not part of my job descrpition

Schatzi: Thank you for calling lol-iday inn, how can I help you?
Caller: Um. Can you talk to me while I'm naked?
Schatzi: I'm sorry, no. Thank you for calling!

single biggest pet peeve

When someone asks, "Are they pretty clean rooms?" or some variation thereof.

No, they're filthy. We actually don't clean them.
And even if that were the case, why would we tell you that?

i don't get it

Schatzi: Is this address current?

Guest: The one on the driver's license is.

 

Since that was the only ID of theirs I had, I wonder what people like this are thinking. Why doesn't a "yes" or "no" suffice?

on again, off again

A young man came into the office early this afternoon and told me that he and his girl were "having words," and could I please give him a key since she'd locked him out? I checked his ID, and since his name was on the room, went ahead and gave him one.

 

A half an hour later, 211 called the office. This time it was the female occupant. "I need you to tell him to get out of here! Call the cops!"

"It's his room, I'm not telling him to leave unless you're in danger." [I hate dealing with this kind of drama, and these two have very loud shouting matches outside their room almost on a daily basis.]

"I want him out of here while I get my stuff, then! I'm just gonna get my stuff and check out!"

"I'll come right up, and you can get your stuff, okay?"

"Yeah, come up here."

 

I grabbed my phone and locked the cash drawer, and hustled on up to stand guard over a combative couple. When I got to 211, the stood was standing open, though I couldn't hear them yelling. Hoping they had chilled out, I walked up to the door, rapped my knuckle on the door, and peeked inside. The girl was sitting on the edge of the bed, apparently nude from the waist down, while the young man knelt on the floor in front of her, arms around her waist. Her arms were wrapped around his lower back as she curved her body over him to rest her head on his back. She looked at me and said, "It's fine now, can you close the door on your way out?" I shut the door and returned to the office, rolling my eyes and shaking my head, but ultimately relieved to not referee a shouting match.

 

Not ten minutes later, the young man came back down to the office, turned in both keys, and said they were checking out. "You know I can't refund your money this late, right?" I asked him, and he told me that was fine and left. A few minutes after that, she called again, asking what he had wanted. I told her that he had checked out, and she insisted she would stay since she'd paid for the room [True.]. Not really caring anymore, I told her she'd need ID to put the room in her name and to come down and change it. I probably won't even bother with that; I'll just leave it for the boss to do tomorrow.

shots fired at the lol-iday inn

I missed some excitement Thursday night. When I turned over desk duty to Wallace at ten o'clock, I thought his biggest problem would be two feuding sets of rooms; both had noisy children and parents that disliked one another. When I woke up this morning, however, I had a text from him: "Shots fired right in front of me at work last night."

HOLY SHIT

I called him and got the details. It seems he had heard a lot of noise upstairs around one am, and figuring it was the two feuding sets of rooms, he went out to investigate--and to tell them to shut up. When he went outside, he realised that the noise wasn't coming from those rooms, but that there were two young men walking down the hallway shouting. They came down the front stairs, and Wallace met them out front. "Are you guests here?" he asked, and when they replied in the negative, he told them to get off the property. He said that he was pretty aggressive about it--as we sometimes have to be--and was all but cursing them out. When they asked Wallace why he was so mad, he told them that they just could not be on our property if they weren't staying here, especially if they were disturbing our other guests late at night. [Dir!] He told them that if they didn't leave immediately, he would call the cops. They started walking toward the parking lot, presumably to get their car, and Wallace returned to the office.

Watching them on camera, however, he saw that they went up the stairs at the far end of the building, one of our troublespots. Wallace went upstairs and heard them shouting; when he got withing a few feet of them, one of the young men pulled a gun out of his waistband and fired into 223. Wallace immediately reversed, and saw them fire again, apparently at random, as this bullet went through 219's window. He continued back to the office at top speed to call 911, but found himself at a dead end in our back room, since the rear office--the most secure room available to us--was locked. He turned around and waited to see whether they'd come after him, since he was the main witness, having seen and spoken to them, as well as seen them start firing. Fortunately, they took off down the street.

When the cops arrived, they reviewed the security tapes with Wallace, who saw that even before he'd spoken to them the first time, one young man had lifted his shirt to show someone the gun in his waistband. "If I'd seen that, I wouldn't have cussed them out--or even gone outside," he told me. "I would've just called the cops."

The officers recommended that we expell that entire section of rooms, from 220 down to 224, and also 202 & 225 at the opposite end (one set of the feuding rooms, even!), who were acquainted with the shooters, which we did this morning at checkout.

