Awkward Moments Number 1: Sure I Have Kids...So What?

An attractive woman walks into our lobby daily. Make that plural. Attractive women post up at our hotel on a constant basis. That happens at a beach-side hotel. A whole slew of bars are just a few miles away for the younger gaggle of girls and our low-prices are prime for a mom's getaway.

None of this affects me of course because I look like Paul Giamatti uglier cousin. Bikini clad women with solid tans tend to look elsewhere.

Yet, every once in a while I do get a stray look of intrigue from a middle aged woman that let her weight go a little astray. But even then that occurrence remains a rarity. I am here to check chicks in, not fulfill spring break dreams.

Now, with that being said, Ms. Cleary had other ideas this past weekend. She parked her blue family style Chevy Tahoe, got out slowly, revealing a beach ready physique while wearing a black two-piece bikini. Her kids, a 6-year-old girl, 9-year-old son and two teen girl somewhere between 15 and 16, exited the car as well and they all walked casually to my front office. Ms. Cleary's appearance did not match-up with her motherly status. Which in essence made her that much more attractive.

Ms. Cleary: Here to check-in for Cleary. One room, three beds, I think.

Me: Yep. Got you right here. Let's get you guys check-in shall we.

Ms. Cleary: Sure.

She was nice. Her kids were nice. Everything was generally normal. Sure, her, eh-hem, juggos were joggling out of her bathing-suit top, but again, that happens at our type of hotel.

At the end of checking her in, I wrapped up a little info session about our area with my usual last question.

Me: Do have any other questions?

Ms. Cleary: No.

Me: OK. Well, if you need anything else, let me know.

Ms. Cleary: I do actually. Where can you and I hang out later?

Her voice paralyzed me. Her smirk curled my toes. Her eyes peered over with no sign of joking. In that very moment, ten long seconds elapsed with no noise. No response. No answer to this simple question. BUT, what the hell is there to say to that question!? Her kids were standing there! Her juggos were joggling. I was at work. Shit, I was shocked!

Then, her 9-year-old son giggled and looked at me like, "your blowing it dude!"

So, I finally stumbled a response but immediately regretted it.

Me: Uhhh, yea, uhh sure. Whatever works.

She let out a fake chuckle and ushered the whole family out of the office.

Even as I write this I am still confused as to how I should have handled that utterly awkward situation.

-Topher

Rule Number 91: True Emergencies Always Get A Pass

It was 11:30 p.m. on a muggy summer Wednesday night and the 'ol shift change was in effect. Topher comes on and I leave. Naturally, I love this part of the night. Especially when the day flew by lazily like that Wednesday so perfectly did. I had limited calls, sold some rooms and I even got hit on by a creepy middle-aged Lithuanian woman (I'll take what I can get).

But just as I began to punch out my worn time card, shit came raining down from the starless sky.

A girl burst through the door… mascara rubbed and smeared everywhere on her twenty-something face, tears in her eyes, scratches on her neck, and a big fat lip. She stood staring at Topher and myself out of breath and panicked. One look and I knew immediately.

“He hit me…” she whimpered to Topher and I.

If you have ever seen an episode of “COPS,” or experienced any type of domestic violence, you know the rest.

After calming her down, it became decision time for Topher and me. Our lobby was technically closed (6:30 a.m. to 11:30 p.m.) and with all of our rooms were occupied, she had nowhere else to go. For this merry band of self-serving assholes, it was finally judgment day and we decided to do what any decent person would do. We took her in.

After calming her down with some water, she rattled off her story to us.

“I was drinking at a party at my boyfriend’s brother’s house and we got into it,” she quickly spouted.

“You see, my boyfriend is actually in town for a lifted truck/small dick convention,”(Okay I made that part up-but very possibly true).

“We were watching a UFC fight and he just flipped. He took me outside, started yelling, and...and, punched me in face and threw me to the curb,” she nervously explained.

