Working On A Saturday

I saw a number of interesting things during my eight-hour shift this Saturday. We had a guest with the same full name as a famous writer. Oh, and also, he pooped his pants. He left at around 9:30 in the morning, and not one hour later, he was back. The other valets walked out to his car, thinking that he'd returned for at least a few hours. Not quite. He told them he'd just forgotten something and needed to go back up to his room to get it. As he walked through the door, I couldn't help but notice a giant, poop-colored stain on his otherwise white shorts. Half an hour later, he came back down, and he was wearing a different pair of pants. Away he drove, obviously thinking that he'd gotten away with something. I dare you to tell me a single thing that is more consistently funny than an old man pooping himself. You can't do it.

Later that day, I made a huge mistake. I neglected to recognize a man who had not only already checked in, but to whom I had personally given a room tour. Not cool. He looked almost hurt, as if he was normally a very memorable guy. Sorry, Mr Plainface. Too bad you're not more interesting.

I gave a room tour to a couple who was obviously on the first day of their honeymoon. AAA requires us to inform guests of the use and location of certain items in the rooms. It became clear to me when the husband handed me my tip before I'd even finished unloading their luggage that my prolonged presence in that room was not going to make any of us comfortable. But screw them. I had a job to do, and I'll be damned if some horny 30-something is going to keep me from doing that job. I purposefully lingered, making absolutely sure that EVERYTHING on my stupid little AAA checklist was covered. I've never before felt such a strong sense of impatience radiating from a person. He didn't like me very much. It was hilarious.

There was one guy who wouldn't stop creepily widening his eyes every few seconds. At first, I thought he was adding it as a visual punctuation to some sort of joke, so I chuckled. That only perplexed him, as he was clearly not joking, and apparently, his natural defense mechanism against painfully confusing situations is to widen his eyes even more. It was like watching a squid continuously inking itself. Quite entertaining. Or maybe he was secretly getting punched in the balls every few seconds. I can see that causing a similar reaction.

At lunch, we had a guest who was, evidently, a king in his own country. He wanted everything done RIGHT NOW, laws of physics be damned! I was busy helping another guest, and this guy came up to me with his valet ticket in hand, ready to go. Unfortunately for him, I didn't give a crap that he was pressed for time, and was already helping someone else. It's not my fault the guy didn't try taking it to one of the other two valets, who happened to be standing *gasp* AT THE VALET STAND! What a concept. Though it was thoroughly lost on this man. He wanted his precious Ford Freestar brought to him instantly. Too bad for him there was a traffic jam just in front of our drive, so it took me almost twenty minutes to get his car to him. I guess he was just destined to arrive late to that important Shiatsu massage appointment he had, or whatever. He was probably just racing home to catch the season finale of some crappy and exploitive reality show, like Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. What a tool. I hope he stabbed himself in the scrotum with his keys.

I tried to help an elderly woman find the room in which her granddaughter was staying, only to have her tell me just before we reached the other end of the hotel that she was looking for room 109. I then tried to explain to her that she was, in fact, a senile old cow, because there exists no such room in the hotel. It took her several minutes to catch up with me and to make that realization on her own. Apparently, being a senile old cow impairs your ability to perceive yourself as such. "But she told me 109," she said, to which I replied, "Please, please just walk away from me now. I don't want to accidentally inhale any of the stupid."

Now at this point in the post, you're probably thinking, "While Andrew is quite charming, and probably my favorite writer ever, and most definitely the handsomest bastard upon whom these weary eyes have ever been allowed to gaze, I sincerely doubt that he's actually as brash in real life as he appears on paper." That, my friend, is where you'd be wrong, though I feel I must applaud your use of extremely long sentences in your thoughts. (Oh, and incidentally, if you're a hot girl and you actually happen to believe all those other things, please don't hesitate to stalk me.) I really am that cold and uncaring, but only as long as it's funny. You just have to get to know me first. And stand close. You'd be amazed at what I say under my breath.