But with the change in the nature of movie production, fewer and fewer films were made in Hollywood. Location movies became the big thing. Stars traveled all over the world and remained in foreign locations for months and even years at a time. There was no longer any reason for them to make Hollywood their headquarters. And there was no longer any reason for the Casa Elite to be booked solid. The owners sold out on the premise that it was best to get their money out quickly before they actually found themselves operating at a loss.
The buyers thought they knew how to avoid that eventuality. From their point of view, they'd bought the hotel if at a bargain price. All they had to do to make their investment pay off was to figure a way to fill it with paying guests.
They faced the fact that they couldn’t make a go of it as an exclusive hostelry devoted to catering to celebrities. They needed the high-priced tourist trade to make it a success. And they needed a gimmick to attract that trade. It was the gimmick that resulted in changing the name of the hotel.
What they did was to replace their ordinary bellhops with bell-belles-girls, that is, beautiful, young girls. This was right around the time of the advent of topless niteries in the California metropolitan areas, and the hotel’s press agent came up with the ingenious idea of changing the name to “Beverly Topless” and costuming the bell-belles to suit the new designation. At first, like the niteries, the hotel hedged the pulchritude by having the bell-belles wear pasties so that although their bosoms were bare their nipples were chrome-tipped. But as the idea caught on and its value was proven by the increase in trade, the pasties were scrapped, and by now the tops bobbled down the hallways unencumbered by artificial tit-tips.
It was, of course, rank discrimination against lasses who might be under-endowed in the bosom department. But the peek-able staff operated at peak force, and, to my knowledge, there were no complaints filed with the FEPC. In other ways, however, the bare-bosom policy did effect the running of the hotel. With a combination of older, holdover employees disgruntled at what they considered a drop in prestige by the hostelry, and new, comely, but untrained employees dedicated to filling the eyes, but not necessarily the orders, efficiency at the Beverly Topless was at a low ebb and foul-ups so common that this now became a way of life for the guests. For instance -
During my stay at the Beverly Topless there was a day when I decided to take advantage of the twenty-four-hour laundry service so highly touted by the hotel brochure. I sent out a bunch of shirts and the next day -- twenty-four hours almost to the minute—one of the topless bell-belles delivered a neatly wrapped bundle of laundry to my room. I took a shower and unwrapped the bundle, intending to put on a clean shirt. Instead, I came up with a brassiere. It wasn’t even my size! The rest of the bundle consisted of similar frilly feminine garments. I returned the lingerie to the laundry. Another twenty-four hours passed. Another bundle was delivered to my room. I checked. Shirts. White shirts, just like mine. Only when I went to put one on, it turned out to be two sizes too small for me. The shirts looked just like mine, but they weren't mine. I guessed some poor, narrow-shouldered fellow guest might be going shirtless, so I returned this batch to the laundry too. Another twenty-four hours; another delivery. Shirts. My shirts. I checked the sizes. Yep, my shirts. I put one on. It fit. I buttoned it—but not all the way. The laundry had neatly amputated the button at the collar. I threw it aside and tried another shirt. I checked. The collar button was there. All the way down the front the buttons were there. But when I went to button the cuffs, I found the hotel had indeed claimed its due. No sleeve buttons on either side. The third shirt I tried had been ironed with an almost empty pack of cigarettes in the breast pocket, Stiff, shredded tobacco pressed into a white background provided a nifty brown target area right over the heart. It was just about then that I began to appreciate that there might be more than one reason for calling the place “Top-less.” The laundry had left me as bare above the-waist as the most bosomy of the hotel’s bell-belles.
Still, the laundry incident was only one of many. Others happened with more regularity. Every morning, for instance, I was awakened by the hotel’s cleaning staff marching in unison down the hall with their vacuum cleaners shouldered like so many M-ls. This parade took place at six in the ayem, and it gave the lie to the idea that the carpeting might mute the sound of footsteps. They were buoyant in approaching the morning’s work, raucous and loud in wind and limb, cheerily shouting greetings to one another, occasionally breaking into song. The really surprising thing is that the guests didn’t rise from their beds en masse and slaughter them en toto.
“And then there was the dropsy epidemic amongst the hotel's bar and restaurant personnel. Not once did I enter the cocktail lounge without having a drink poured over me. Sometimes the waiter would wait until I was seated and deposit it in my lap. Other, more impatient times, he would raise his tray high to clear my head as I entered the bar area and manage to spill some libation into my frantically ducking ear. I like my liquor straight, but I prefer to wear it inside, rather than out.
However, on one occasion, in the restaurant, I did manage revenge of a sort. The particular waiter involved was something of a novice in the hotel's game of “Get the Guests.” What I mean is that he overplayed it. He hovered at my right elbow, wine bottle at hand, and three times managed to splash me as he filled my glass. I was so used to it by then that by the time dessert arrived I had forgotten he was there. I went to turn around to answer a greeting from a fellow guest I knew casually, and in the process I neatly caught the waiter in the groin with my elbow. He doubled over, then straightened up, his face white, pain tearing his eyes, a Buckingham Palace guard poised at attention—on the brink of fainting. My elbow tingled with satisfaction, but not for long. A few moments later he had recovered enough to pour the coffee. He poured it right in my lap. The scalding effect was almost sensual in a Marquis De Sade sort of way.
Add to the defects in service the matter of the telephone. The hotel operators must have received their training at some school for inquisitors in ancient Spain. I would pick up the phone in my room to make a call and a cheery voice would say “Hel1o, Mr. Victor, it’s so nice to have you staying with us again. Are you enjoying your visit?”
“Yes,” I would reply. “I'd like three-one-four-se—”
“I'd hope we’ve been able to serve you to your satisfaction,” the operator would purr.
“Fine. Fine. I'd like three-one-fo—” ‘
“Have you taken advantage of our swimming pool? With this lovely weather, you really should, you know.”
“Yes, lovely.” My voice would take on a tinge of desperation. “Could you get me three-one—”
“And have you taken our Disneyland tour, Mr. Victor? You shouldn't miss it."
“I won't! I won’t! Now could I have three—"
“Oops! Sorry, Mr. Victor. I have an incoming call. It’s been awfully nice chatting with you.” And the line would go dead.
Or consider the hotel operator’s predilection for making sure I didn’t miss my plane even when I wasn’t catching a plane. “brrnggg!” The phone would wake me out of a sound sleep at seven in the morning. “Good morning, Mr. Bicker,” the syrupy voice would assail my ear. “Time to get up."
“This is Mr. Victor, not Mr. Bicker," I'd Object in sleep-fogged tones.
“Remember, you asked to be called so that you don’t miss your plane, Mr. Bicker.”
“I’m not making a plane. And my name isn't Bicker."
“Oh, you’ll make it. You have plenty of time. And we certainly all do hope that you’ve enjoyed your stay with us, Mr, Bicker.”
“I’ve enjoyed it so much that I'm going to stay on another few days,” I told her. “And I’d like to go back to sleep now."