At this point I saw an opening for a little gallows humor to lighten the mood. I took it.

“Well, uh, maybe for future reference, it’s not a good idea to watch cage fighting with this dude,” I awkwardly interjected. She smiled her way into a slight chuckle and her nerves drained from her body.

She then went on to mention that this was “only” the fourth time that this had happened. Again, for anyone familiar with DV, this is nothing new. For those of you who have been living in a cave since adolescence, this uniquely human phenomenon of physically harming the ones we supposedly care about is not restricted to three-wheeled trailer owners in the Smokey Mountains. Yes, as the sun sets in each dark pocket of the continent, thousands of “men” come home and exert their fucked-up will on their supposedly significant other. Rich men, poor men, old men, young men. You are naive to think otherwise. And that night, the raw consequences came wandering in by way of our lobby doors.

It's wrong. Do I even need to say it? Yet somehow, shithead dudes like “Ike Turner” over here, manage to keep women around through a nasty concoction of control, low self esteem, and pure unfiltered fear. I can't stand seeing this.

She wanted to leave him, I could definitely see it in her jittery blue eyes. But it was readily apparent that this Schmohawk knew what strings to pull.

After a long conversation about her future, which concluded with her promising to leave the guy, we were able to get a hold of her sister to come pick her up and whisk her away to safety. I don’t pray, so the best I could do was hope for the best for her. She deserved better. I hope she gets it.

-Burt

Rule Number 12: No...Your Stupid Mini-Dog Can't Stay

After a call I often think, "What possesses a human being to express such ridiculous details about themselves?" I keep getting the feeling that people don't realize how stupid they sound.

Example:

(Ring...Ring....Ring)

Me: Good morning. Sketch Hotel, this is Tohper. How can I help you?

Girlie Man: Hi. Do you guys have a rooms for this weekend?

Me: Absolutely. For how many people?

Girlie Man: Just me and my dog.

Me: Oh, I'm sorry sir. We don't allow any pets.

Girlie Man: Don't worry, it's just a four pound Yorkie.

(Haha. Of course is it. )

Me (giggling): Is...is it yours, sir?

Girlie Man: Yep.

Me (chuckling now): Do you have a carrying case for it sir?

Girlie Man: Sure do. So it's OK right?

Me: Nope. Unfortunately, it's still a no sir. Even your Yorkie is not allowed. I asked those questions out of pure curiosity.

You idiot.


-Topher

Rule Number 82: Don't Call Me Anymore

The time has finally come. I am forced to admit that Topher does not stand-alone at the Sketch Hotel as the one who harbors prejudices (see the cabbie post). That’s right, I (a balding, alienated, overweight 43-year-old single white male) hold some bitter discontent towards others too.

However, unlike Topher's cabbies, my targeted group of pre-judgement is not occupationally based. Did I say group? I meant sub-group. You see, most people reserve rooms over the phone because they feel more comfortable with human interaction over internet confirmation numbers. Then, there are those who reserve rooms over the phone because they are completely oblivious to the existence of the internet and its many uses, besides porn.

12:15 a.m., the phone rings.

Cletus:“Well, howdy! How far are you from the fairgrounds?”

Me: “Uh... Well, we are...”

Cletus: “Cause I needa' room with a prime view, I mean we’re talkin’ right out over the skyline.”

Me: “Well sir, we-uh-only have two stories, but....”

Cletus: “Well then I want the best room you have. It’s me and my woman’s 3-year-anniversary and we we’re lookin' to get away from all the little idiot kids running around here y’know.”

Me: “OK, sure, not a problem. I....”

Cletus: “OK, now can I drink on the pier and shit?”

Me: “Hmm, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal, so…”

Cletus: “Yeah but the cops won’t bother me right? I just came from Miami and ain’t nobody said nothin' down there.”

Me: “Like I said, I strongly advise you against it.”

Cletus: “So what’s your shark attack situation there?”