They believed it was a drug dispute of some kind, as the guy in 223 has been under suspicion for dealing for quite some time. He's constantly got people calling, including from other rooms, and visiting at all hours for five minutes. Mmmhmm. The girls in 222 (who were prostitutes) said that the shooters were friends of theirs, and that 223 had come over to their room and was bothering them. Regardless, we made them all leave. 223 was injured slightly but fine, and 219's boyfriend was lightly grazed. No other injuries, fortunately.

"Tha was the biggest adrenalin rush in my life," Wallace told me. "I can't believe it."

all we've had turned in today are a morning star and a pike

Creepy, smelly woman in leather pants who's been staying here for a week: This key isn't working, and I need to speak to your manager or owner or whatever.

Schatzi: Here's your reset key, and my manager will be in tomorrow. Is there anything I can help you with?

Creepy smelly woman in leather pants, shaking her head: No, I need to let him know that you have a thief among you.

Schatzi: Oh, really? Is there something missing?

Creepy smelly woman in leather pants: I have two blades that are missing.

Schatzi, thinking of knives: Blades?

Creepy smelly leather pants woman, gesturing with her hands: One this long, and the other about this long. Schatzi: What kind of blades?

Creepy smelly leather pants woman, significantly: Swordblades. They're gone.

Schatzi, remembering how this same woman lost her remote twice the night before, and both times called to say the housekeepers had taken it: And you're sure you didn't misplace them?

Creepy smelly leather pants woman, shaking her head: No.

Schatzi: Okay, I'll be sure to let him know.

Apparently, our nice little housekeepers (who are all matrons with many children and speak very little English) covet swordblades. I'm so sure.

our failure to predict someone's actions causes trouble once more

A woman came in and told me that she needed a printed confirmation for a reservation she had made for the twenty-ninth of this month.

"I'm sorry," I told her. "But our computers are down this weekend, so I don't have any access to reservations, much less the ability to print a confirmation for you, right now. You could see whether the Central Reservations will fax or email a confirmation to you; I can give you their number." [It's been a hassle-filled weekend, thanks to tech support's refusal to work weekends, the busiest time for hotels.]

Getting huffy she said, "Well, I talked to Jennifer, and she told me I could come pick up a confirmation. She said your fax wasn't working." [We have had problems with our fax machine recently, so it seemed reasonable that that would have happened, but without computers, it was a moot point anyway.]

"I'm not sure why she would have told you that, since our computers are down, and have been since Friday. We don't have any way to even look up a reservation right now, and can't make them either. Are you sure you didn't misunderstand?"

"No, I told her I would come in to pick it up, and she said 'OK.'"

Jennifer's new, but she's smart and has caught on to the job quickly. I was pretty sure she wouldn't have said that when she was working Friday or Saturday evening, when we had no computers. Suddenly struck with a suspicion, I asked, "When did you speak to Jennifer?"

"About two weeks ago. I was at work, and I needed her to fax it, but she said she couldn't."

No way. "You told her two weeks ago that you were coming in to pick up a printed confirmation?"

"Yes, and I am very upset that she didn't say you couldn't do it for me. Why would she say it was ok if you can't?"

The woman was clearly demented. I told her, "I'm sorry, but our computer wasn't broken two weeks ago, so she had no way of knowing that when you came in today, we couldn't print a confirmation."

"She should have said you couldn't do it instead of wasting my time, making me come out here to pick one up. I told her I would come in on a weekend, and she said it was fine."

I stared at her. "Jennifer did nothing wrong, ma'am. She had no way to predict two weeks ago that you would come in today, and that our computers would be down. Surely you understand that?"

We stared at each other.

"It's a waste of my time," she repeated.

I shouldn't be surprised.

more on calling long distance

[Twenty minutes later]

Guest: My cell phone isn't working, how do I use your phones?

Schatzi: To make a local call, just dial 9 and then the phone number.

Guest: You said it's not a local call.

Schatzi, experiencing deja vu: If it's a long distance call, you need a calling card.

Guest: Well, I don't have one. It says on the phone I can bill it to my room.

Schatzi: I'm sorry, but it is impossible to make a long distance call on our phones. You will need to buy a calling card at Target or 7-11.

Guest: Then why does it say that on the phone?

Schatzi: They're generic equipment, for use in many kinds of motels. I'm sorry, but as I explained, our phone system cannot make long distance calls. You'll need to buy a calling card at Target or 7-11.

Guest: I'm not going to do that! [hangs up]

what "local" means to you

Guest at check-in: Are local calls free?

