| The
Don Quixote Bch Resort
St. Pete Beach, FL - 2005
Oh Jesus, here it comes. This guy walking to the desk with
the Bermuda shirt, the bad visor, the well-combed silver hair,
and the brand new loafers, I already know this guy. He doesn’t
even have to speak. His pasty white legs do all the talking.
I’m sure he booked with an online service that guaranteed
all kinds of shit we won’t give him, or through a travel
agent that guaranteed all kinds of shit we won’t give
him. And, I’m sure he’ll be willing to curse me
out over the failure to deliver these guarantees. Shit, I
never promised this guy a thing. I didn’t guarantee
him a king sized bed, a view of the Gulf, a non-smoking room,
nothing.
See, that’s my job. That’s what I get paid for.
I mean, really, I was hired to work the front desk, which
technically I’m doing. But, the checking in, the checking
out, the endless phone calls, the restaurant recommendations,
the lost rooms keys, the incessant need for directions; all
that just fills the time while I’m waiting to get cursed
out. That’s why I get paid. I’m a human stress
reliever.
And he’s still coming. Nothing is slowing this guy down.
He just passed the bell stand, so, I’ll give him ten,
maybe fifteen seconds. Then this yank-off will be on top of
me, and there’s nowhere to go except…
Ah, don’t think of it right now. Don’t torture
yourself so early in the shift.
But that’s true for all the jobs I’ve had. Regardless
of the position, the shift, the city, the uniform, the hourly
wage, the commute, there was always a place I could go hide
my face and curse the world--well, the world of the job, at
least. And laugh and snicker and joke about the eternal parade
of bad attitudes, lofty expectations, and inevitable letdowns.
Goddamn it, I hate working with the paying public. It’s
the syndrome that gets me.
Now, this syndrome is a very specific one. It has no scientific
name. It’s not official except in my head. But everyone
who’s ever worked with the public knows this syndrome,
and I’ve taken it upon myself to name it. It’s
called: “You Must Respect Me Because I’m Paying
For This Shit. I Have Done Nothing To Earn Your Respect. But
You Must Respect Me Because My Money Says So And I Have Every
Right To Degrade You As A Human Being Syndrome." Yeah,
I’m thinking of shortening that title a little bit.
But, I just don’t know how to squeeze all that into,
like, four words.
But, this guy has the syndrome. I can see it on his smug face.
He looks like the type of person that says shit like: “You
know, I stayed here last year and I was given a complimentary
upgrade to a junior suite. I expect the same this time.”
SO WHAT! Could you imagine if I walked into McDonald’s
and said some shit like that? “Excuse me, but the last
time I was here you guys accidentally gave me a nine piece
nugget instead of a six. So this time I need a nine piece
from the jump, but will only pay for a six piece. Okay? Okay.”
Fuck this job.
No, wait, I mean Fuck the public.
Mother of balls, here he is. He’s getting out his paperwork,
telling me his confirmation number, smiling confidently because
he knows he’ll get what he wants. By the way, that’s
a tip, people. The hotel industry loves to throw money at
shit. If you bitch loud enough, if you make a big enough stink,
if you turn yourself into the biggest nuisance in the world,
you become something more than just a hotel guest: You become
an asshole, AND you’ll get something for free. Trust
me on this. This guy at the desk in front of me, he knows
it. Just watch how it goes down.
ME: Here’s your reservation. Every thing looks good.
Just need a credit card to cover resort fees and incidentals.
HIM: I already paid for everything on Expedia.
ME: Expedia doesn’t pay for resort fees, sir.
HIM: That’s outrageous. I will not pay it!
ME: Sir, everyone pays the resort fee.
HIM: Not me! Do you hear me, boy? I will not pay for anything
because it’s already paid for. Now go fuck yourself
and get me the manager!
ME: Sir, please calm down. I can show you documentation from
Expedia’s website that clearly states they do not pay
the resort fee. If you look closely at your own paperwork,
you will see it in the fine print.
HIM: (fist into desk) Don’t you talk to me like that!
You’re a joke! A complete joke! You remind me of a shit
I took! (Now he raises his voice so the entire lobby can hear)
GET ME THE MANAGER!
My bald headed manager shoots out from the back room. The
white door that leads to the back office catches my eye, and
instantly I can’t stop looking at it. I need to take
a break. Have a seat in the back office. Relieve my stress.
Take it easy.
All the jobs I’ve ever had have been like this. One
face in front. Another in back. They’ve all had doors
to the back office, too. Not all painted white, of course.
Some had curtains instead of doors. Others had double doors.
Some, no doors at all. But they all were the same in theory,
if not execution. Every job I’ve had, they were all
different. But they all had the door thing in common.
So, the guy is still going on and on but I’m not really
listening anymore. I can still hear this asshole, for sure.
And he’s read out loud, twice, that Expedia does not
cover the resort fees. Hidden costs, he screams! Horrible
business practices, he decrees! Appalling front desk agents,
he cries!
Which is all true, I’ll give him that.
But, doesn’t he know I’ve been through this, or
something like this, a thousand times over? Doesn’t
he know I’ll go through it a thousand more? That’s
the problem with the syndrome. This guy thinks he’s
the only asshole in the world. Clearly he’s mistaken,
or maybe just misinformed, yeah?
If I really stopped and thought about all the assholes at
all the jobs in all the cities, well, I might waste a hell
of a lot of time. There were few, though, that stand out.
And there were a few of those doors to those backrooms that
stand out, too. Frankly, I’ve never stopped to think
about them at all.
Good, that’s just what I need. That will waste enough
time, help get me through this shift. Or, it’ll waste
enough time until I can sit my ass down behind that white
door. Either way, it’s something.
That’s what I need. That’s what I’ve always
needed in situations like this: A way to get through the shift.
Now… Where do I start? |