Me: “Huh?”

Cletus: “You know, are there sharks in the water?”

Me: “Right. Well, based off of my Discovery Channel shark week knowledge, the water is a little too salty up here for there to be a problem…” (I have no idea if that’s true.)

Cletus: “Hmmm. Sounds kinda' crazy to go swimmin'. How many buffets do you have nearby? I’m lookin' to do some good eatin! Oh yeah, and what else is there to do in your state? You got huntin? Racin'? I heard the border problums are expandin' up to San Fran!”

I'm stopping it here. I can't write anymore. If you had to endure the entire conversation, you would never read this blog again.

For another 45 minutes, ol’ Cletus peppered me with questions left and right. No number of Cash Cab episodes could prepare me for this level of trivia. I am simply not an information desk for random questions about geography, marine animal sciences, thinking for grown-ups and other things that your public school system failed to teach you.

The worst part of this early morning menace? He ended up not making a reservation. It’s OK though. I figure if he calls back I’ll just tell him it’s the start of prime shark feeding season the day he needs a room.

-Burt

Rule number 72: "Military Discount" Means More than 10% Off

At times, the Sketch Hotel's most wild guests can be our best guests.

Guests that fight each other constantly but quickly embrace in a swaying hug. They will crush beers over their heads and puke in the street only to attempt a clean up with their last surviving sock or shirt off their back. They constantly ask questions like, "Wheer can I git sum pussy?" Then, after I explain that I don't know of any real whore houses, they explain how that simply means a bar.

These glorious guests are, of course, members of our United States military.

And at not no point has one of these guests given me a hard time. Sure, they can get surly, but its only with each other and it's obviously a release mechanism. If another guest complains about their debauchery and I am forced reprimand them, they apologize, offer me a beer and quiet down from then on.

They are respectful and more than likely so excited to be out of a desert, that nothing bums them out.

It's endearing really. To see young men that truly know how to enjoy the simple things in life. Even when those things are beer, cigarettes, buddies and gittin' pussy.

-Topher

Rule number 37: I'm not Zuez

(9:16 a.m. -Typical morning with overcast skies above the Sketch Hotel)

Guest: So, the sun is coming out right?

Me: Well, we sure hope so. It may come out in the early afternoon around one.

Guest: Well, what time exactly? That way we can plan our day.

Me: Hm, like I said, maybe around one. But you never really can be to sure now can ya'.

My response explodes with an tight smile and an extra emphasis on niceness. I do this when I am concealing my absolute hatred for the person standing across my front desk.

How, you common-sense-troubled person, am I supposed to know the exact moment the skies will clear? Do I pull a magical sky cord that lifts the clouds like a stage curtain. Or maybe I check that magical website that explains minute to minute overcast cloud movement right over our hotel. No wait, I got it, you must think my magical front desk abilities of running credit cards and giving directions also extend to controlling the weather.

What a stupid question. My elementary school teachers were wrong; dumb questions exist and are seemingly magnetically zeroed in on my life.

...

But, now that I think about it, I would like that sky chord. Hymph...Oh well, I'll just stay pissed at people until then.

-Topher

Rule Number 59: Do Not Crash Into Hotels and Yell At Us!

At checkout time (11 a.m.), I always feel one of two emotions. The first emotion being that of relief as every checkout has departed happily and ready to recommend us. The second emotion and most common is that of despair as everything that could go wrong has. Those moments feel like a migraine and stroke have tag-teamed and done a pile driver on your pulsating ulcer.

Well, on this particular morning I felt great relief. Only one checkout remaining and everyone else left the hotel pleased. These moments need to be cherished in the biz.

However, as the last checkout strolled up to the office, I began to feel the compression of the migraine begin its tear. He looked pissed. His backwards baseball hat, ratty white shirt and prickly five-o’clock shadow only enhanced my impending anguish after I saw the glare in his eyes.

He walked in.

