"Do you have clothes?" Jennifer, the woman who just hired me asks. I am momentarily confused. Jennifer has on a sleek sleeveless white turtleneck with black slacks, and a pair of simultaneously delicate but large gold hoops dangling from her ears. I am here to sign paperwork prior to the one night of catering that I agreed to. It is for a 4th of July party in one of the most expensive exclusive hotels in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. The money is crazy compared to what I’m used to, consequentially I am both intrigued and eager. I look down at my biker shorts and tank top - I came directly from the gym. She wants to know if I can fit the vibe of this place that is dripping in leather, gold, and mahogany accents. I nod my head and list off a few outfits that I might wear. Her eyes remain unblinking and dazzling the entire time, outlined in clump-less mascara and a thin band of charcoal eyeliner. I walk out the doors with a bit of a pep in my step, excited to step out of my Jackson uniform which is mud-caked hiking boots and cargo pants, and into what feels like a costume for one night, kind of like Cinderella, but not so tragic.
The night arrives, and I have approximately five minutes to get ready after getting home from my regular job before I have to leave. I swipe on some mascara, and outline my eyes in dark brown, similar to what Jennifer had done. I put on a sleeveless turtle neck that is dark green. The bottom hem is no hem at all, and is thready and ragged. In high school I took a pair of scissors to it so that it would sit at my waist rather than the tops of my thighs. I tuck it into my pair of black slacks, and the fraying edges disappear. I sweep my hair up into a large gold clasp, put in some gold hoops, and step out my front door in what I think are sleek brown boots.
I walk into the hotel, and approach the main desk, asking for Jennifer. I am told that she is already upstairs, and to take the private elevator to the four bedroom, four bath suite. I step into the elevator and my reflection is mirrored back to me hundreds of times in various mirrors lining every surface. The doors open and I am hit with a wonderful smell. It is coming from a candle on a marble table in the main hall. I walk over to it like a moth to a flame and breathe it in. I don't know if it perfectly captured the scent of luxury or if it was just the surrounding environment. I stop hovering over the candle and follow the hallway. Under my feet is a massive cream colored cow-hide rug, and I step gingerly from a combination of sadness for the animal and not wanting to soil something that looks so pristine.
I step into the main room. It is awash with warm afternoon golden light, and every surface glistens along with the people. Jennifer stands at the marble kitchen countertop with some other workers, preparing for the event. She is wearing a white dress, and strappy gold heels with tendrils that snake around her calves like she was born with them. Her perfectly curled hair dances around her face with every movement, as if it were taught to move in such a way that accentuates her glamorous demeanor. No one truly acknowledges my entry until I step into their circle of chatter.
I can't help but gush over the cabinets that have every single kitchen appliance one could ever need, the sink faucet that pours water in the most beautiful way I have ever seen, the balcony that overlooks the mountains, the bathrooms each equipped with their very own hot tub and plush bathrobe, and the wall lined with at least one hundred photography books. Jennifer says that some of the books cost ten thousand dollars, and that the room as a whole cost millions. Five thousand dollars a night is the price of this place. "Kim Kardashian and Justin Bieber stay in this very suite," she says, and I feel like such an outsider as I allow this statement to impress me. As we talk, I watch her eyes which seldom meet mine. They are in continual search, for what I don't know, and I find that this is the theme for many of the eyes I meet tonight.
The bartender is a handsome man who wears a dress shirt and tailored jacket that looks dashing but so calculatedly casual and approachable, the perfect combination for a bartender. He makes some spicy margaritas sweetened with agave nectar for the staff, and we all cheers before the guests arrive.
The guests, all members of the hotel, arrive, and things finally begin. They float into the suite, like clouds, suspended on high heels and expensive dress shoes. Most eyes don't meet mine, and instead are constantly looking beyond. There is one girl who looks like she was made to stand in a room such as this one. Her staggering height and jewel-draped body could be a permanent art installation here, and no one would question it. One of my fellow servers, who serves full-time, doesn't bat an eye at the glamorous parade of people. He slinks into the backroom and opens a beer with a weary sigh. I munch on some extra chips. Extra is a word that I learn to be a common one here. He asks about what I do, and his eyes fill with concern and fascination when we start talking about melting glaciers and suffering pikas, which he has no idea about. He has lived here longer than me, and the dangers to the mountains are as shocking to him as the suite's seven different sets of glassware are to me.
