Archive for September, 2008

cutting into those Zs

Posted in irrational, nice people with tags on September 28, 2008 by sarafist
This morning around 9:30 I received a few calls from 109 asking to be connected to 100. This always irritates me, as I fail to understand why it’s necessary for someone to dial 0, wait for me to answer, then request the other room, and then wait for me to connect them instead of just dialing the three digits themselves. But I digress.
After the third call, she called me at the desk and asked me to go into 100 since they weren’t answering. I told her that I was sorry, but that we can’t go into rooms unrequested like that unless there’s an emergency.
“Well, I’m his mother and he’s not answering,” she told me, and then demanded that I go with her to knock on his door. Since I didn’t have much else to do, I agreed.
A few minutes later, a tiny old lady in her eighties arrived at the office, and we went down two doors to her son’s room. She knocked once, and then demanded that I open the door with my passkey. “Ma’am, are you sure he’s not just sleeping or in the bathroom?”
“No, there’s something wrong!” she insisted. “Why wouldn’t he answer?”
“Because he’s asleep or in the bathroom?”
She knocked once more, but there was no answer. “Can you open it?”
“If he’s upset about us opening the door, you will have to assume the blame, ma’am.”
“Why would he be upset?”
Because he was asleep and his mother and a stanger opened the door on him for no apparent reason, I thought to myself, but shrugging, I tried my passkey. The lights flashed green and red, indicating that the door was locked from the inside, and all but impossible for anyone to open from outside. I explained this to her.
“Well, what do we do now? There must be something you can do? What if he’s had a heart attack?”
“Does he have heart problems, ma’am? Is he at risk for a heart attack?”
“No. He does smoke, though.”
Just then, the door was unlocked and opened, and there was a very irritated grown man standing there. “What is it?” he asked his mother.
“Well, I thought you were ill!” she explained.
“Why would you think that?”
I left her to him.
***
Shortly after, he came into the office. “My mother is crazy,” he told me, sounding for all the world like an embarrassed teenager. “She won’t leave me alone! Like I’m going to die today! I was really getting some good Zs, too. I sometimes ask God why He won’t release me from this torture, but I guess He’s got a plan.” He sighed and shook his head, then wished me a good day.
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"well, you’re a whore."

Posted in hookers, irrational with tags on September 26, 2008 by sarafist
Is what I should have responded when she was blathering about how I just work in a hotel and can’t have clients like she does. Ah, l’esprit de scalier.
Rewind thirty minutes. I was minding my business and the Lol-iday Inn’s when I noticed some weirdness outside involving a cab. Two rather disreputable types came inside: a Latoya-channeling tranny in a short black jumpsuit with a white marabou bra hanging out the top, and a thuggish and somewhat high seeming young black man. The tranny barked, “Call us a GreenCab” at me, then proceeded with her phone call. The young man stood in front of the desk staring blankly.
“Are you guys staying here?”
“Uhhhh, yeah.”
“In what room?”
“398”
“There is no room 398 here.”
“I forgot, but we are staying here.”
“Well, what’s your name? I’ll look it up.”
“Davante.”
“Davante what?”
“Uh, Sills.”
“Well, there’s no one here registered under that name.”
“We just need a cab.”
Meanwhile, during this exchange, I can hear the tranny jabbering into her phone about “the bitch at the hotel” who isn’t calling her a cab. Well, forget that. “You can use that phone there to call a cab,” I told them, pointing at the house phone.
Staring me down, the tranny declared, “I don’t have a number.” (How unprofessional for her not to!)
Smiling beatifically, I replied, “I can give you one.”
She stalked over to the house phone muttering rather audibly about a “dumb bitch too lazy to call me a cab,” so I stopped her. “On second thought, you can just leave.”

“Yeah, we can!” she fired back, walking back over to the desk where her escort was still standing. Confusedly, he asked, “Where we going?”

