I'm not chicken, you're a turkey!

One thing I forgot to note from last night:

Wiry, light-skinned African-American guy comes in to the lobby, wanders around a few seconds, then leaves. I don't think much of it because this guy's a real regular; he's here pretty much every weekend, and apparently, he's been coming here for the better part of a decade. He owns or works at a restaurant nearby.

Usually, he'll just bark at me to "Wake up!" on his way out the door, but sometimes he'll even ask me if I want a cup of coffee or anything. Last night, though, he comes back in about half an hour after he puttered about before, and he's just reeking of alcohol and cigarettes. And in a way that confirms my suspicions that he has some kind of drug problem. He's just too slick. He looks around for a second (I think he had waited until Yusuf went downstairs to get something), then approaches the desk and says something like,

"Hey, man, hey, you remember me?" I nod. "Brad, right?" I correct him. "Hey listen, man, I've been coming here awhile, and me and some of the guys had a little deal where I'd come in late and if there was a dirty room where someone had already checked out, I'd slip 'em 20-30 dollars and they'd let me sleep there til 7 in the morning [an hour before my shift ends]. Whatchu think about that?"

I try to appear noncommittal: "Hmm, I dunno man. Let me check and see if we even got any dirty rooms." I'm stalling, so I go over to the drawer where we keep the keys to dirty rooms, positioning myself so that he can't see what's in there. Thankfully, we actually don't have any dirty rooms.

"Hey, sorry man," I drawl and empathize, "but we just don't got any rooms. I'd probably help you out, but there's no dirty rooms." His eyes turn down for an instant, but he seems resigned to this.
"Yeah," he says, "y'know I got an apartment, but the hot water's out 'til Monday." He flinches just the tiniest bit, so he could be lying, or then again it could just be a coke side effect. He sighs for a second. Then he starts talking about something, just drunken prattling for ten minutes or so (this is not uncommon). Finally he cuts to it: "Y'know, I'll just tell you, I ain't gonna wanna stay at my place tomorrow night. So if I come by tomorrow night, you think you might have a dirty room for me? I can bring you some money, a hot meal, whatever man."

I shrug. "I dunno, man, 'm not sure if we'll have anything or not." There was probably a little more "let's do business" than "you're fucked" in that shrug, but I can't be sure how he took it, or if he even remembers the conversation.

Finally he turns to go, but then he stops a few feet from the door and turns back. "You puff?" he asks. This genuinely throws me. There have probably been five times in my life where someone completely unexpectedly asks me to smoke weed, and I always respond like I'm in middle school.

I stutter for a few seconds, then manage, lamely, "Which one?" He looks at me like I'm a little slow. "Weed," he says, and pulls out a small, cerulean piece, holding it close to his chest. After I nod uncomfortably, he motions outside. "You wanna hit?" Now I'm buggin' a little, and I say I can't, not on the job. He says c'mon, its no big deal, it's not gonna mess with your job or anything. At this point, I step back and try to be dignified and mutter something about "lacking the confidence." He shrugs,"Aight, man. See you tomorrow."

Well, good reader, who could have known that your stay at the Hotel Idiotica would be so fraught with ethical trials? Will our hero follow the path of righteousness? Or stumble through the wilderness of intoxication and, um, usury? Be sure to tune in tomorrow for the dramatic conclusion! Or influence my behavior by telling me what I should do in the comments section!