But he must

Had a nice lady staying here a couple weeks ago. Good-humored, gracefully aged Latin American woman. When you work at a hotel, especially an old one that used to be a crack den, all kinds of problems are going to arise. You get guests that roll with the punches and smile and you get guests that are total bitching bastards, and you love and hate them in direct proportion to their flexibility. Something had gone wrong with this lady's reservation, either with the travel agency she used or on our end. She had some people coming to join her a few days later that we hadn't known about, so we had to blah blah blah who cares, point is, she was a good sport, and we sweetly charmed each other across the generation gap for a day and night.

Fast forward to the morning of the third day, 7:30 or so, truly the gloaming, the loopy time for me, and her guests have arrived: Two gawky teenage boys with shaggy brown hair, obviously her sons, and a handsome, wry, yet bumbling man with gray hair and glasses. His English wasn't great, but it wasn't that bad either.

"This trip it is very important. This my first wife," he said, almost proudly. How refreshing, to see divorced parent remain on good terms for the sake of their children, I thought.

"But now we try again!" he said, hopeful but nervous. Its important to remember that the first wife in question is standing right next to him, along with his children, and that this conversation is in no way private.

"So do you think you will finally get some sleep?" The woman asked kindly. The question of sleep is always a rueful one between me and my favorite guests.

I shrug, gesture lightly with my hands. C'est la vie, I am saying.

"Well, hopefully with us,"the man says, not at all discretely glancing between me, a hotel receptionist whom he's never met, and his wife. and he probably would have winked at his boys if they hadn't been standing behind him, "hopefully," he says, "there will be very little sleeping, eh?!?"

In the service industry, besides starting an anonymous blog, there's very little you can do when a customer says or does something totally embarrassing. Your only option is to just sort of let the remark or action hang in the air, and let the discomfort speak for itself. It spoke volumes.

Regrettable comment of the week

Man, speaking with one of The Concierge(s)* across the lobby. Evidently the Concierge(s), who doesn't speak English very well, is telling the man about jazz clubs in the neighborhood.
"Iridium? I-ridium, You-Ridium, Everybody-Ridium!"
Hey!

Phone Calls are Full of Possibility

"Hotel Idiotica"
"Hello, is this 846-5554?"
"Oh, no, sorry, this is 846-5555"
"Oh, that's alright. I'm pregnant. I'm always doing the stupidest things. And my fingers are fat"
"Hey, I mean, it's no big deal. Just a wrong--"
"Do you know anybody who's pregnant?"
"Excuse me?"
"Are any of your friends pregnant?"
"Um, well, no, they're pretty much all too young,"
"I'm 28. This is my first pregnancy"
"Oh, well...congratulations"
"So you don't know anyone who's pregnant?"
"Um...well, an old friend of mine from middle school is pregnant with her second"
"Really?!? Wow, how far along is she?"
"Uh, I dunno...could I put you on hold for a second, miss?"
"Sure."

But when I picked up again she was gone. If this was a prank call, please, whoever you are, come forward and claim your prize, because you did a really good job. Otherwise, well, I'll let you know if she calls again.

Five Drunk People Walk Into a Hotel

Five drunk people walk into the hotel.
---A cute, sunny, busty beanbag of a girl in her early twenties, wearing a tight, sheer, black shirt
---A thin gay guy with short, wavy blonde hair or similar age
---A slightly shrewish but enthusiastic older woman with glasses, probably about fifty
---An unmemorable girl with dark brown hair
---A pretty, taller, well-put-together black girl with beautiful, medium-toned skin and sleek black hair

It's about three in the morning. They've met back at the hotel from two separate locations, although its unclear who came back with whom. They are all very drunk, but loopy and exuberant drunk, not belligerent or slurry drunk. I'm not sure whose mother the woman is, but it seems like she's matched them shot for shot and that she's having a good time, not acting like a mom or anything.