Schatzi: Yes, you just dial 9 for an outside line. And don't forget that in Portland, you dial the area code for local calls.

Guest: Why is that?

Schatzi: Oh, I believe they needed more phone numbers due to all the cell phones.

Guest: So I dial 9, and then 214, and then the number?

Schatzi: Is 214 the area code?

Guest: Yes.

Schatzi: Then it's not a local number; you'll need to use a calling card.

Guest: But it's a cell phone, and she's in Portland.

Schatzi: A local number has to originate in Portland, with a 503 or 971 area code. Regardless of where a cell phone is located, it's not a local call unless it is FROM Portland.

Guest: But she's in Portland!

Schatzi: It's long distance, and you'll need a calling card to call it. Our phones are only set up for local calls or 800 numbers.

Guest: Well, I don't understand, but I'll just use my cell phone to call her.

 

i guess we should have known

Guest calling from room: When is our room paid up until?

Schatzi: Just a moment while I check the computer, ma'am. You are paid through Friday morning.

Guest: So we can come down and pay for the weekend anytime before Friday morning?

Schatzi: I'm sorry, but we aren't taking any reservations for this weekend, as we're booked.

Guest: Our room isn't available?

Schatzi: No, I'm sorry, but we have no availability this weekend. We are completely booked for Friday and Saturday night.

Guest, to companion off the phone: She says the room isn't available this weekend. She says they're all booked up.

Companion: Ask her why they didn't say so before?

Guest, to me: Why weren't we told when we checked in?

Schatzi: Unfortunately, when a person checks in for two days, we have no way of knowing whether they plan on staying longer unless they tell us. So if you didn't say that you might want to extend your stay, we wouldn't know to tell you that you couldn't. It's the guest's responsibility to let us know things like that.

Guest, to companion: She won't say. She's just beating around the bush. [What???]

Guest, to me: If we come down and pay right now, will that guarantee we can stay in our room this weekend?

Schatzi: I'm sorry, but your room is already reserved this weekend, as is every other room in the motel. We're not accepting any reservations for this weekend.

Guest: Well, I still want to know why we weren't told we could stay this weekend!

Schatzi: I'm sorry if you feel there was some miscommunication, but unfortunately at this point we have no options to extend your stay. [In the immortal words of Paul Reubens in Nice Dreams: I'm NOT sorry!"]

cutting into those Zs

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 neccessary 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.
 

"well, you're a whore."

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

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.

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

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

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

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

no, i'm not sure, but I'll be sure to find that out

Caller: Is this the location on Stark?

Schatzi: Yes, it is.

Caller: What's your rate for two people tonight?

Schatzi: $74.24 after tax for two people.

Caller: I thought it was only $59?

Schatzi: No, I'm sorry, it's $74.24, and has been for a couple of months.

Caller: Are you sure this is the one on Stark?

perhaps I'm being unreasonable

Caller: Are you the Lol-iday Inn near Wal-Mart?

Schatzi: The closest Wal-Mart is about two miles south of here.

Caller: So are you in the near vicinity?

Schatzi: If you consider two miles the near vicinity, then sure.

Caller: Well, I don't know, I'm from Cottage Grove.

 

I'm not sure whether miles are different in Cottage Grove or I'm just too easily annoyed by lines of questioning like this one.

talking to Barry

Actual communication with Barry Hunter has taken place! When I pulled into work one day recently, I parked right in front of Barry's room since it is one of our two coveted shaded spots, and he came to the door and waved, hooting "Hello!" at me. I went back outside a few minutes later to get a Diet Coke from the Coke machine (being in desperate need of caffeinated fuel), and as I was bent over retrieving my soda, he came up behind me. "Are you staying here?" he said, speaking more coherently than I'd ever heard before.

"Barry, I work here," I scolded him. "You know me."

"What room are you in?" he asked.

"Barry, I work here. I know you!"

He then followed me into the office. "You new?"

"No, Barry, I've been here two years."

"Schatzi?"
"Yes, that's me!" And I shook his hand. In retrospect, that may have been a mistake, because ever since then, he comes in to talk to me multiple times a night. Later that same evening, Barry came into the office.

"You must be rich!" (Everything Barry says sounds like an exclamation, when you can decipher what he's said from his usual Muppet/Mr Bean mumbles.)
"No, Barry, definitely not."
"You pay a dollar fifty for that soda! You must be rich! Two liters fifty cents!"

"I can't get a two liter here at work, Barry."

"Tuesday, at Providence, slice of pizza for two dollars! I get pizza at Providence for two dollars!"

"Do you?"