Dude: “Bro, you got insurance or what!” he snapped at me.

Me: “Sure we do, but I'm not really sure what you mean,” I replied. I really didn't and the befuddled look on my face revealed as much. Upon seeing his mouth reopen to complain about something, I felt the migraine begin looking for the stroke and the ulcer begin pounding in angst of being tag teamed.

Dude: “Well bro, last night my chick was driving my truck and your blue pole came out and caught my truck!” He pointed out of the front lobby windows from his white “truck-a-saurus” to a blue retaining pole that protected the building from cars that cut around the corner to quickly.

Me: “Hmm, that is an interesting way to phrase an insurance claim. Why don’t I come out and see which pole you mean? I’ll meet you outside.” As I walked outside my migraine, stroke and ulcer combo deflated. This jerk-off was about to show me if and how he had caused damage to my hotel in hopes that I would pay for his truck. Ha. Priceless.

Dude: “That blue one, right there! You got insurance for that or what?,” he demanded.

Me: “Well, that pole is actually put in place specifically to block a car from hitting our building if they cut the corner,” I calmly, but with a growing smirk, told the guy.

Dude: “So I’m just pissin’ and moanin’ right?” he yelled in an attempt to get some sort of response out of me. I said nothing and turned around. But if I had responded to his ridiculous question I would have said yes, you are just pissing and moaning. And, I have another grand revelation for you…You’re an idiot.

-Topher

Rule number 47: Don't Let Your Final Destination Decide for You

Well, I know what you must be thinking by now- ‘these guys are assholes.’ Yep, you’re right. I can't call your bluff on that one. One could say that all of our posts focus on the negative (which is true) while failing to recognize the outstanding contributions of our more saintly patrons. We often have wonderful people from around the world frequent our hotel; not just powdered up hookers or sad “forty something” failures.

For example, how would you feel about a bike ride to the office tomorrow or maybe to your friend's house across town? If you were anything like Topher or me, you'd probably break down mentally due to over-exhaustion and over-thinking about where the next Dairy Queen is.

Try 60 miles a day, sometimes more. And not on some circular course that leads back to your house. Try doing it in a 60-mile a day square. What's the square you ask? Try the continental United States of America like last week’s, one bed, doesn’t matter what size-I just need to sleep- Mrs. Armstrong.

Now I know all you Forrest Gump fans might remain unimpressed (yes she was on a bike), however in my book this stands as an accomplishment on par with swimming the English Channel or winning the WWE Tag Team Championship.

As for Mrs. Armstrong, I only need one word to describe her…badass. Speaking with her was an eye opening experience. Her soft southern accent felt, in a good way, very typical Texan. And she traveled light, both in belongings and complaints. Her kind features, fading shoulder length black hair and eyes with a touch of gray, added to her mystic. How could such a timid woman be so tough?

As she chatted with me for several minutes I furthered my questions about her trip but she only seemed interested in other things, like our lobby decorations. I had so many questions, yet her answers seemed to elude me as her humble nature effectively concealed her feats. I did learn that she was nearly halfway finished. Only a couple thousand miles left to go.

And after an “Inside the Actors Studio” length chat, I finally asked her what had been her favorite spot to visit thus far?

“Well,” she paused a moment. “Today, I think I like your place the best.”

I’ll take that.

I never found out what drove her across the country on her bright orange road-bike. I doubt it was a trip to Disneyworld. Regardless, it seemed that she had made a pivotal discovery in the ever-expanding field of vacation science. It's not always about the final destination. Far too many guests at the Sketch Hotel seem to lose this concept like Italian airlines lose luggage.

-Burt

Rule number 74: I Am “They.” I Promise

At times, my front desk can feel like a used car lot. Even though our price is set, it seems an underbelly of hagglers has designated The Sketch Hotel as a prime-time price negotiation location. I even think that people will drive to our hotel from two hours out in search of a10-dollar discount. If they don’t get it, they drive home (nuts).

