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
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