"Fred Meyer chicken for six dollars! Buy a chicken Fred Meyer!"

"That sounds great, Barry."

He staggered around the lobby for a minute or two, then came back up and leaned on the desk, and proceeded to mumble confidingly. I'm not quite sure what he was saying, and most of it was incoherent, but once in a while he would throw his arms out and utter something like "In our fast-paced technological world," and then continue with the gibberish. After a few minutes of that, he left, then came back in and stood at the desk.

"Have pizza with me Tuesday?"

Oh. My. God. Did Barry just ask me out on a date? "What did you say, Barry?"

"Pizza Tuesday at Providence? Pizza with me Tuesday?"

Yes, yes he did. "I'm afraid not, Barry."

After that he left, but for the rest of the evening, he'd come in, stand around, then leave. I think I have an admirer.

who stole the cookie from the cookie jar?

 

Last Sunday I had to kick out five rooms. I work the morning shift on the weekends (9am to 5pm), and often have to clean up messes from the pervious night. In this case, several rooms either knew each other previously, or struck up and acquaintance, and the guests were wandering from room to room. We discourage this when we see it because if we need to kick one of these people out (which we invariably do, as the people who know each other tend to be dealers, pimps, and hookers), they just return to the property and hang out in their friends' room.

The gentleman in 224 had been here about a week this time, and the pimp and ho in 221 were also involved, and they had been here off and on for over a month. When people are here for a length of time, they tend to settle in and feel like this is their property. And it's not.

So 224 and 221, along with the occupants of three other rooms, were wandering the upper story around 4am, drinking, smoking, and being very loud about it. Some lady who had checked in to 223 very late with her two kids popped her head out of her door and asked them—very reasonably, I might add—to please keep the noise down. Rather than be considerate motel guests, they started shouting and cussing at the lady, telling her she needed to "check the fuck out." Of course, she then called the front desk, who came out and chased them all into their rooms with the warning that if they didn't stay there this time, they wouldn't be staying on our property at all.

Since it was a Saturday night, he got a call from 223 less than twenty minutes later. Now they were standing outside of her door, shouting and threatening her. So he came back out, chased them all back to their rooms and told them they weren't allowed to rent here anymore, that when morning came, they were out. When I came on at 9am, he told me about all of this, and we made a list of which rooms had to leave. He had already DNR'd them in the computer (added them to our Do Not Rent list).

Now, out of those five rooms, only one checked out Sunday morning without a fuss. The other four all came to the desk saying they'd like to pay for another night, and acted shocked when I advised them that they had to leave due to the goings on the previous night: "I don't know what you're talking about," they said, flabbergasted that such fine, upstanding citizens such as themselves could be impugned in this manner. "I wasn't involved in none of that. That wasn't me!" As though we clerks don't communicate with one another, and like we can't check the security cameras to see what happened. Right.

And then when I'd tell them that the night clerk had specifically mentioned them, and we knew they were involved, they'd play their next card: "I've been here for a week!" So? "After all that money I spent here?" Yeah, spending money doesn't give you the right to harass other guests. Amazing, isn't it?

They're like children, I swear. Denying eating the cookie when they've got chocolate smeared all over their face.

desperate times call for something

Schatzi: Thank you for calling the Lol-iday Inn, how can I help you?

Caller: I need to speak to a manager.

Schatzi: I'm afraid he's not available right now, but is there something I could help you with?

Caller: I had some questions about rooms. Do they all come with a fridge and microwave?

 

Did that really require a manager?

the harder they sleep

Earlier this morning, maybe 10am, a young lady who had checked in to 208 with her "uncle" the previous evening came in to inform me that they would be staying another night, and would like to move to a downstairs room. When people check in fairly late, and their desired sort of room is not available (first floor, smoking, non-smoking, two beds, etc), we often try to accommodate them if they stay over by moving them to another room. So I told her that would be fine, and that I would give her a call as soon as a downstairs room was ready. She said she was going to return to their original room to take a little nap while she waited.

Fast forward an hour. The housekeeper for that section has readied 110 for them, so I try calling upstairs. No response. I try back fifteen minutes later, in case someone had stepped into the bathroom or outside. No answer. So I turn the message light on. An hour later, I haven't heard from her still, so I try calling again. No dice. I go outside to talk to one of the housekeepers about another room, and I see her car is still in our parking lot, so when Lupe calls down to see about whether 208 is still moving, I ask her to knock on their door. Nothing. I deal with a few calls and check ins down at the desk, while also trying to call up to 208, and even after letting it ring for five minutes straight (I timed it), there's no answer. As soon as I can get away from the desk, I go upstairs and find Lupe outside 208, knocking. "Housekeeping!" she says. There's no answer.