And you know what, sure, I accept these interactions. It’s apart of the biz. But, if I may, will give you a hint when it comes to snagging that all-important discount.

Please, don’t ever use the word “They.”

Example:

Me- “Hello. How can I help you today?”

Guest- “I need a room. One bed, as cheap as you got.”

Me- “Sure. Let’s see what we have available.”

I then give them a very reasonable price for a room with a queen bed in a quiet area. I’m being nice. That is my job. Smile and help people that can’t sleep in their own bed for a night or two. But even as I sweat kindness, I get this response.

Guest- “Well, they usually give me a better price. I’m a regular guest.”

Oh really. You are a regular guest huh? Well, excuse me while I lift my hand to my forehead and faint at your feet ohh illustrious “regular guest.”

In the words of my drunk uncle, “Kiss my rosy-red….” You can finish the rest.

Who is “they?” I am they. I live and work here with one other dude. And trust me, what Burt knows, I know. Implying that some superior entity dishes out the “hook-up” is insulting. I immediately know that you are attempting to take advantage of me. And now that I know this, guess what happens oh illustrious guest? You get put on the mental no-discount list. Congrats...You have just managed to weasel your way OUT of a discount. Then again--hmm--if I don’t give you the discount “they” gave, I potentially lose out on selling the room.

(sigh)

See, used car lot.

Rule number 6: Public Transportation Options are Currently Limited to the Bus System."

Cabbies. Scum of the earth right?

Topher says this all the time and wastes no time letting them know his sentiments. But after the past couple of weeks, I’m starting to buy into his theory.

On occasion, a Sketch Hotel patron will request a hotel shuttle to his/her destination of choice. Well tough shit. We have no such accommodation. I mean this wouldn’t be a “Sketch Hotel” if we did right? It’s the actual equivalent of showing up to a Motel 6 in Fresno at 3am and asking where their day spa is located. So, I’m often left to do the next best thing. Call up the cab service and cross my fingers.

Over the past two months my love/hate relationship with taxi drivers has truly blossomed. It all started with “the discovery.” Yes, by the end of this post, you my loyal reader, will now know the filthiest secret of the hotel underworld.

One afternoon after losing the number to the regular Taxi conglomerate, I stumbled upon the most fantastic business card I have ever laid eyes on. Bold print covered the front, silhouetted by exploding fireworks in the background:

“PALMS CAB CO. AVAILABLE FOR V.I.P. SERVICE 555-555-5555.”

OK, what the hell. I dial the number, a quick talking high pitched voice answers. I have come to hate the cabbie, "Jersey Style", accent.

“What’s up buddy!”

(Holy shit, I have friends I don’t even know).

“Uh yeah, I need a cab for two down to O’Shea’s Pub,” I mutter.

He arrives in less than 5 minutes. I watch him exit his yellow chariot and walk into the front office as his customers hop in the back. Then it happened. The big burly fellow reaches into his pocket and drops three bucks into my hand.

At that point all my wildest mafia dreams had been realized. I was finally part of a racket. A scam. A black market. A jip. A con. Dirty money in my palm! OK, so maybe I’m exaggerating a little, but you get the point.

After he sped from the parking lot that day, I made the next logical move. Every guest that checked in that evening was given a room key, local information brochure and, you guessed it, asked if they needed a cab. “Cause um, if you do, I could call one for you sir.” This continued for weeks. Everything was fantastic, I was rolling in the dough. Enough money to buy a Snickers after work every day. King size!

At this point I made the typical mistake that most mafia rookies always fall into. I schemed of ways to scam my supplier. I pondered calling other cab companies and offering my wealth of business in exchange for four bucks (that’s right, FOUR dollars) at pick up. Maybe we could even arrange a warehouse/dockside meeting. My mind ran wild and it showed. I had no idea what I was doing.

