Falling Out of Season

And once again it has been so long since I last wrote a blog post that I can’t even remember when I wrote my last blog post. Unfortunately, nothing blog worthy (or, rather, blog appropriate) has happened over the past few months. Time is slowing down on Mackinac Island. Our first cold front blew in and decided to stay about a week ago. The winter winds are beginning to pick up and even caused ferries to shutdown earlier this week. Green trees are finally starting to morph into warm orange, brown, and red hues. Probably most agreeable of all is finally being able to walk down Main Street in the middle of the day without feeling the need to go all Moses-and-the-Red-Sea on people.

However, for how quiet and relaxed the island is getting, the same cannot be said for the Orchid Hotel. As business has slowed down, so have the amount of hours each of us is working at the Front Desk. Whereas the four of us that are left were getting 50+ hours a week, now we have been restricted to less than 40. This all came about after "The Magazine Incident" in which the owner of the hotel was displeased to see two of my coworkers reading a People Magazine while at work. Ironically, there are times when the owner herself plops a magazine or catalog down in front of one of us and tells us to "enjoy." We now know these instances were all traps (not really, but it certainly feels that way recently since she is STILL giving us magazines to read at work). Personally, I was upset because the only time anyone on the front desk did something leisurely like check their email or read a magazine was when there was absolutely nothing else to do. Unfortunately, the owner did not see it this way and had our supervisor drastically cut our hours. To add salt to the wound they began volunteering people from the wait staff to cover our shifts. Were we hurt by this at the front desk? Unbelievably so. Were we angry? Beyond consoling for a while. However, we (three out of four at least) are now “dealing with it” and basically riding out the sorry situation until the end of the season (and October 13^th when the restaurant closes and they HAVE to only let the front desk staff work the front desk).

And now that that mini-rant is out of the way I will try to regale everyone with a few choice happenings this fall:

1.     Mr. Spalina (aka Mr. So Angry And Rude That I Will Not Give You An Alias For My Blog)

As everyone is now well aware, Mackinac Island does not allow cars except for emergency services and the odd construction vehicle now and then. Everyone on the island gets around by walking, biking, or a horse drawn carriage (a bit more industrial than the Amish kind). There are taxis on the island, but they do not act as the type of taxis we are all used to. First off, you cannot hail a taxi here. I have seen a few people try and the result was not pleasant (even on Mackinac Island taxi drivers are not the nicest of people). Instead, you have to reserve a taxi and then wait for the specific one assigned for you shows up. Second, taxis are not the quickest means of transportation on the island. Obviously, two trotting horses can move quicker than a person on a bike, but when the taxis have to stop and pick up more people and then let the horses have a breather now and again suddenly your two mile ride uphill has taken a little over thirty minutes. Thirdly, the taxis are being pulled by live animals. These animals cannot just stop and go at the drop of a hat. They may need to stop and rest or have a pee. They may decide they do not feel like trotting and will instead amble along, nipping each other along to way. Your punctuality is basically at the mercy of a couple thousand pound animals. On top of this fact, taxis on Mackinac Island are never on time either. You could book a taxi 24 hours in advance and seven out of ten times it will still arrive up to a half hour late. 

And thus brings us to Mr. Spalina.

From the moment Mr. Spalina checked in it was clear that the Orchid was not his first choice. He wanted a room with a king bed, and yet had booked a room with two queens. When I asked if he and his wife they had ever stayed with us before he exasperatedly mentioned that this was their first time staying anywhere other than the Grand. He was impatient as I asked for his baggage claim stubs and explained our breakfast location and hours. I showed them to their room and held out the key, willing one of them to just take it so I could leave this absurdly crabby man. Mrs. Spalina marveled at their water view while Mr. Spalina scanned the décor with suspicious eyes. I held back a comment that the Grand couldn't get you this kind of water view unless they painted it on a wall. Unfortunately, that would have been snarky and “snarkiness” has been banned at the Orchid. Finally, Mr. Spalina gave me a curt nod and said, “This will do.”

