, she requests that the concierge print off a copy of a piece of music she mastered in the sixth grade, hoping that playing it now, in a swanky Beverly Hills hotel will bring her the same joy it did when she played it for a cafeteria full of proud parents at age 12.

The concierge, a young, handsome, shy, and overworked man seems to gladly fulfill her request and immediately appears from around the corner with the requested Requiem in hand.

She begins to play. The lobby is full of snobby socialites, ordering their bottles of wine and slurping their gourmet pastas, reminiscing about dinners past at other fancy establishments. The bartender madly shakes, stirs and pours drinks. And the concierge examines light fixtures and furniture to make sure everything stays exactly in it's place. The lounge music blares behind her, and her fingers are nowhere near as nimble as they were 10 years ago. But she remembers the feeling, the freedom and the fearlessness of that time, the time when she was young, careless, and full of endlessly motivating, unfulfilled dreams and she continues to play.

Maybe she's playing for the death of the past. The death of a romance. The death of childhood. The death of naivete, and the birth of acceptance. Acceptance of what is. Maybe she's a few steps ahead of her model friend who sits outside, unaware of the piano performance, staring into the eternity of her lover's eyes.

All of a sudden, the bartender can not shake another drink. He politely excuses himself from his thirsty patrons and carries a half full tray of drinks into the kitchen. "Does anyone know what is with this wench who has been attempting to teach herself piano for the past two hours?? She clearly finds it necessary to express her heartbreak to the entire world!!!"

She continues to play. Although her song isn't as melodious as an audience might hope, her sentiments are actively projected throughout the lobby and maybe the discord is disquieting not because of the lack of quality of her performance, but because she actually has a truth to share. A truth that we all share. As humans. The power of the moment.

The concierge rolls his eyes into the back of his head and makes a disgusted face as he cranks the volume of the lounge music in an attempt to drown out her crescendo that matches the crescendo of the thoughts racing through his head. His desire to be anywhere, but here. The song has brought his feelings of frustration and angst right where they belong. To the moment. Right where he can deal with them.

The socialites begin to rustle like uncomfortable fallen autumn leaves, and the comparisons of the sophistication of their food palettes turn to nothing but silent swirling wine glasses and wandering, avoiding eyes. Glances at watches and searching for room keys. Anything to escape the uncomfortable thoughts that arise as the tall girl with the black dress with the sides cut out fearlessly wanders her way through the completion of the story of this song.

And the bartender exhales as he exclaims, "Last call!" and promises himself that he will no longer avoid the inner demons that are keeping him from being everything in life he can be.

The only two that can't hear the music are the model and her rich boyfriend. The man of many women. They sit outside, solidifying one another in each other's souls for eternity. Maybe only to meet again in another lifetime, but ensuring that they will carry the thought of one another with each other forever and always. Especially at the sound of a Requiem, in a hotel lobby, somewhere down the line.

It's a whole different scene in Texas.

A hotel. Mahogany glossed walls. Red leather furniture. Halogen Lamps. Marble Floors. Candle Light. A pianist. Maserati's. BMW's. And Mercedes. One after the other. Espresso. Cappuccinos. Freshly Squeezed Orange juice. Prosecco. Bartenders in tuxedos and Waitresses in short blue dresses. Beverly Hills.

Sounds classy right?

Nothing ever is as it seems. Let me assure you of that.

2 girls enter the lobby. They are no older than 22 and their bodies are so emaciated that they have not developed past the age of 14, but at first glance, one might overlook their prepubescent appeal due to their double- D sized silicone breasts. Louis Vuitton bags hanging in the creases of their elbows (the only creases to be found anywhere on their bodies, mind you), sequined platforms weighing down their feathery, over tanned and probably unnaturally flexible little legs, and hair sprayed and curled stripper hair for days.

"We're from Texas." The blond one says condescendingly to the bartender. She is lost in her cell phone and is too busy to make eye contact as she establishes her position of power and financial prowess. "We used to bar tend, but now we work for our dad's. It's a really different scene in Texas." The brunette says punishingly as she peels a five dollar bill out of her Prada wallet and places it on the bar, smiling and insinuating just how much better her life is than his.

I am the server, thankful that these two didn't sit at one of my tables, I stand and watch out of the corner of my eye. They have secrets. I can tell. My arms are crossed behind my back and I have a smile on my face, but I am watching everything. I wonder if they know. I wonder how they really feel. What do their houses really look like? Do their father's know what their daughters are doing this 4th of July weekend? Why did these two prepubescent "heiresses" travel all the way to Beverly HIlls for the 4th of July weekend? It's not exactly what one would call a Mecca of patriotic celebration.

They shoot back their complementary Bellini's (a champagne and peach juice cocktail courtesy of the hotel for all guests who have just checked in) and I am surprised they don't ask for salt and a lime, but then again, they're from Texas, it's a really different scene out there.

And just like that out the doors they go, squealing as they greet Mr. Wong. I recognize Mr. Wong. He's a guest that has been staying at the hotel since it opened 3 weeks ago. I first became acquainted with him the day that I interviewed to work at this $750 a night hotel.

