Archive for the hookers Category

the end of an era

Posted in about work, hookers, tweakers on June 27, 2009 by sarafist

When I came in to work on Friday, the lobby computer was gone, desk and all. Adrienne told me that we’d gotten so many complaints about it that it was either fix/replace it or take it out completely—and Mike’s too cheap to fix/replace it. Though it had slowly deteriorated, it was also a major fixture in our lobby. Guests would check their airline reservations on it, or sometimes look up directions. Local guests would look for jobs or apartments, and tweakers would troll Craigslist for free stuff they could pick up, then sell somewhere. And the prostitutes! Oh, how they loved the computer! They would come down every few hours and post ads under Adult Services on Craigslist, and I would sit at my desk spell-checking for them. “How do you spell sensual? Voluptuous? What’s another word for sexy?” On a few memorable occasions, I even had to help the less technologically-advanced ladies upload pictures for their ads. Of course, CL changing their Erotic (now Adult) systems also made an impact on the working girls of SE Portland, but the removal of that bastion of prostitution from our lobby could prove a death knell for some aspects of our business. Then again, everyone and their mother has a laptop these days, and as long as we still have free Wi-Fi ….

But I’m sure I’ll miss the company.

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there’s some hoz in this house, if you see ’em point ’em out

Posted in co-workers, hookers, logbook on June 18, 2009 by sarafist

Note in our logbook from last night:

Wallace, please keep hoz in their rooms! I had multiple complaints today about girls working out of here around 3am this morning. It’s embarrassing, kick them out if it gets bad.

"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.

it’s so hard to say goodbye

Posted in hookers on July 17, 2008 by sarafist

One of my favorite regulars, Kathy, is no longer staying with us. She was dropped off by her man late Saturday night after he and two of his other girls beat the crap out of her. Her arms and chest were mottled black and blue, and the right side of her face was completely swollen; it looked like she had somehow stuffed a softball into her mouth. The graveyard guy insisted on calling an ambulance for her, but she refused to say who did it. Graveyard guy made sure to give the cops the vehicle description and plate number for her man (read: pimp). While I was on my weekend, Kathy was added to out DNR (do not rent list), and asked to leave.

She was a very nice lady, always stopping in to say hello and alerting us when she knew of dealers, junkies, or other working girls on the premises.

from the mouths of lunatics

Posted in barry hunter, hookers on July 11, 2008 by sarafist

Today a resident prostitute was walking past Barry Hunter when he made some unsavory remarks—as he is wont to do, according to guests, though the staff hasn’t yet caught him at it. She told him, “You better stop looking at me all perverted, Barry!” to which he responded, “I can and I will!”

Words to live by from Barry Hunter.

back door girl

Posted in hookers on June 30, 2008 by sarafist

Saturday was a record breaker here in Portland, with reports of temperatures over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. It’s not surprising, then, that The Motel was hopping busy with troglodytes from all over the city checking in to escape the heat. Early afternoon was pretty quiet, however, other than this incident.

I was sitting at the desk, quietly reading a Neil Gaiman omnibus and enjoying the not one, but TWO air conditioners blasting away, when with my peripheral vision, I saw a red, Eighties hesher-type car (something t-topped, like a Firebird) drive up. Sighing, I got up to wait for a soon to be guest to walk in to the lobby, and was unsurprised when a hooker came in, barely dressed for the heat, while a mustachioed guy remained sitting in the driver’s seat outside. This was no ordinary transaction, however.

She came in saying, “Please help me get away from this creep; just stand here and talk to me for a minute until my friend gets here to pick me up.”
While she quickly phoned her friend, I obliged. After hanging up, she repeated that she just wanted to escape the creep in the car. I made conversation and got her a cup of water while she called her friend again (I’m thinking pimp, more likely).
“He’ll be here any minute, I swear,” she told me. Too impatient to wait, she asked whether we had a back way out of the lobby, something a lot of people assume we have, but all that’s attached to it is a conference room cum storage area and employee bathroom and the manager’s apartment. But, I have a lot of sympathy for these ladies of the night (as one of my co-workers enjoys referring to them), so instead of saying no, I told her, “There’s no door, but the back window opens onto the alley back there; I’m pretty sure you can get back onto the street that way, and he wouldn’t see you.”
“Could I really? Please?”
“Yeah, no problem,” I told her as I locked the cash drawer and led her over to the back room door.
“You rock, Schatzi!” she said gratefully.