The next evening Mr. Spalina and his wife were to board a taxi with two other couples bound for the Woods restaurant at 6:45pm. All three couples had 7:30 dinner reservations. For one of the few times this summer the taxi showed up right on time! Mr. Spalina held the door open for the two other couples and watched them board the taxi. He then promptly walked to the front desk and said angrily, “That cab was full. I want another cab to take us to the Woods NOW.” My coworker, Reba, and I watched as the cab pulled away. There was definitely enough room on the front bench for Mr. Spalina and his wife.

I called the taxi stand and they said they could get another cab there in five minutes. I relayed this to Mr. Spalina. He looked at me and walked away. Before he could get very far the sound of trotting hooves approached the hotel. Mr. Spalina and I watched as the horse-drawn cab sailed past the Orchid. Mr. Spalina whipped his head around to glare at me. "That cab JUST went right by withOUT stopping," he exclaimed, a little more accusingly than I would have preferred. 

"I know that seems confusing," I said. "The taxis are reserved for specific people. That one wasn't actually your taxi or else it would have stopped. That one is probably reserved for someone headed to Mission Point since that's the direction it was headed." The term "stare daggers" had never felt so real until now. Mr. Spalina spun on his heel again and resumed his post by the window in the lobby.

At 7:05 I realized with great dismay that Mr. Spalina was still in the lobby. The anger radiated off his body like strong cologne so I took the initiative and called the taxi stand. “It’s going to be about twenty minutes,” the taxi woman said. I immediately called the Woods and told them Mr. Spalina and his wife would be late. I then waited for the inevitable.

Five minutes later it happened. Mr. Spalina poked his head around the front desk and looked at me, eyebrows raised and unspeaking.  “I called the taxi stand a moment ago,” I said, my voice clearly showing my nervousness, “and they said it would be another twenty minutes...” Mr. Spalina continued to stare at me. “I also called the Woods and told them you would be late. They said that would be fine.” 

Mr. Spalina turned abruptly and opened the front door.  “Janice,” he called. He nodded his head as a signal to his wife to “come.” Mr. Spalina then stomped down the hall in the direction of the Orchid’s restaurant with his wife in tow. Reba and I exchanged worried glances. We knew what he was doing. So fed up with waiting for the taxi, Mr. Spalina was hoping to eat in our restaurant instead. Unfortunately, our restaurant was fully booked for the night. About a minute later Mr. Spalina came stomping back through the lobby, head down, eyes blazing, and hands deep in his pockets. His wife trailed him. It was like being around a balloon that’s surrounded by needles – you know it’s only a matter of time before it pops.

Ten minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Spalina were back at the front desk, dressed much more casually than before. Mr. Spalina looked as if he wanted to grace me with speech this time so I walked to the front desk. “This is a disgrace,” he said, jabbing a finger in my direction. “I just want you to know that this whole situation is disgraceful. It is reprehensible. They way we have been treated is reprehensible.”

            “I know,” I replied, “the taxis are pretty bad here. This unfortunately happens a lot.”

            “No! It is not bad. It is rep-re-hensible.” It was at this point that I noticed our lobby full of people had gone very silent and everyone was looking at the floor.

            “I know and I am very sorry. I moved your reservation back at the Woods. Do you want me to cancel it?”

            Mr. Spalina pointed his finger at me again. “If I wanted breakfast at the Woods, I would have booked breakfast at the Woods.” With that he turned on his heels and stormed out of the hotel. All eyes in the lobby slowly looked at me.

            “That didn’t answer my question,” I said to no one. Later, one of the guests who had been staring at the floor came up to me and apologized for Mr. Spalina’s behaviour.