She tries again. "Housekeeping!" We listen, and hear a baby start crying inside, but nothing else. We look at each other, and she shrugs and hands me the skeleton key.

Now, if there is one thing I hate, it's opening the door to a room when there's no answer but there is supposed to be someone inside, and that reluctance dates back to the time I found the dead woman. I'll get around to telling that story someday. I really do not like doing it. Plus, with some of the people we have here, you never know what you're going to find in a room, empty or otherwise.

I knock. "Front desk!" I take a deep breath and knock again, then unlock the door and push it slightly open. I see a person sleeping on each bed in the room. "Excuse me," I say loudly. Neither one moves. "Hello, miss? Excuse me!" I continue knocking on the open door, and practically shouting "excuse me" at them. Finally, one stirs. They were just sleeping real hard. She comes down to the office to get the key for 110 a few minutes later and apologizes.

 

Goddamnitall, why do people have to get me all freaked out like that? And how hard can a person sleep? I wasn't shouting, like the time 112 got locked out while some chick was nodding out inside, but it was close.

like pulling teeth

Schatzi: Did you want to guarantee that reservation with a credit card?
Customer on the phone: I have a MasterCard.
Schatzi: Okay, I'm ready for the number.
Customer: It's a Washington Mutual MasterCard. But there's no money in my account. Can I pay cash?
Schatzi: You may pay cash when you check in, sir, but to guarantee the reservation I need a credit card number. We won't charge anything until you check in, and you may pay cash then if you wish.
Customer: Okay, let me get my credit card. It's in my truck. Can you hold on?
Schatzi: Sure.
Customer: [4 minutes later, no joke] I have my MasterCard.
Schatzi: I'm ready for the number, sir.
Customer: It's a Gold MasterCard. From Washington Mutual.
Schatzi: Okay, I'm ready for the number.
Customer: There's four four-digit numbers on it.
Schatzi: Can you read those to me, sir?
Customer: All of them?
Schatzi: Yes, sir.
Customer: [he reads them and stops]
Schatzi: May I have the expiration date, sir?
Customer: 2010.
Schatzi: And the month, please?
Customer: July.

Schatzi: Thank you, sir.

meet Barry (official Barry Hunter backstory)

Barry Hunter is a sixty-four year old gentleman who has been living at the lol-iday inn longer than I’ve worked there, so for over two years now. We get long-term residents from time to time, especially in the winter when people stop sleeping outside or in their cars, but he is by far the longest stay.

Barry Hunter is, well, touched. He’s a bit of an odd duck, and mostly does not speak to anyone on staff here besides the Owner-Manager. As I’ve mentioned before, he doesn’t say much, and in fact slightly resembles Mr Bean in his tendency to mumble to himself and make the occasional meep sound. He’s finally gotten used to me now (after two years), and will occasionally vocalize to me his desire to pay for another week’s stay, a washcloth, or just to say hi. Sometimes he will wave to me as I drive out on my way home.

He spends most of his days and nights here roaming the hallways and parking lot, occasionally while in a state of deshabille. He takes off for hours at a time, and was once returned by police after apparently causing a disturbance. Recently, he’s become quite active, leading to many remarks in our logbook such as “Barry’s on fire tonight!” One of his habits is pounding on walls, mostly those in his room, but at times he will walk around outside banging on walls. He has also taken to following women to their rooms, and standing outside their doors for long periods of time. This nearly got the crap beat out of Barry when a young woman’s boyfriend took exception to his behavior.

When extremely disturbed, he does it to cars, which is one of the behaviors that really has us worried for him, as people are very touchy about their vehicles. Barry seems to be fascinated by cars, spending a lot of time staring at those in our parking lot, which makes other guests nervous. Recently, he’s also taken to getting on his hands and feet to peer beneath, and occasionally crawl under cars. This is extremely alarming to any number of people, including myself. In fact, I caught Gary peering under my car a few days ago. I rapped on the office window right behind him, and he jumped up and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring at the sky as though he had been doing that all along. Amused, I rapped again to catch his attention, but he resolutely maintained his bird watching act.