I uncovered and unlocked the back window for the anxious hooker, as she cast apprehensive glances over her shoulder. We popped the screen off, she clambered through it, and skedaddled off, calling, “You’re the best! Thank you so much!”

I quickly locked it back up and covered it, then returned to the office, where I sat down to resume my reading after peeking gleefully at the unsuspecting hasher. Sure enough, he came in after another ten minutes of waiting.

“Could you call my friend and tell her I’m still waiting down here?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”
“What do you mean? Just call her up for me. Tell her I’m down here.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t do that.”
With braggadocio: “Oh, I think you can.”
“No, I won’t, sir. And I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Aggressively: “Where’s your manager? Let me talk to him!”
“He’s not here today, sir, and you need to leave.”
Flustered: “You need to call the cops! She tells me she’s going to sell me pot and just leaves! Where is she?”
“Sir, if you feel you’ve been robbed, I suggest YOU call the cops to report the transaction, but you’ll have to do it somewhere else, because I’m asking you to leave. Now.”

He stomped out muttering, then peeled out. And I enjoyed a certain amount of satisfaction.

[Note: You might ask why I would possibly abet a crime (possible solicitation or drug dealing). Well, for the latter, while it was possible that the young lady had promised to sell him weed and had ditched him, I definitely felt the hooker vibe from her, and you develop quite a nose for it after long enough. Also, much like many of the cops I talk to when working, I empathize more strongly with the prostitutes who come here than with the pimps and johns.]

ghost in the motel

Posted in about work, criminals, hookers on June 6, 2008 by sarafist

Though our housekeepers aren’t perfect, they do a pretty good job and are fairly thorough (but I must admit that those 20/20 or Dateline-style exposes on the cleanliness of hotel rooms are pretty spot-on; only the sheets and towels are changed daily), so when we had a wave of complaints about dirty rooms, we wondered just what exactly was going on. Invariably, the complaint was that although the room appeared to have been cleaned, the bed seemed used, there were occasionally damp towels in the bathroom, and without exception, there was a used condom and wrapper, plus baby wipes in the otherwise empty trashcan. That is not the typical MO of a lazy or forgetful housekeeper, for if they do make a mistake, they will generally forget to bring back linens and make up the bed, or simply skip the room entirely. The other usual reason for a dirty room showing as clean on the computer is that a forgetful desk clerk moved a guest from one room to another, but neglected to adjust the computer to match. Something else was odd about those dirty rooms; the ones generating the complaints were all in one area, very near the central stairs, an area largely not screened by our security cameras. Curiouser and curiouser.

The situation had been going on for about two weeks when a housekeeper returned to a freshly cleaned room one afternoon to discover that it had already been sullied! The day girl, A, kept a vigilant eye out, and sure enough, saw a girl who had been a regular until the incidents walking through the parking lot. When A asked what she was doing on the property, the girl responded, “Oh, I’m staying here,” and kept going. A car followed, parking off camera behind the stairs, a man got out, and the two disappeared. Six minutes later (I kid you not), the two reappeared. By then, A had gotten a hold of our boss, M, and as the culprits tried to leave, he ran after them, shouting. The man took off for his car and drove out like he was on fire. M grabbed the girl, demanded compensation for the room, and once he had it, threw her off the property, promptly adding her to our DNR (Do Not Rent list).

Once that had gone down, it was easy enough to go back through the security footage and see that the girl—a known prostitute—had been doing the same thing nearly every day for two weeks: walking onto the property where she was familiar as a guest, followed by a john who would park, then surreptitiously follow her to one of the earmarked rooms. The shortest incident we caught on tape was four minutes; the longest was twelve. Since the housekeepers leave the doors of vacant rooms open until they are finished with a section, once the hooker figured out which rooms were off camera, she had herself a nice little scam.

It’s a bad old world.