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FacebookLast week, The Girlfriend and I opted to spend a three-day weekend in San Diego. Not that San Diego is attractive to an Orange County resident as a tourist attraction. The weather is identical to home and they don’t have a basketball team (although we don’t have a football team). But with the wedding to plan, work to complain about, and baseball season being a month away, we just needed to get the hell out of dodge for a few days.
I generally don’t like the idea of paying for hotel rooms–not when I’m paying for rent at home. But luckily, I got a guy. A dear friend of mine works in the hotel business and he’s able to hook me up with cheap hotel rooms. He’s the manger of a national hotel chain and through him; I’m able to get rooms at this very prominent chain at the employee discount price. My buddy simply books the room for me and fills out the official, proper paperwork that states I–siknerd–am an employee of the hotel. Everything is legit since he is a manager…everything except for the part that says I work for the hotel.
The process is pretty routine. He books the room. I check-in and present the employee discount form. They ask me for an ID card. I say my hotel hasn’t gotten them yet. The end–and I get to stay at a semi-fancy hotel for pennies on the dollar.
Everything was going smoothly for my weekend getaway. I presented my paperwork and said my lies. The front desk clerk was checking me in when one of her coworkers immediately stopped what she was doing and came over to help.
“Which hotel do you work at,” she asked me.
This line of questioning caught me off-guard–normally I don’t hafta answer any questions. Being the expert liar I am, I was able to quickly recover. “The Shelbyville branch.”
“Do you know Laverne,” she asked me.
Panicking, I wasn’t sure what to do. Was this a trap? The name sounded familiar because I’ve heard my buddy complain about her quite a bit–but I wasn’t sure. “Yes I do,” I said meekly.
“How is she? I used to work in the Shelbyville branch.”
At least I knew it wasn’t a trap. But now I needed to fake a bit of knowledge about the hotel because if she knew more about it than I did, they would see me for the fraud I was. “She’s good–she still hangs out with Shirley.” For the first time in my life, I was glad I actually listened to someone complain about their job. I knew the names because I heard my buddy say them. Hopefully that would be enough to get me through it.
“When you get back, tell them Claudia said ‘hi.'”
“Will, do,” I told her. By then, I was officially checked in–and I quickly darted out the door. Of 3000 hotels in the chain, what were the odds of me checking into one with a former employee of my buddy’s hotel?
Knowing my luck, why am I even asking that question?
Later that night I was returning from the front desk with an armful of extra blankets and pillows, when three teenage girls approached me. I’ve never been really good at determining one’s age by looking at them, but I knew these gals were probably older than 16 and less than 21. It was Saturday night and these were definitely party girls. Giggly with knee-high boots, they didn’t strike me as hotel guests–but I’m never one to judge (I can’t believe I just wrote that with a straight face).
“Excuse me,” said the head bimbo. “Can you tell me where room 1524 is?” I told her that I didn’t know. They thanked me for my time and headed on their way.
Without the slightest bit of hesitation, I headed back to the office. I knew the hotel security guard was there and I wanted to warn him: there was going to be a party in room 1524.
Look at the facts. It was after ten at night. These gals definitely weren’t guests of the hotel because if they were, they’d know where their room was. One of the check-in procedures is to give the guest a map of the hotel and show them how to get to their room. Plus, these girls were walking towards the front desk–not away from it. Not to mention, the girls I saw clearly weren’t dressed to sit around and watch Nancy Grace. These girls were dressed cutely–not clubbing-going skanky–but cute enough to get the boys’ attention. And since they were probably too young to get in anywhere, I highly doubted they were meeting friends to go out anywhere. That really only left one thing–hotel party.
During my difficult, 18-21 phase I was a frequent attender of hotel parties. I think the reason we did it was because most of us all lived with our parents and when you’re that old, you don’t wanna hang out at home. I wasn’t much of a drinker but my friends were. Most 18-year olds probably know a place they can buy booze. They can’t get into bars, but there’s always a friendly liquor store or two willing to sellya a bottle of whiskey or case of beer. But once again, you need a place to drink it. I’ve been there; I’ve done that–and I think we all have.
Yet there I was, talking to the security guard. “Hey man, I just wanna give you a heads up,” I said to him. “I think there might be a party going on in 1524 tonight. I just bumped into a crowd of girls looking for the room.”
As I was walking back to my room, I realized something. Not only am I stickler for the rules; not only do I have very little tolerance for stupid people; not only am I a big fan of petty justice; I also realized that I’m a bit of a jerk.
There was no reason for me to report those girls. Sure, they might be throwing a party. But if they were quiet and didn’t disturb anyone, what was the harm? And if they turned out to be loud and disruptive, I’m sure one of the neighboring rooms would call the front desk to complain. Justice–whatever that might end being–would ultimately prevail. If they broke the rules and caused a problem, security would catch them; if they broke the rules and there were no victims, no one would be the wiser. What authority did I have to intercede?
I felt a little guilty about it. I’m well on my way to becoming an old fart. I have long passed the time when I reminisce about the good’ole days. I’m already clinging to a musical genre that’s long past its prime. It’s only a matter of time before I start screaming at kids to stay off my lawn–and I don’t even have a lawn.
The following morning, I was in the midst of a very deep sleep. As usual, I dreamt about Derek Jeter and what it would be like to play for the Yankees. We’re we one run away from winning the World Series; but before I had a chance to bat, I was interrupted by a loud knock at the door.
“Housekeeping.” I tried to ignore it return to my dream but it happened again. The moment was lost and I knew I was awake.
The abrupt awakening confused me. I was fairly certain I put the do-not-disturb sign on the door the night before…but since someone was knocking at the door, I couldn’t be entirely sure. I yelled through the door that I didn’t want housekeeping, angry at being bothered. What was the point of a do-not-disturb sign if the staff was going to ignore it?
I opened the door to check–was I at fault? Maybe I didn’t put the sign up? Maybe punk teenagers took it off the door (a trick I pulled in my youth). It’s my nature to cover all my bases before I rip someone a new one. With the door open, I verified that the sign was there…and the housekeeper was an idiot.
“Why are you bothering me,” I demanded to know. “The sign is up for a reason.”
“I wanted to know if you wanted service,” she said.
“Yes, I do–later. That’s what the sign says.”
It doesn’t take much skill to be a housekeeper. Why, I’d be willing to bet the first thing they teach you in housekeeper school is don’t bother people who have the do-not-disturb sign up on their door. It’s pretty much the only decision-making part of the job. And with proper training, there really is no decision to make. I wanted to report her to the front desk–maybe even get her fired. After all, if she couldn’t grasp the do-not-disturb concept, what good was she as a housekeeper? But considering we were staying at the hotel with forged documents, I really didn’t wanna call attention to myself. Plus, by the time we left the hotel room, my anger subsided…and I forgot. Maybe getting interrupted by the housekeeper was fate’s way of getting even for the incident I had the previous night.