Most of the night consists of taking away plates and washing them to be refilled. I quickly learn to master the art of slipping in between people and objects to silently and discreetly to remove dirty plates. Occasionally there is a murmur of thanks, especially from a platinum blonde lady with a kind smile who has a toddler clinging to her leg for most of the night.
The food is always kept filled to the brim. Wagyu beef, charcuterie, salad with edible flowers, and tiny cakes fill the countertops. I take away countless cakes discarded after a nibble. Their soft purple frosting blends oddly with the pinkish brown meat in the trashcan.
The bartender pours drinks with the consistency of a waterfall. Just like the eyes, mouthes are also searching. Unquenched and searching for the next drink to be downed, plate to be filled, conversation to be started. Appetite is endless, and the object of consumption is anything and everything. I polish countless various shaped glasses with microfiber towels, and my skin feels dry and far too clean. I wander away from the festivities into the master bathroom, and rub some wonderfully scented lotion into my hands. I walk into the master bedroom, and after one look, throw myself down onto the king size bed. Closing my eyes, I wonder who once laid on this bed, who felt the same thing I'm feeling. A little voice in my head counters, what does it matter?
It's time for the fireworks, so all the staff ushers the guests onto the balcony that faces the mountains. I wash dishes until the guests come back inside, and every explosion and barbaric cheer somehow makes the surroundings feel less glamorous. The guests eventually filter out, less gracefully than how they entered.
We are instructed to toss out all of the food that wasn't eaten. Only half of the prepared food was served, and the other half untouched, with their shiny stainless steel lids still on. I ask about the hotel staff, surely someone would want some food. They say no, these events happen all the time, staff has more than enough food. I feel disgusted as I dump all of the meat into the trash. I salvage some salsa, the only plant-based thing I can find. The trash is barely liftable with all of the food-waste inside. I never knew tiny cakes and beef could weigh so much. I think about the animals that died just for their bodies to wind up in a dumpster, and I think about people whose hunger pains don't allow them to sleep. My fellow server tells me that this is what fancy events are like. People that attend these events like to see plates overflowing, bountiful in every way, so excess is always made. Excess is apparent in every aspect of this evening. I wonder if this idea was verbalized to attendees, would there be change? Perhaps we are filling in for ourselves what their values are? I wonder if this is just how things are, or if we aren't giving enough credit where it is due.
It's nearly midnight, and we are finished for the night. I step out onto the balcony, and let the cool air refresh me. Looking out to the mountains, they have never seemed so far away. So detached is the world where I'm hiking with kids and talking about aspen trees and glaciers, and bending down to touch the petals of wildflowers. I can drive ten minutes down the road and be in my bed, listening to neighboring donkeys whine for carrots and great blue herons screech for no apparent reason. I think about the drastically different experiences that everyone can have here, yet be so close in proximity. There is value in separate experiences, that is the beauty of life.
Tonight, however, opened my eyes to the polarization that can occur when experiences are not given the space to mesh. People living so close, yet so separate. Breathing in the same air, driving the same roads, viewing the same mountains. All of these shared things that we rely on, doesn't make us so different. We create differences in our minds, and label them as truth.
Breaking down these barriers would open up conversations about the excess waste that goes into catering for immense wealth. Excess consumption affects every economic bracket, it does not distinguish even if it changes forms. The type of consumption that I witnessed tonight is standardized and automatic. Not even the guise of jazz, champagne, and cocktail dresses can cover up the hideous sight of plates of beef dumped in the trash.
I drive home that night, feeling tired and in wonder. I knew Jackson had its wealth, but I never can imagine exactly what this whole world is like. Now I have a glimpse of it, but it is no where near the whole. I flop down onto my bed, and I find it comfier than Bieber's.
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