            The next day I told my supervisor about Mr. Spalina. Of course, Mr. Spalina had already beaten me to the punch and told Trisha about the incident. Trisha informed me that it had been Mr. and Mrs. Spalina's wedding anniversary that night. “It’s probably going to be their last anniversary with that attitude,” I scoffed. Trisha told me that was snarky.

            That evening Trisha stayed at the office until Mr. Spalina’s taxi arrived. We had once again booked it for 6:45 p.m. Trisha stood between the chair I was sitting in and the entrance to the front desk. This time I was ready. I stared intently into the lobby, daring Mr. Spalina to snap at me again. I was Joan of Arc – ready for battle! When I tried to lean over to see what Mr. Spalina was doing Trisha blocked me. She said that she was purposefully standing there to body-block me from interacting with Mr. Spalina. Obviously Trisha knows me too well.

6:45 p.m. rolled around and no taxi appeared. At 6:55 p.m. Trisha called the taxi office to check on the status. As per usual, the taxi people said, “It should be headed down the street now.”

At 7:10 p.m. a taxi finally materialized. It stopped in front of the hotel and Trisha escorted the Spalinas down the steps. Reba and I snuck out to the front desk to hear if that was indeed Mr. Spalina’s taxi.

“Are you headed to the Woods?” Trisha asked.

“Nope,” the taxi driver responded, “goin’ to the Grand.”

Reba and I bolted into the back of the office. Screw Joan of Arc. At least she was armed! Out of pure instinct I ran to the owner’s office and hid behind her doorframe. Reba could barely compose herself from laughing so much. “It’s going to be the Hunger Games at the Orchid!” I exclaimed.

Fifteen minutes later the Spalina’s cab finally arrived. Trisha returned to the office and called the Woods to not only warn them that the Spalina’s would be late, but to be wary of Mr. Spalina. Very wary.

The next morning the Spalinas were mercifully due to checkout. It was Trisha’s day off so only my coworker Lizzy and I were in the office. As I stood out at the front desk I heard the sounds of someone dragging a large item from the second floor. This was followed the unmistakable sound of a suitcase being thrown down the first flight of stairs. Footsteps stomped loudly behind the falling bag. A duffle bag that could easily hold a body then tumbled down the rest of the stairs into the lobby. Without much shock, I watched as Mr. Spalina snatched the bag off the ground, struggling under the weight, and threw it by the front door. He kept his eyes on the ground, lips pencil thin in a I-Just-Lost-My-CEO-Position scowl. He ran back up the stairs and proceeded to throw another hefty bag down the stairs. With great effort he held the door open for himself and dragged both bags out the front door. It was obvious he was either going to fall and kill himself or throw out his back. I made no mention of our porters helping him. If Mr. Spalina wanted to have an I-Am-The-Silver-Back-Gorilla temper tantrum then I was going to let him. Besides, a small part of me was chanting, “Trip! Trip!”

Mrs. Spalina calmly appeared at the desk. She handed me her key and smiled pleasantly. She signed her bill and said she would like a copy for her records. Then, because the hotel gods apparently have it in for me, the printer jammed while trying to print the copy. Lizzy opened the printer trying to find the jam. “Why this reservation?” she lamented. We gave each other worried expressions and I kept a constant watch over the front door, waiting for Mr. Spalina to rush back in and yell at me once more. Mrs. Spalina must have seen our petrified glances and assured me, “We’ve had a lovely stay.”

“You’ve had a lovely stay,” I wanted to say, “your husband, on the other hand, has probably been formulating his damning TripAdvisor review since I first led you to your room.”

Exasperated, I took the Spalinas’ signed receipt and ran it through the copier. By this point I was certain that we were mere seconds from another Mr. Spalina blow-up. I thrusted the paper at Mrs. Spalina and chirped, “Bye!” She smiled warmly again and left. As soon as she walked out the door the printer produced her copy of the bill. Naturally.

