See most tenants don’t know this, but every union employee keeps an index card on him with a graph on it. On the top they got the numbers 1-30 and on the side they got the letters A-J.

So at Christmas time when you give in your tip, they write the amount you give them in the little box that corresponds to your apartment.

This way they have a ready reference for customer service purposes throughout the year.

Now let me give you an example of how this works. Lets say the tenant in 3B calls in on a Monday morning with a leaky faucet he wants fixed. Well, the handyman pulls out his handy-dandy index card and looks in the box under 3 -- B and if he sees the tenant gave: $0 he’s like, “Oh my God, we’re really busy this week call me next week.” Let’s say the tenant in 4B calls down with the same leaky faucet, the handyman looks in the little box and if he sees the tennent gave $10. He’s like, “Well, We’ll be up by the end of the week to fix your faucet, Sir.” If the tennent gave: $25 “We’ll be up tomorrow.” $50 “We’ll be up today.” Anything over $100 “We’ll be up right away to fix your faucet, Sir!” That’s how it works.

We had one tenant, a Mr. Arthur Miller who gave everyone $200 a year at Christmas time. I swear the building could be on fire, if Mr. Miller wanted a glass of water he would get it immediately. I mean I would literally get calls from porters in the hallway going, BUZZ! “Mr. Miller just left his apartment make sure you get the door for him!” Because they wanted to keep this guy happy because he tipped so fucking much.

There were of course exceptions to this rule, like Mr. Banker the professional gambler. What a great name for a professional gambler, huh? Mr. Banker (you can bank on this guy). Mr. Banker was this six-foot-five, sixty-five years old, Greek man with huge red forearms like lobster claws who did not fuck around. I mean even though he was a senior citizen, this guy was still an animal. Because he shaved his head, looked just like Mr. Clean and would come barreling down into the lobby like he was ready to kick some serious Greek ass. He’d be like, “HOW YOU DOING TODAY? SON, GET YOURSELF AN EDUCATION!” Like he was really kind, in a mean, course sort of way. Mr. Banker spent fifty weeks a year working the casinos in ‘Vegas, but still kept a luxury apartment in Manhattan all year round, just so he could visit his relatives in Astoria during the holidays, he was that successful (I mean this guy had mob connections and everything.) At Christmas time Mr. Banker didn’t give you $25, you gave him $25, and the next day he’d go to Aqueduct or Roosevelt Raceway or some other small-ass track out on Long Island and make a killing with your money. The next day he’d come back with your score, which was usually about a hundred bucks and that was your Christmas tip. Mr. Banker, what a fuckin’ guy, I loved that guy.