Dean was GOOD at his job. When he’d started working with the Verizon Center ten years ago when he’d initially moved to Washington, D.C., he never realized he would actually make a career out of being a charming motherfucker. That’s what he called it, at least, but in actuality, he was a representative of the Verizon Center that specialized in VIP Services. It meant he helped take care of talent, but also helped make sure that the people who paid out of their asses to sit in hospitality suites were happy with their service.
Concert nights were usually the worst, mainly because the boxes were so high up and some of the individual suite owners complained that they didn’t have a good view of the stage despite getting diagrams of the stage set up before the event. It was a lot of smiling as rich people tried to talk down on him, and a lot of schmoozing to get them better seats and a great tip for himself.
Tonight’s concert was a sold out Madonna show, and already he’d been getting complaints that it was horrible. She wasn’t singing any of her old songs and rather than be thankful that they were actually seeing Madonna perform, people wanted to complain to Dean as if he could actually do something about it. Thankfully, he only had one suite left to check on, and as he let himself in, he was happy to see that most of the people in there were too drunk to be critical.
He spotted a younger girl who looked bored and made his way over, straightening his suit slightly and smiling as he got her attention. “Hey there, how’re things going in here?” he asked, vaguely remembering meeting her when he’d greeted the entire group upon their initial arrival and made sure they had everything they needed.
((SUITE))