Eventually all good things come to an end and my cabbie cash flow was not different. I blame Topher. We won’t get into that. All that I know is that if you do call a cab, and nobody shows up to claim it- don’t expect two things: 1.) your three dollars or 2.) a friendly exchange. Cabbies tend to draw their anger up from the depths of their scheming checkered souls, and it is painfully obvious when one has reached his breaking point. Maybe it's one too many drunk girls puking in the back seat. Maybe it's one too many stick ups. Maybe it's one too many people named Topher explaining how being a cab driver spawns the worst human being imaginable. Who knows? But for Mr. PALMS CAB it was one too many no shows from that seedy Sketch Hotel. Bummer. Instead of three dollars I got a solid Jersey style lecture and it was all over just as quickly as it started. No more kickbacks. No more hotel clerk bonuses. And needless to say, things are a little different now.

....

Guest: “ Hey, um, I don’t have a phone, could you call me a cab?”

Me: “Take the fucking bus.”

-Burt

Rule Number 5: False Imprisonement/Kidnapping Gets the Victim Discount

I have seen the fear. The "look," as it's called. You know, the baffled face a man makes when he's been ‘caught with another woman. Panic enters the male psyche as female intuition zeroes in on its kill. He may begin to conjure up frantically panicked lies and uncomfortable excuses to further the concealment of his unfaithful nature. Yes, I have definitely seen the aftermath of this fear come into the Sketch Hotel.

But it was no-where to found in my man Mister Greco.

On a lazy Tuesday afternoon the hotel sat relatively vacant when Greco casually strolled in with a sheepish grin and an agenda.

“Listen man,” he slyly began, “I’ve got kind of an, unusual, situation on hand.”

“What’s that?” I hesitantly replied

“Well I’ve only got 60 bucks to pay for a room, and I was wondering if you, my main man, could help me out.” His attempts at smoothing me over reminded me of my guido cousin at a dive bar hitting on 35-year old women. I wasn't buying. Not yet at least. It's generally worth it to hear the story before finalizing decisions at our front desk.

Because you never know when you get that-made my day-line.

“Well you see my woman found some of my texts,” he explained with a smirk. “Not just any texts, either. These were to my flirty friend.” Ok, so what, I thought. 60 bucks still ain’t gonna cut it. It’s gotta get better.

It did.

Apparently Ms. Greco does not subscribe to the Dr. Phil method of talking things out. After discovering his infidelity, she did not resort to yelling and screaming, but rather a form of revenge that would make Lorena Bobbit smile. She patiently instructed her husband down to the garage to retrieve some obscure item. His fate was then literally sealed. She pounded a nail through the door into the frame locking our unfaithful friend inside. After hours spent among gardening tools, flat sports balls and whatever else you would find inside a cheating man’s garage, Mr. Greco managed to make his great escape.

"I was trippin' out man. She went crazy! So I did what any man would...ESCAPE!" he screeched now half-laughing at his own story. "I had to break the handle on the side door to the alley 'cuz she put glue in the locks. Man, my neighbors probably thought I looked like O.J. or some shit after crawling outta there all suspicious and shit," he joked.

I could not help at least giggling at this heroic figure standing in front of me, battle worn and still able to smile. Well, let’s see I thought. What's our policy on kidnapping victim discounts- oh what the hell…

He gave me no choice. I checked him in. 20 bucks might have cut it after that crazy ass story. The guy earned it. While few men in history have escaped prisoner of war camps and jail, even fewer have escaped enraged spouses.

-Burt

Rule number 4: Don’t Ever Trust a Man with an Eye Patch

I'm a simple man. But nothing ever prepares one, such as my simple self, for accusations of espionage and grand theft.

Check this out.

The usual Friday night crowd had rolled into the Sketch Hotel-lovers, tourists, sad single businesswomen, etc.- and operations were running smoothly. But just before I could start the front office shutdown procedures, in walked a haggard looking guy rocking an eye patch and some well-worn clothes named Mr. Babbitt. Equipped with a long black guitar case filled with God knows what, I assumed Mr. Babbitt was your typical transient.