“Some CUNT won’t call us a cab,” she told him in ringing tones, looking at me for emphasis when she said “cunt”–just in case I was unsure to whom she was referring.
“Seriously, I am so offended. You guys just need to leave.”
Then they started tag-teaming me: “You fat bitch!” “I’m here to see a client, and you act like that, bitch!” “Get some contacts, bitch!” “Maybe if you weren’t so ugly, you could get clients, too!” “You work in a fuckin’ hotel, who’re you?” (That’s where I ought to have said, “Well, you’re a whore.”)
I simply rolled my eyes during all this, and waved them toward the door, repeating “You need to leave. Get off the property now,” over and over again.
She walked out into the parking lot and stood there shouting obscenities at me, it looked like just “cunt” and “bitch” repeated with an occasional, “ugly” thrown in for good measure. He stood in the doorway shouting, closed the door, then opened it again. “What? Say it to my face, bitch!”
“I just said it to your face like fifty times, dumbass: leave. Get out.”
At that, he threw a handful of Skittles at me, shouting, “Clean it up, bitch! You’re just a fuckin’ housekeeper!” He then tried to slam the door shut, but failed, and banged on it a few times instead.
While they stood out there, I picked up the phone and dialed non-emergency, pointing at it and mouthing, “I’m calling the cops” for their benefit.
Someone then came to check in, which looked lovely I’m sure, and while I was checking those nice folks in, wanna-be Latoya and her pal took off westward on Stark–toward 82nd, no surprise. I was pleasantly surprised to see the cops arrive very quickly, within about five minutes of my call. I had told them I wasn’t in any immediate physical danger, but that they were causing a disturbance. One of the cops was a gentleman who comes in regularly to pick up a guest roster, and he was very sympathetic. He shook his head over their throwing candy at me. After I pointed them in the right direction, he said they’d try to find them, and both cops cars took off down Stark.

tis the season

Posted in Uncategorized on September 25, 2008 by sarafist

Now that we're not sold out every night of the week to pimps, hoz, and dealers, as well as vacationing familes, we've got more of another sort of guest: the agency guest. They are paid for usually by DHS (the Department of Human Services), the Red Cross, St Vincent de Paul, or sometimes by a few other groups out there. They are people who've been dispossessed due to the destruction of their home, either by nature or internal forces such as domestic violence, and they usually bring children with them.
Most times they come in during the week, in the midmorning or early afternoon, and they are sometimes driven by a caseworker. Occasionally, they will check in late on a Wednesday or Thursday night, sporting a fresh cast or shiner, and surrounded by a passel of kids. Those are the saddest, I think.

I saw a naked man and had to call 911 today.

Posted in Uncategorized on September 21, 2008 by sarafist
It's been a very quiet Sunday, no fuss, complaints, or problems. Then one of the housekeepers, Lupe, called to check on whether a few rooms were staying over or checking out since it was 1pm (checkout is at 11am), and there were still people in both rooms. I called 206 first, and they told me they were taking their stuff down to their car. Then I tried ringing 205; after twenty rings (I count), there was no answer. I tried hanging up for a minute, then calling back–I've found that this is an extremely annoying practice and almost guarantees an answer–but with no luck.
I went upstairs to tell Lupe, and she and I went to the room. She knocked. "Housekeeping!" Then again, "Housekeeping!"
Since there was no answer, she unlocked the door. There was a man lying on his back in one of the beds, not moving. I hate it when I open a room and there's someone sleeping in it; I feel embarrassed, and am sure that they are, too. However, when I knocked much more loudly on the door, and said, "Excuse me," I got no response.
Banging on the door now, I shouted, "EXCUSE ME! SIR! HELLO! EXCUSE ME!"
He moved his head and scratched his nose, but remained unconscious.
Cupping my hands around my mouth, I shouted as loud as I could: "HEY! WAKE UP! IT IS TIME TO LEAVE! YO!"
One of his legs twitched.
After a few more minutes of this, I took a deep breath and screamed. Now, when I scream, people hear it. According to my brother-in-law and many others, I am the loudest person on earth. I have been asked to quiet down at strip clubs and rock shows when I've let that piercing quality enter my voice, and when I really bust it out, it's audible at a distance. In short, I made an extremely loud sound.
And Sleeping Beauty didn't even move. A bit alarming.
I hesitated, then walked closer to the bed. One eye was half open, with only the white showing. Eww. I tried shouting at him again, but he just kept sleeping. By now, there were a few onlookers outside the door. I shooed them away, and walked back to the bed. I gingerly poked him, then shook him by the shoulder, something I am loathe to do since you never know how a person will react when woken up by strangers in a strange motel room. No response whatsoever.
So I called the cops and filled them in: I work at a motel, and when I went to check a room that was supposed to be checked out, I found an unconscious man. He's breathing and occasionally moving, but completely unresponsive. They told me they'd have an abulance and fire & rescue out immediately, and to call back if there were any changes.
I poked at him again: "HEY. I HAVE CALLED THE POLICE. WAKE UP. THERE IS AN ABULANCE COMING. I HAVE CALLED 911."
Nothing.
I went and stood int he doorway, so I could keep an eye out for them and also keep an eye on Sleeping Beauty. I heard a siren and leaned out to look, and when I turned around to look at him again, his eyes were open.
"Dude, are you okay?"
"Yeah, I"m fine. What time is it?"
"It's 1pm. There's an ambulance coming."
"What? Why?"
"You wouldn't wake up. I've been shouting and shaking you. It's two hours past check out."
"I don't want them."
"Well, I need to see you up and moving around before I'll cancel the call."
He sat up and looked around. "What time is it?"
"1pm, dude."
I called 911 back. They had me ask if he was diabetic (no), and then said they'd call, but that the emergency folks might come out regardless. I told him this, and he stood up, apparently unaware of his nudity, andreplied, "I don't want them."
Shruggin, I told him, "I'll pass that along, but that's up to them," and left. As I exited the room, he put on a towel, and I noticed that the Fire & Rescue truck was already here. I booked it downstairs and filled them in, and they decided to try talking to him, but had no luck, as he wouldn't open the door and shouted that he was fine.
So, I thanked them for their time and got some water. All that screaming wrecks my throat.
***
About a half hour later he walked out on his own.

