Chink, my keys hit the office floor. Absently, I bend down to get them. My fingers are mere inches away when Luis Angel darts catlike and snatches them up. We rise. He hands them to me with a humble smile. I nod thank you.
If this were any other men's room attendant, I'd be tempted to think, "Well, hell, this guy's just showing off." But Angel (pronounced "Ahn-hell") is not your average restroom valet. The compact fellow with the thick accent (he grew up in the Spanish-speaking enclaves of Miami and New York City) is as good as they get around these parts. In fact, if every restroom attendant were like Angel, I could almost reconsider the occupation's status as The Most Useless Job in the World. Almost.
He tends the men's room Thursdays through Saturdays at Amphitheater on Seventh Avenue in Ybor City. He works his gig with a buoyant graciousness, an irrepressible smile, an attention to detail, a genuine willingness to serve and a rack of cologne he says he spent $5,000 to stock. You might say Angel was to the bathroom born.
He started out in sales. Angel says some of his family were major drug dealers in Miami and lured him into the business. He was busted at age 19, and spent 10 years in state prison.
"When I got out of jail, I had the choice to go back with my family or be on my own," he says, sitting at his desk in the offices of American Bathroom Valets (ABV) on Florida Avenue in Tampa. "I'd never been in Tampa in my whole life, but I'm wanting to go to Tampa. A friend of mine from prison, his girlfriend gave me a place to stay in Thonotosassa. I cleaned up and helped out and she let me stay, sleeping and feeding me. But I can't be in there all day long and not produce money."
One of Angel's friends worked for ABV, and recommended him to its owner, Patrick Fernandez. Although the bathroom valet mogul had reservations about Angel's recent jail term, he hired him anyway. After checking with Angel's probation officer, Fernandez placed the new parolee in a restaurant men's room. That was November of 2002.
Angel says unabashedly, and with a smile, "I love this job. I get to be around the peoples. I hear stories. I get to make money."
He views bathroom valets who slouch around and grub tips as repugnant, a smudge on the job's already shaky reputation. Angel proudly and emphatically states his approach — a mission statement of sorts: "It is not [about] you being in the bathroom and looking for tips and hustling that money. No. That's the wrong impression. From the beginning to the end of the night, you give the right treatment, give the right service to the peoples and make sure everything is in the right condition."
Angel says he's cleaned up puke-coated floors and customers, stopped people from using drugs in the stalls, told management about underage drinkers. He also recommends colognes — "I tell the Gucci boys to use sport cologne," he says, "the Armani guys, a high-class cologne."
Angel sees himself as one of the club's ambassadors, pumping up customers and handing out flyers for upcoming events.
And, yes, he does understand that some folks resent his presence, seeing him as just another mooch with his hand out. But he absolutely insists that, while about half the people tip him, he does not resent those who don't. Angel says his best shift ever, a Saturday, brought in around $140. A slow night might barely be worth his while.
Lately, Angel's been looking to new horizons. Fernandez, weary of running ABV and now focusing on other ventures, has essentially handed the agency over to Angel. With just 10 valets currently on the rolls and a fair amount of overhead, the business is far from being flush.
But Angel's not focusing on money at the moment. "I'm looking to reestablish my life," he says, adding that he takes pride and pleasure in teaching other attendants how to do the job right.
Even though he's not making bank, Angel's living pretty well. He has a nice car and apartment, where he lives alone. "I don't spend money," he says, adding that he abstains from drink and drugs. "I don't go to clubs. Why I wanna go to the club when I live there Thursday, Friday and Saturday?"
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This article appears in Nov 9-15, 2005.