As soon as they walk in, the pretty one saunters right behind the desk and drapes herself over me. I am pleased but, honestly, not really in the mood. Not bitter or anything, or even tired really, just nonplussed, I would say.
"What's your naaaaame?" she asks.
I turn my neck and give her a look that I want to be slight bemusement.. "{The Concierge} ," I say evenly.
She gives a drawn out whoop. "Hooo, I'm gonna come back for you later. We're gonna have fun tonight, Mr. {Concierge}." But she says this genially, not sexually, as if we might be going to the county fair sometime this week.

Meanwhile, the other four are swapping stories of their evenings, which I can't really follow, and I still can't figure out who was out with whom (to be fair, I am a little distracted). Gradually, for some reason, I don't really know why, I tune out everyone until I'm just listening to the girl in sheer black, who is like this big, fat, rosy-cheeked, beatnik strawberry.

"She broke mah bra," she is whining, her head lolling a bit. "Some bitch at tha club broke mah bra! She bit it like this, and it broke!" She had chomped down on her imaginary bra-strap and shook her head back and forth like a dog. "She thought I was a lezbian," she mewls, her lower lip hanging down in a mock frown.

"And now ever'body can see mah tigg ol' bitties," she says, sounding like a very saccharine old prospector, pretending to be ashamed, secretly enjoying the attention.

I had indeed noticed her busoms; her shirt is as sheer as it was black, and it is very, very black. Her breasts are pendulous, and they are, well, tigg.

"I'm sorry about your bitties," I murmur, so only she could hear me.
"Did you hear him?" she cackles, but no one else is paying attention.

Gradually, the herd decides to go to sleep. The male heads for the door. "Where you going? someone asks. "Honey, I got a boy's house to sleep over," he responds as he pushes open the door.

Eventually the ladies shuffle off to their rooms. The last in line is the attractive African-American girl. As she's passing by, she abruptly turns to me and says, in a disembodied, prophetic tone, "I ran, {Concierge}. I ran from the man."
Then she turns as if that were a perfectly normal thing to say and clicks off to bed.

Subtext in context

Beginning of my shift, young guy standing over me with his girlfriend. He looks pretty tired. "You look pretty tired," I say gently.

The guy shakes his head. "I tell you what, brother, I am tired,"is approximately what he said.

"Hey, me too, brother, but I'm here all night, so if I can make it, so can you," I say with wry resignation, slowly pumping my fist.

"Aright, man, well I'm up for it if you are,"he says, smiling a little doggedly. He and his girlfriend then go up to their room.

It's always fascinating to me to think about how two seemingly similar things can be pretty different depending on the circumstances. For instance, both he and I made pledges to stay up all night.
But while I was promising to stare blankly at a computer screen for 9 hours without crying, he was vowing to ceaselessly make love to a beautiful woman until the sun rose once more.

The same...but different.

~~~~~~~~~~

Also, I had to open bottles of wine for two different Romeos last night. I used the really cheap corkscrew that we keep at the desk, the one that looks kind of like a crackpipe. Both times, turning my back to them because I"m embarrassed to display brute strength, I popped the corks, spilled a little on myself, and handed the bottle back over. Then I sort of cocked my head, and said, "Good luck,"

And with both of them, I think there was something in the look I gave them that said, "You know I mean good luck in pleasuring your girlfriend, right?"

Unknown man, not, as far as I could tell, Campbell Robertson of the Times, nor anyone from the Post, or the News or the Observer to my knowledge, on the rise of Clay Aiken, who's from my hometown and actually my old job at the YMCA, and is currently starring in Spamalot:

"It's a true rags-to-riches story"

Funniest shit I heard all day

Young and wholesome-sounding woman calls me up to make a reservation.

Woman: "Hi, I'd like to make a reservation for the weekend of April 11th"
Me: "Ok, Miss, what kind of room are you looking for, one bed or two beds?"
Woman: "Two beds, please"
Me: "Oh, Miss, I'm sorry, but we're out of rooms with two beds for that weekend

Woman, flummoxed: "Oh. Poop."