2.    We Need To Talk

The other morning I stood out at the front desk and waited for checkouts. As I waited, an older man approached and handed me a folded note. “We need to meet in private!” it said in all caps. Maybe it’s just me, but I thought this was a joke. Back in Brunswick, Georgia, I was approached several times by old men in the mall who would ask me to read “Isle of View” out loud. To this they would respond, “I love you, too,” and walk off cackling like loons. Thinking this was a similar situation I looked at the man and laughed. He smiled and motioned for me to walk down the first floor hallway.

“Come to 107,” he whispered.

 Now this felt a little strange. Trisha looked up from her computer as I went out the door. I had just enough time to wave the note at her and say, “He wants to see me in 107?”

When we got to Room 107 I stayed at the door, propping it open with my foot. Unfortunately, the man walked all the way into the room and turned a corner so that my distance looked awkward. I could see two other people standing by the beds and my mind raced with Law & Order-esque scenarios. Is someone sick? Is someone dead? Bed defiled? Broken leg? Meeting of the Illuminati?

I walked further into the room. The old man, his wife, and their grown son all stared at me. Mr. Note Writer took a step towards me so that we were only a few inches apart. “I just want to tell you that this is one of the worst night stays we have ever had,” he said quietly.

Ah, I thought, I am here to get yelled at. Awesome.

Luckily, that was not to be the case. Instead, Mr. Note Writer and his family wanted to express to me how creaky the hotel was and how that had prevented any of them from sleeping during the night. Mr. Note asked if the room above them was made of wood and I pointed out that although the entire hotel was made of wood, every room had carpeting. Mr. Note went into exaggerated detail at how the constant noise coming from the room above them sounded like two 2X4 pieces of wood being dragged together and that at one point the room vibrated so violently they all thought they were in an earthquake. He then described how the squeak was not only constant, but also rhythmic.

“It was like squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak,” he said holding his hands parallel to the ground and rubbing his palms together in time with the “squeaks.”

“Did it sound like a bed?” I asked slightly uncomfortably.

“A bed?” Mr. Note said, obviously not catching my drift whatsoever.

“Well...we have about three sets of honeymooners here...” I tried to let my pauses speak for themselves, but Mr. Note was just not getting it. Luckily, Mrs. Note could read my ellipses.

“Dearie,” she said, “it was all night. You have to take a break!”

“This is true,” I agreed and wondered what Trisha would say if she could hear me now.

Finally satisfied that I had indeed listened and acknowledged their complaint, Mr. Note opened the door for me to leave. He thanked me for coming down and said they had had a wonderful stay. “I wanted to do this in private so that no one would think we were talking poorly about your hotel.” I thanked him for his consideration and thought about mentioning he just call the front desk next time instead of passing slightly daunting notes. (As a side note, I had been gone so long that when I returned to the front desk, Trisha was on the phone with our Operations Manager. They had been moments away from sending in back-up.)

(I realize that adding this photo just gave away the anonymity of the "Orchid Hotel", but my supervisor now knows about this blog and I'm really only keeping to the aliases because I don't want to go back and change two summers worth of blog post. Also, let's be honest, the majority of you who read this already know me personally. I just couldn't resist displaying the picture!)

Silent Night

You know those days where you feel like you just can’t win no matter what you do? You have that saying “Stuck Between a Rock and a Hard Place” rolling over and over through your mind. This past Monday was one of those days.

It started just like any Monday – I went to work, read the message pad, verified if we had any rooms left, and counted the drawer. There was a little bit of crazy activity from time to time and even one point where my other coworker and I were so tied up that the 80+ year old owner of the hotel had to answer phones and help guests lock things in our secured closet. During this moment of chaos I checked a man and his wife into one of the Orchid Hotel’s beautiful Huron Suites, Room 218. The room comprises a king bed, small wet bar, sitting area, and a 6-panel window view looking out over the water. We have three of these suites in the hotel. Two look over downtown Mackinac and the marina and one overlooks the lake. Since the ferryboats depart every half hour and sound their horn every time they leave the dock, the two marina side suites are considerably noisier than the lakeside one. 