Us clerks are pretty concerned for his safety, as his behaviors tend to make other people upset—and when dealers, crackheads, and heshers are upset, people get hurt. We tried reaching his family, but they have washed their hands of Barry, actually telling the Assistant Manager, “He’s your problem now.” They will only occasionally show up to pay for his stay. Another clerk asked the police what we ought to do, and they told us that we need to call them every time he is a disturbance so that a record can be kept that will get Barry some help. He’s been brought home as a disturbance by the police twice in the last month.

more goodbyes

There’s been an elderly lady and her son staying here for a hundred and thirteen nights. They’re from Hawai’i, and though the son seemed initially rude to me, he’s proven to be a very polite, if somewhat brusque, gentleman. The mother is a very sweet lady—I’ll call her Matilda since she has a very old-fashioned name—but not in very good health. Lifeline came and set up her phone for emergency contact, and what appear to be various medical professionals visit her pretty regularly. Denny works at a gas station, on a very late shift, and often doubles, to pay for their stay. He always stops in at the office to get change for his bus fare, and to say hello and flirt a little, as gentlemen in their fifties are wont to do with sassy young things.
Last weekend, things got a little worse for Denny and Matilda. The other swing girl went out to get a soda from the Coke machine where she heard faint cries. Noticing that the door to Matilda’s room was barely ajar, she went to it, calling to Matilda, who was lying on the floor between the two beds, unable to get up or reach her Lifeline. Carrie helped her back onto her bed and asked whether she wanted medical attention. When the housekeepers stopped by the next day, the same thing had happened again, and once more during my shift when I went to check on her. Fortunately, Matilda is tiny, so it was easy to help her, but we were all worried about her being alone when Denny was at work, so we tried to keep checking on her.
Since one of my sisters works at an assisted living facility, I mentioned the circumstances to her. We both agreed it would be cheaper for Matilda to be in one, and she mentioned that there was a studio available in hers for just over a thousand a month—less than what Denny was currently paying—including the cost of food, activities, and 24-hour personnel on staff. My sister even told me that Denny would probably be able to stay there with her still, as long as it wasn’t obvious. I was really excited to tell Denny about the opening; even though the facility is pretty far from our location, I thought it would be good for him to know there were options out there.
When I returned to work after my weekend, however, it was too late. I mentioned the studio opening to Denny, who told me that his mother was at Providence, and that she’d had a small stroke. She kept telling him she was just too tired to stand, not that anything else was the matter. While he was in the office, they called for him from the Emergency Room. It wasn’t good news; he told them very sternly to not make her think negatively, to just make her comfortable, and that he’d be back at 0800 to be with her. He said that they’d been just about to get an apartment when this happened.
Denny came in this evening, exhausted, after walking all over Portland all day long. When I asked how things were going, he told me, “Fine, if you like looking at caskets.” He told me not to be sorry, though, because things were going to happen regardless. I felt just awful for him, they have little to no money and he’s worried about her care for what time she has left—and he’s losing his mother. I commiserated with him, and he asked if he could just rest a while on one of our couches. “You don’t want to go to your room?” I asked him.
“They didn’t lock it up?” he asked.
“No, someone came in and paid for it today. Let me see . . . St Vincent de Paul paid it through Saturday morning.”
“I thought they had kicked us out because we couldn’t pay!” he told me, jubilantly. “Now I can take a shower. Oh, thank you, Schatzi!”
At least I could give him a little good news right now.
I’m feeling pretty guilty, I have to say. If I had mentioned their situation to my sister sooner, maybe she could have been at the assisted living facility. Maybe the stroke would have been caught sooner, and she wouldn’t be dying now. I should know that it’s not my fault, but I can’t help it.

it's so hard to say goodbye

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

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.

oh, Barry!

We have an elderly gent staying at The Motel who has been there longer than I have. He's a very odd duck--we'll call him Barry Hunter--who doesn't talk much except to mutter to himself and occasionally meep. He's kind of like our own extremely crazy but mostly harmless Mr Bean.

Barry's been getting up to all kinds of shenanigans lately, which I'll have to further detail later. This past Sunday when I got to work, there was a note about him: "Barry was on fire tonight! Running around till 6:30am, when he finally left. Maybe he'll be tired out when he gets back."

I didn't see Barry Hunter at all til the afternoon. "Barry Hunter returned, 2:35pm," I noted in the logbook. A few minutes later, the head housekeeper poked her head into the office and reported that Barry had stood at the door of the laundry room until the new housekeeper noticed him, and when she tried to give him a stack of towels for his room (he doesn't get regular service, but picks up towels as he needs them), he grunted and threw them on the ground, then walked away. Being new and having no English, she was distraught and confused, hence their summoning me. I walked over to Barry's room, where he was standing and staring at nothing. "Hey, Barry. Did you need something?"
"Washcloth," he muttered.
"Sure, I can get you a washcloth," I said, and headed to the laundry with him following behind. I grabbed two and offered him both. "Did you need one or two, Barry?" I asked.
"Washcloth," he said, grabbing it, and then returning to his room.

