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.