I assumed wrong.

A few hours after checking-in, he barged into the lobby looking to urgently discuss a minuscule matter of money.

“WHERE’S THE 700 DOLLARS YOU STOLE FROM ME!” he bellowed.

“Uh, I’m sorry but I have no idea what you are talking about,” I calmly replied and without hesitation he and his eye patch stormed out of the office…. And so ends the stor…Ha, not at the Sketch Hotel.

He called the cops.

Sure, from time to time our local lawmen are summoned to the Sketch Hotel to handle our “difficult” guests. But, I do believe this may have been a first for the smirking officers who arrived on scene. It's a rarity, I hope, when a guest calls 911 on the front desk help.

It didn’t take very long for Johnny Law to straighten things out. Mr. Babbitt’s claims lost a little credibility for two important reasons: 1) He came across as an obvious paranoid schizophrenic. 2) He rocked an eye patch. To those unfamiliar with the history of eye patches- pirates, Slick Rick,and David Bowie all hang out at the ‘Bat-Shit-Crazy’ pub and grill.

Once I realized eight police units began filling the parking lot near his room I cruised out to see if I was up for questioning. Thankfully, after having a good laugh, a baby faced cop explained to me that 'ol Babbit was harmless and in fact, dropped a stunning revelation. According to Mr. Babbitt, the hotel management (Topher and I) were CIA operatives...Oh how I wish.

When morning came, I knew that the “extraction” of our Jack Bauer fearing friend would be mildly complicated by the fact that he paid cash and was owed a deposit if his room had no damages. I immediately thought of Russel Crowe's garage in A Beautiful Mind and thought to myself, "shit." Following an awkward arrival into the main office (how do you make small talk with someone who thinks you are a secret operative?), he tailed me on my way to check his room for damages.

Once opening the door, I entered a world of crazy. I mean, we’re talking Tom Sizemore Celebrity Rehab crazy. All the chairs were neatly placed upside down on top of the desk, yet perfectly opposite from each other. He opened every drawer in a staggered format; several bibles were opened to the exact same God fearing passage. Several grape juice cans were lined up in an isosceles triangle in between the awkwardly displayed chairs. Two 40 oz. bottles of malt liquor were drank to the exact same point and left evenly spaced within the fridge, labels alinged. Wet towels filled a waste basket left in the shower with the water running. The list goes on. It was painfully clear that fitful episodes of counting , obsessing, and organizing had taken up the better part of his night. Perhaps the oddest discovery came later that day when I discovered that all the light fixtures had been disconnected. Well, maybe I should say our CIA bugs/listening devices had been disconnected.

After stepping out of the hotel room version of Shutter Island, I returned to the office and gave Mr. Babbitt his $150 deposit back ( I supposed in his mind I kept the other $550). I don’t think he’s coming back. I figure if he’s seen “Rain man” he oughta be halfway to Vegas by now.

-Burt

Rule Number 3: Don't Drop Emotional Bombs

Ms. Bellafonte's forehead might as well have been stamped: DISHEVELED.

Her nails,clean and polished, tapped impatiently on the front desk. She sported a sporty tracksuit not meant for actual workouts but more for the appearance of one who can afford a nice gym. Her hair sat stiff from product and combed straight back. I could not see her shoes from behind the desk but judging by her pearl white Channel handbag, they were probably expensive with the just the right hint of tacky.

A local, I thought. She had to be from the area and most likely stopped in last night too drunk to drive home. Maybe she was seeing her man-mistress. Maybe she was the mistress.

All of these thoughts spun while I checked-out her credit card...Wild speculation happens frequently at my front desk. It's more fun that way.

“Did everything work out,” I asked her: my usual quandary upon checkout.