Returning to the office, I made a second note: "Barry Hunter terrified housekeeper, 2:35pm."

back door girl

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.]

all things to all people

A girl was enraged last night because I could not cash out her Scratch-It ticket.

Could not, or would not?

where, oh where has my little crack rock gone?

A very interesting woman left belongings here yesterday (I'll tell you about that later), but apparently forgot a thing or two because she just called.

Guest: I left some of my things there yesterday. I got most of them, but I'm missing a few things.
Schatzi: What's that?
Guest: My phone charger--
Schatzi: That was with your backpack; I remember putting it on top of it myself. But I'll check the Lost and Found to see if it's there. What else?
Guest: My dog's medicine. I left it on the bed, and he'll die if he doesn't get it.
Schatzi: Well, that's not good. What was it? What did it look like?
Guest: I left it on the bed in a small plastic bag, maybe 4x4?
Schatzi: I see. Well, if it looked like garbage, the housekeepers probably threw it out if they found it.
Guest: It's real important that I get it. Can you check the Lost and Found? It's white, and looks like little rocks.
Schatzi: Uh-huh.

I actually took her phone number down. The charger was indeed left in the Lost and Found, but sadly for her dog, the crack was not.

ghost in the motel

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.

complaining about work on the Internets

I just came across this old tidbit from shortly after I first began working here.

Schatzi: man, the cops who come to my work talk to me like I am the most sheltered white girl in the universe.
Phill: haha
Schatzi: talking about a hooker: "she's accused of robbing her, well, uh, we call her customers 'johns.'"
Schatzi: DUH!
Phill: haha
Phill: i think they don't wish to offend
Schatzi: it gets worse--
Schatzi: "this vehicle we think is connected to someone who is doing bad things in our area."
Schatzi: BAD THINGS?
Schatzi: a cop fucking sez "BAD THINGS?"
electrocutioner: haha
Schatzi: I'm not four
electrocutioner: did they ask you to show on the dolly where the bad man touched you?
Phill: hahahahahaha

2 girls, 1 clerk

We occasionally receive faxes regarding Amber Alerts, notifying us of missing or endangered children (usually having something to do with custody disputes, I have noticed), or advising us of dangerous felons in the area, so it wasn’t unusual to get a fax of that nature my Monday night. Our fax machine has been acting up lately, and it was a few hours into my shift before I got anything to print. Amidst all the advertisements for cheap motel furniture or landscaping companies was a notification of two missing minors/possible runaways from Springfield (adjacent to Eugene). It was addressed to all the motels in the chain of our persuasion, stating that the two young girls (thirteen and fourteen years old) had been sexually assaulted, then left town with two different older men, and were possibly staying at one of our Portland area locations. I read the descriptions carefully, then returned to staring blankly out the front windows of the lobby. Three minutes later, two girls walked past, out of the parking lot, and lo and behold, they actually matched the descriptions. No way. Disbelieving and beside myself, I checked the flyer again, then walked out to see where they were headed. Once I saw that they were going into the Taco Bell across the street, I went back in and checked the security cameras to figure out which room they’d come from. Miracle of miracles, the girl who’d checked them in had actually gotten their names, and they matched those of the missing girls. Way!

HOLY SHIT, I thought, maybe I can actually be of help in keeping yet another couple of underage girls from a life of prostitution! I first called the Springfield PD to verify that it wasn’t in fact a prank to harass fellow hookers (this happens often; one will get angry at another, then call or fax us to let us know there’s something going on), and as soon as they verified the information, I called Portland PD.

Unfortunately, the girls never did return from Taco Bell, and I never did save them from a life on the track. When the cops finally arrived, they spoke with the gentlemen in the room, and told them that it’s just not a good idea to take minors two hundred miles from home, even if they tell you they really need a ride and a place to stay. The cops asked me to watch out for the girls, because though the men said that their moms had picked them up, it all seemed pretty sketchy. Sometimes you win them, and sometime you lose them; here, we mostly lose them.

Update: There actually was a better resolution to the story. When my co-worker came in on her next day, she didn’t check my notes from the previous night, and on seeing the flyer, called one of the girls’ mothers, whose number was on it. The mother told her that she really had picked them up from Taco Bell the night before. The sketchy dudes were telling the truth! The girls did make it home! They’re not hookers—at least, not yet! Yay!

which wall's on first?

I had just checked in a middle-aged lady and sent her up to her room when a gentleman came in needing a room. As I was checking him in, the phone rang. It was the woman I’d just checked in. Uh-oh.

