It was 8:30 on a Friday night. While the happy-hour crowds buzzed at the San Diego hot spots, my two coworkers and I were installing and sanding the intricate Bordeaux-pattern hardwood floor in the foyer of one of downtown’s mega law firms. The work was brutal. A punishing mix of sweaty physical labor and precise craftsmanship. Wood dust clung to our hair, faces, and clothes. Reeking of sweat, varnish, and a long day’s work, we were filthy and looked homeless.
I was on my knees, a folded piece of 80-grit sandpaper beneath my fingers, carefully sanding the grain of a narrow strip of walnut when the elevator doors opened.
The laughter inside stopped as the doors slid apart.
Instinctively, I recoiled but didn’t look up. My eyes were fixed on the spotless leather oxfords and Ferragamo pumps stepping onto the floor in front of me. The elevator’s chilled air swept in, carrying the scent of cologne, hair spray, and fine wool.
Three men. Two women. All about my age, returning from a Friday night’s happy hour.
One of the men stopped and threw out an arm as if warning the others.
“Whoops. Don’t step on the help!”
The group laughed as they passed, disappearing through the chrome-and-glass doors of the prestigious law office.
One of the women glanced back. Our eyes met, and she gave me an awkward grin that said, “Sorry. Every office has an asshole.”
At the time, refinishing hardwood floors paid the bills while I tried to build a photography business that wasn’t much of a business at all. By day, I tried to convince people I was a photographer. At night and on weekends, I was on my knees, breathing wood dust and chemicals.
These days, I work around a fair amount of luxury. Beautiful resorts, extraordinary homes, and of course, SV Riviera. But luxury is not all about nice towels and Veuve Clicquot. It’s about authenticity. It’s knowing someone’s name, paying attention, and making people feel comfortable without making a big deal about it.
I’m sure that night in the law office had something to do with the way I see things now. I don’t remember the man who made the joke, but I remember exactly how it felt to be the guy on the floor.
Those grueling, $12-an-hour years have never left me. And thank God I was the help. Working on my knees, invisible and overlooked.