“No. Not really. I didn’t get any sleep,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I was slightly surprised. “Was it too loud or something?”

“No. The hotel was fine,” her eyes lingered away from mine and a tired smirk came over her face. She paused for a second then said. “I live in the area but I had to check in last night because when I got home from work..." She paused again and looked back at me.

"I walked in on my husband fucking my best friend.”

Boom.

Uhhh. Uhhhh. Uhhh. I had nothing. I actually froze while handing her the receipt. My mouth fell open and slack jawed. Shock widened my eyes and the awkward bug bit when I tried to talk.

“OK BYE! HAVE A NICE DAY.” I practically yelled at her.

And at that very moment you could actually see her thinking, well thanks for not making that awkward.

I don't think she will back.

Rule Number 2: Don't Admit to Any Legal or Moral Wrongdoing.

When the night-shift rolls in, unique patrons roll with it.

Case and point.

On a slow winter night, a wiry guy strolled into the lobby and without saying hello made some, um..peculiar, requests.

"I need three things," the man demanded with his ring, middle and index fingers flung toward me. "A smoking room...porn...and safety."

He spoke like a fast-talking hick just without the twang and straw coming from the side of his mouth.

"I can only give you one of those sir," I replied slightly confused yet oddly amused.

"PORN?" He excitedly yelped.

"No, sir," I chuckled back. "I can do safety but we are all non-smoking and we don't have any adult films."

"Well, hell, I'll just go somewhere else. You know, most of the time I just smoke in the room anyway. You see, I don't smoke cigarettes or weed dude. I like to party. D'ya know what I'm talking about?"

"Ehh, I guess." I didn't.

"Well, you like to party or what? You look like you like to party," he said without waiting for my answer. "If you give me a deal, I'll let you party with me, if you know what I mean."

At this point I had realized I was not at risk of an over the counter shanking and simply apologized but I could not give a deal.

"Well, can you at least tell me where I can get some porn?"

"There is a blockbuster in town," I replied.

"BLOCKBUSTER?!?! Shit, I need the real stuff bro!"

And with that, he turned and left the Sketch Hotel.

Rule 1: Know What Hotel You Are Stepping Into...Or Waking Up

Before any interaction with a nice, respectful and generally helpful front-desk clerk like myself, please...no, wait....please god, know what hotel you have walked into.

Case and Point.

At 4:13 a.m., my sleep was breached by a visitor. I worked the night-bell and these things happen. Drunks need rooms to make mistakes. Travelers give up on finding the right way and escape being lost with a shower and some sleep. Or a neighbor trudges in after being booted from the house for a night after an intense argument.
On this particular night, it happened to be a traveler.
"How can I help you?" I asked through the night window in mumbly sleep talk.
"Are you George?" He asked.
"No," I replied.
"Did we talk a minute ago?" I didn't say a word because I thought my bloodshot eyes, side-show bob hair and blank stair would tip him off that I had just woken up. It didn't.
"No," I replied again.
"Are you sure?" Really guy. Am I sure we didn't talk? I wanted to yell, 'I'm sleeping you idiot. You know, Americas number one activity between the times of 2 and 6 a.m.!!!" But I didn't.
"Can I help you sir?" He got the hint and got straight to his grand point.
"Is this the DoubleTree?" He blurted out with a confused and wrinkled brow.
I stood in shock. I looked straight at him dumbfounded. I then looked at the giant, brightly lit sign he just passed in the driveway that clearly, even if it were badly misspelled, did not say DoubleTree. I then looked down at my work-polo I had slipped on a minute prior that read something not even remotely resembling the DoubleTree.
I looked back at him with my mouth parted in disbelief. It's the look one gives just before screaming after being puked on.
I didn't say anything in response. I simply shook my head and closed the window slowly. How did this happen? Why did this happen? Will it ever happen again? Who knows...But please, don't make that mistake. There is always some poor soul behind the desk who has to answer that ridiculous question.

-Topher