only the lonely

Posted in Uncategorized on September 20, 2008 by sarafist
It's been very quiet this past week. Business always falls off a bit after Labor Day when people stop traveling quite so much, but recent developments on 82nd Avenue have also contributed to the quiet.
 
I noticed it the week before last, when Kitty (an older regular who is a working girl) got a call while she was in the lobby having me reset her keys. She told me that it was her "boyfriend" (read: pimp), telling her there were several busts on 82nd, and not to go out til later.
 
Then the police started coming 'round more regularly. They've been in short supply here this summer; up until May or June, they were cruising our parking lot five or six times a night–and that just during my shift!–and coming in several times a night to get guest rosters and ask questions about people we may have seen.
 
I'm curious to see whether this is a lasting change or not. Until then, I've only got Barry Hunter to keep me busy.

trouble in Barrytown

Posted in Uncategorized on September 18, 2008 by sarafist
It may be coincidental, but ever since I spurned Barry Hunter's affections, he's been getting a bit out of hand. First he started coming into the office at all hours looking for me, sometimes four times in a shift. Fortunately, my co-workers were thoughtful enough to note these visits for me in the notebook. He also started going buckwild with his other eccentric habits: being up and about at all hours of the night, banging on doors, walls, and cars. following people to their rooms, propositioning women (fortunately, he seems to have the sense to restrain himself to propositioning hookers rather than our less unsavory clientele), wandering the property while looking completely nuts. At least once a night I get a phone call from someone reporting a strange old man on the property, and I have to reassure them that he's a harmless resident. (We hope he is.) He has also begun taking up with some interesting characters; women we believe he pays for their company. And they are very, very disturbing.
His burst of activity has also led to myriad notes in the logbook:
"Barry kept calling around 3am and asking if I was Adrien. I told him no and he said then who R U? I asked him what he needed and he said a girl in my room. He called like 3x in less than an hour saying the same thing."
"Barry left flowers at room 100 and was knocking on room 119."
"I don't know how it's possible, but Barry's being even more a pain in the ass, keeps music on full blast and has a crackhead int he room."
"Bad crackhead in Barry's room again, closed door at 3:30am. She is always naked and loud (and very gross)."
"Barry opening his door and slamming all night . . . annoying!"
"Barry's the worst he's every been, had to call the police."
"Barry calling room 100 . . . they were understanding."
"Barry now stands putside and laughs maniacally."
"Barry came in looking for Scahtzi and was disappointed to find me."
"Watch Barry. Some tweaker/prostitute and pimp were in his room going through his stuff. I made them leave."
"Keep an eye on Barry's room. That tweaker prostitute was hanging around him again (NOT GOOD). I told her she doesn't need to be on property when she's not a guest."
"Been chasing after Barry all night. Made him go to his room around 3:45am."
 
And my personal favorite: "Barry's on FIRE tonight!"

it’s so hard to know sometimes

Posted in Uncategorized on September 18, 2008 by sarafist

I think I may have crossd a line when I helped a prostitute fix her hairpiece before she went out.