Schatzi: Front desk, how can I help you, ma’am?
Guest #1: Where’s the air conditioning unit in my room?
Schatzi: Well, it’s in one of two places, ma’am: the front wall or the back wall of the room.
Guest #1: Which one is that?
Schatzi: The front or the back?
Guest #1: Which one is the front wall?
Schatzi, flabbergasted: Which one is the front wall? The one with the door in it.
Guest #2, who I’m checking in, sotto voce: “Which one is the front?” You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!
Guest #1: I don’t see that.
Schatzi: The door through which you walked into the room—that’s the front wall, ma’am. The back wall is directly opposite that.
Guest #2: Is she fucking retarded?!?
Guest #1: I don’t see an air conditioner there.
Schatzi, cheerfully: Then it must be on the back wall!
Guest #1: All I see there are two beds.
Schatzi: That’s the side wall, ma’am. The back wall is across the room from the door.
Guest #2: [various profanities]
Guest #1: The tv is there.
Schatzi: No, ma’am, that’s the other side wall, across from the beds. If you put the phone down and stand in the doorway, then walk all the way across the room, you should find the air conditioner on the wall. I’ll wait on the line while you look.
Guest #2, who I’ve finished checking in: I’ve got to see how this turns out.
Guest #1, after a wait: I found it. [click]
Schatzi to Guest #2: Not even a “thank you!”
Guest #2, shaking his head: I can’t fucking believe some people.

Unfortunately, I can!

not getting it

Guest: I want room 126 for four nights.
Schatzi: I'm sorry, but 126 is only available Saturday. The only rooms at the end you prefer that will be open for those four days are 227 and 228.
G: Well, put my friend in 227, I want 126.
S: It's not available during your stay.
G: I'll stay in 126 Saturday, then move.
S: I'm afraid I can't guarantee you a room to move to since this weekend we're almost completely booked. I can put you in one room for four days, but I can't move people from room to room due to how crowded we are this weekend.
G: I want to be in one room the whole time.
S: Well then, I can put you in 227 or 228 for all four days.
G: I want 126; I've stayed there before. Why can't I have it?
S: It's already reserved for three of the days you'll be staying here. It's only open Saturday; I would have to move you inot it tomorrow, and out again Sunday.
G: Is there anything else on the first floor in that building?
S: The only other first floor room I have is 134 at the opposite end of the building, but it is open all four days.
G: Is there another one next to it for my friend?
S: No, 134 is the only room at that end of the building that is open for the four days that you'll be here. The only other rooms open for those four days are 227 & 228--at the opposite end of the building. Those three rooms are the only ones available for all four days.
G: I guess that will work.
S: Which room???
G: I'll take 134, and my friend will be in 227.
S: Okay then.
G: I just don't understand why I can't be in 126; I've gotten it before when I asked.

Note how she completely misses that only those three rooms are open. WTF? I felt like I was on repeat for six minutes, going through this over, and over, and over.

the new obscene phone call

"--stalking me. All he want to do is get his raggedy face in my juicy pussy. Thank you for using text to landline."

That's what I heard in one of those creepy TTS voices when I just answered the desk phone, haha.

well if you'd told me it was black, I would have known it was yours immediately!

Caller: I left my charger plugged in in Room 200 when I checked out today. Do you still have it?
Me: I'm sure we do, what kind of charger is it?
Caller: Black.
Me: Umm, what brand?
Caller: It's a Cricket Motorola.
Me: Okay well, there are several Motorola chargers here in our Lost & Found box; you can come take a look at them, and see which is yours.
Caller: You don't have a black charger?
Me: 99.9% of the chargers turned in are black, ma'am.
Caller: Oh.

She never came in for it, either.

repeating yourself isn't going to make them appear on my guestlist

Caller: I'd like to speak with the Jones family; they're checked in there.
Me: Just a moment, ma'am, while I check my guestlist. [pause] I'm sorry, but the Joneses appear to have checked out.
Caller, slowly: I'd like to speak to the Joneses.
Me: I'm sorry, ma'am, but as I said, they appear to have checked out; there's no one staying here by that name.
Caller, after another pause, and with deadly calm: I'd like to speak to your supervisor.
Me: I'm sorry, but he's not here at the moment. If he were here though, he wouldn't be able to connect you to the Joneses either, ma'am, because they're not staying here.
Caller: Fuck you! [hangs up]

I told the MOD about this call the next day, giggling the whole time. She told me she was glad that I was laughing, because she would have been "pissed beyond belief at that shit."