Your Mind Wanders
When half your job is to simply stand at a door waiting for something to happen, you tend to let your mind wander quite a bit. I've been working every day for the last week, so I haven't really had much time to come up with a new post. And judging by the fact that this'll be number 360 for me, it would certainly appear that I may have exhausted all possible avenues into fresh blog material. But fear not, gentle reader, for I need not remind you that you are in the hands of a craftsman, an artisan, a skilled communicator, a ruggedly handsome rogue, a... guild member. You get the idea. Anyway, here are some thoughts that crossed my mind as I stood motionless in front of the door for a total of twelve hours last week.
What if you thought you recognized someone from earlier in the day, and as you walked up to their car, you said, "Welcome back" like you're supposed to, but it turns out he wasn't returning for the night? And what if he really had stayed there before, but it was a long time ago? I think the conversation would go something like this:
Me: "Welcome back."
Him: "Welcome back? Welcome back!? How could you possibly remember me? I stayed here one night a year ago, and I know you weren't working here then because I'd have remembered and recognized your stupid smelly face and your ass head. Don't touch my car, and please refrain from looking me directly in the eye."
Me: "If you have any bags in the trunk, I'd be happy to get them for you."
Him: "I bet you would, queerbait. Just try not to be too faggoty when you pick up my black leather bag filled with naked muscle man magazines and Cher CD's."
Me: "Whatever. Where's my tip, you senile old bastard!?"
You can't see inside through the glass door very well because of the glare, so it's hard to know when people are inside wanting to get out. Sometimes, there's a person on the outside who's coming in at the same time there's someone on the inside coming out. When this happens, the person on the inside usually comes through first, and they inevitably thank me for being so prompt in my door-opening skills. What they fail to realize, however, is that I never even saw them coming, and I was only opening the door because there was someone on the outside coming in. I have to pretend like I knew the inside person was there the whole time. What a charlatan I am. I feel like David Blaine, except without all the gay-ass magic tricks and faux-spiritualism.
I wonder how far I could drive that guy's Audi before someone at the hotel reported it stolen? Couple hundred miles? Maybe more, if he doesn't wake up tomorrow morning until 11 or so. (By the way, that reminds me: do you know what's more embarassing than stalling an Audi TT in the middle of the street? Doing it in front of the owner.)
Rich people are stingy. I haven't received a decent tip from a person driving a luxury car. The best tippers are the people who drive crappy cars. I'm not kidding. Maybe they feel the need to make up for owning such a stupid car. Or maybe it's an empathy thing. You know, "I'm a workin' stiff too, buddy. Just tryin' to keep the man off my back. Here's ten bucks. Head on down to the 7-Eleven and buy yourself somethin' pretty."
What if you thought you recognized someone from earlier in the day, and as you walked up to their car, you said, "Welcome back" like you're supposed to, but it turns out he wasn't returning for the night? And what if he really had stayed there before, but it was a long time ago? I think the conversation would go something like this:
Me: "Welcome back."
Him: "Welcome back? Welcome back!? How could you possibly remember me? I stayed here one night a year ago, and I know you weren't working here then because I'd have remembered and recognized your stupid smelly face and your ass head. Don't touch my car, and please refrain from looking me directly in the eye."
Me: "If you have any bags in the trunk, I'd be happy to get them for you."
Him: "I bet you would, queerbait. Just try not to be too faggoty when you pick up my black leather bag filled with naked muscle man magazines and Cher CD's."
Me: "Whatever. Where's my tip, you senile old bastard!?"
You can't see inside through the glass door very well because of the glare, so it's hard to know when people are inside wanting to get out. Sometimes, there's a person on the outside who's coming in at the same time there's someone on the inside coming out. When this happens, the person on the inside usually comes through first, and they inevitably thank me for being so prompt in my door-opening skills. What they fail to realize, however, is that I never even saw them coming, and I was only opening the door because there was someone on the outside coming in. I have to pretend like I knew the inside person was there the whole time. What a charlatan I am. I feel like David Blaine, except without all the gay-ass magic tricks and faux-spiritualism.
I wonder how far I could drive that guy's Audi before someone at the hotel reported it stolen? Couple hundred miles? Maybe more, if he doesn't wake up tomorrow morning until 11 or so. (By the way, that reminds me: do you know what's more embarassing than stalling an Audi TT in the middle of the street? Doing it in front of the owner.)
Rich people are stingy. I haven't received a decent tip from a person driving a luxury car. The best tippers are the people who drive crappy cars. I'm not kidding. Maybe they feel the need to make up for owning such a stupid car. Or maybe it's an empathy thing. You know, "I'm a workin' stiff too, buddy. Just tryin' to keep the man off my back. Here's ten bucks. Head on down to the 7-Eleven and buy yourself somethin' pretty."
posted by Vaughan at
3:26 PM
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