I waited at the front desk that day and spoke with the girl behind the counter who was not much younger than me and not much older than our prepubescent friends. It was while we were sharing our desire to make a difference in the world and how neither of us knew how we would eventually achieve that goal, that Mr. Wong strutted out of the elevator wearing yellow Ray Bans, a yellow cashmere cardigan and perfectly pressed white linen shorts. The matching yellow rosary he wears prominently around his neck assures him that God has his back. His own attitude is something he never worries about.

Before I could even thank my new friend behind the desk for her time, he pushed me out of the way. Housekeeping had been instructed to pick up ALL the dirty clothes OFF the floor in his room, but he found some socks under his bed! He was under the impression this was a five star hotel! It was in mid-sentence that his complaint came to a screeching halt. More important matters called. He noticed a mirror behind him and the reflection of his bulging calf muscle was enough to completely deter his focus just until the elevator doors opened and a blond and a brunette, wearing their club attire from the night before, greeted him giving him the Italian kind of hello. A kiss on each cheek with an ass grab, and all three went on the their marry way.

Mr. Wong clearly has a thing for the blond-brunette combo I think to myself 3 weeks later, after I am hired to work at this 5 star hotel and I watch the prepubescent duo limp out of the lobby due to the excessive weight of their Louis Vuitton purses and fall over into his Maserati.

I wonder how they know each other, but then my thoughts are distracted when a group of loud Spanish speaking men with unbuttoned neon shirts, loafers and Cartier watches strut through the doors. They go straight to the elevators and pose against their reflections as they wait to go up to their rooms. Mirrors are everywhere in this hotel. The people that stay here love to look at themselves, but surely only from a surface perspective.

My friend at the front desk calls me over and tells me that they would like me to bring a tray of Bellini's to their room. I collect the drinks from the bartender and stand in the elevator with blue velvet carpet as I wait to arrive at their floor. Mirrors surround me in the elevator. I can not escape the image of myself in uniform, holding a tray full of drinks.

I think to myself how strange hotels are. They are whatever you want them to be. A place to take vacations. A place to do business. A place to escape. A place to arrive. A place to make money. A place to lose money. A place to fulfill a fantasy. A place to tell a lie.

As I move upwards in this elevator I realize that today I am here to make money. I am a servant. But there was a time I rode upwards in an elevator towards a different destiny. Several different destinies in fact. Once a vacation with my family. Once a rendezvous with a man I thought I loved. Once to get ready for the wedding of my sister. How strange to realize the different roles we play in life and how our perspective shifts as a result.

I arrive at the door of the neon shirt wearing, boisterous Spanish men, I shake off my existential mind trip and I collect myself as I knock, wondering what I am about to see. I have never knocked on the door of strangers in a hotel before, knowing that I will be welcomed into their room. But, I know that when the door opens, I have my soul, and all I am doing is dropping off their drinks, what is there to fear?

I knock, the door opens, and the two men tell me to leave the tray of drinks. They don't tip me and they lay together, sharing a king sized bed. I leave the room and assume to me what seems to be the obvious. They are a couple and are on vacation. I leave hoping they enjoy their afternoon. I'm annoyed they didn't tip me, but clearly their not from the US and life goes on. I hope they're in love, I think to myself. That would make me feel better about life.

Now it is Sunday night, a few days later. The night before the 4th of July. The sun has not yet set, and the screeching wheels of a Masaratti catch my attention. In through the doors smack the Spaniards with the prepubescents in arms, like babies. Legs wrapped around the men's waste, they should have been sucking their thumbs, but then again, maybe they are saving that for later.

How did they meet I wonder? And I thought these men aren't into the female variety? The men look at me like I know something nobody else does. A quick look. A guilty glance, followed by an entitled order. "We want six of your best shots outside right now!" They stumble outside, giggling uncontrollably, pounding the keys of the grand lobby piano as they pass by, as if to let the world know they had arrived, and there is nothing anybody can do about it.

I rest my head against the wall as I wait for the bartender to make me their shots, wondering what the lesson I am supposed to learn from all of this is. The bartender places the 20 dollar shots down in front of me, I plaster a smile on my face as I carry the drinks outside. The girls are now draped across the laps of their dates, legs spread, with their 4g Iphones on the table, blasting Britney Spears latest hit. I place the drinks down, on fancy, Italian coasters, following the premium protocol, that somehow saves me from showing them how I truly feel.

"Are you married?" The brunette squeals out. Before I have a chance to answer, the blond knocks over her shot, just like a child spills their milk, and all of a sudden I feel like I work in a daycare. "No." I respond as I clean up her drink.

Then a neon Spaniard chimes in. "Well do you like guys with big teeth, because I have..." I cut him off. "No, I like guys with a big soul." Somehow feeling like I have triumphed.

Their laughter gets louder, but I feel better. The mere act of standing up for something is all one needs sometimes, regardless of whether or not the message appears to be received.

As I round the corner back to the bar, my friend from the front desk calls me over. "Hey, you know the deal with those two girls right?" She asks me.
"No." I reply.
"They're hookers."
"What?" I ask.
"Yeah, they're hookers. They've been here for three nights and different men have payed for their rooms every night. I'm pretty sure Mr. Wong is their pimp."