About ten minutes after I had led the couple to their room, the man was back at the front desk. This is always a bad sign. He leaned heavily against the desk with his head bent.

“Our room is overlooking the marina,” he said.

“Yes. Two of our Huron Suites do overlook the marina.”

“But those boats...they honk their horn every time they leave.” I could already see where this was going. His eyes looked as though I had told him the room was made of gold, but in reality it was only yellow paint. “There just seems to be a lot of activity over there. And then it looks like we’re looking over a bar. My wife doesn’t want people to be able to see inside.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

Unfortunately, we were booked solid for the night and during the rest of the couple’s stay we only had rooms available on the marina side of the building. I told this to the man. His head dropped further.

“So you’re telling me, I’m paying over $700 a night for a room that...I mean those boats...I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“If it helps, the boats don’t run 24/7. They do stop around 10:30 p.m. and they also stop going every half hour around 7. We actually don’t get too many complaints about it.”

“But my wife wants the windows open. How can we do that with all that noise? Is there no other room?”

“There really isn’t. Nothing that wouldn’t be a downgrade, at least, and you’d still be on that side of the building.”

“Is that the only one of those suites available?” He was sitting in a chair now: elbows on his knees, forehead resting on his clasped hands. For a moment I really thought he would cry.

“There are two of the Huron Suites overlooking the marina and one overlooking the lake.”

“Is that one available?”

“Unfortunately those guests have already checked into that room and they’re here as long as you are.”

He stared at the floor for a moment. Finally he stood up. “Well, I guess there’s nothing to be done.”

“I promise you don’t even notice the boats after a while. I live by a dock and I barely do.”

He began slowly trudging up the stairs. “Yeah...I guess we’ll see.”

For the next few hours my co-worker Jenny and I were once again oddly busy for a Monday night. Mr. 218 walked past the desk several times and refused to make eye contact with me. I chalked it up to him being embarrassed about how emotional he had gotten and that he and his wife were now fine with their beautiful room.

A housekeeper called from the third floor. “There is no water in the toilet of Room 325,” she said.

“No water?”

“In the bowl. There is no water. In the queen bedroom.” Room 325 is our only two-bedroom suite: one with a king bed and the other with a queen.

“Oh...so...should I call someone?” Both the Night Manager and Head of Maintenance were off for the night (a poor combination, if you ask me) and our only other maintenance guy was long gone by now.

“Yes. They will need the water for the morning.”

“Okay...um...let me see what I can do...”

I explained the situation to Jenny, who said we should at least call the Head of Maintenance, Jason, to see if it was a problem we could fix. Naturally, his response was that until someone actually looked inside the toilet and told him what they saw, there was nothing he could do. I grabbed the master key and headed upstairs.

Thankfully, the guests were out for the evening so I went straight into the bathroom. There was obviously no water in the toilet bowl so I lifted the lid off the tank. Nothing seemed amiss. I bounced the ball thing and lifted the chain. That’s when I noticed it. The plug at the bottom wasn’t moving. I don’t know much about toilets, but I felt like the plug needed to move so the water could go in and out of the tank and bowl. I lifted the chain until it came straight out of the water. It was no longer attached to the plug. Awesome.

For some reason I felt the need to lament this predicament to Jenny. I went into the bedroom and called the Front Desk.

“Good evening, Front Desk.”

“I have to stick my hand into the toilet.”

“What??” she laughed.

“The chain thingy isn’t attached to the plunger thingy.”

“Do you want me to do it?”

“Noooooo,” I said, knowing I should be a grown-up and fix it myself. “I just wanted someone to know what I was about to do.”

“Okay. Well good luck.”

I went into the bathroom and removed all of the rings from my right hand. Logically, I knew the tank side of the toilet was the cleanest part, but there was still that voice in my head saying, “Toilet, toilet, ew ohmygod toilet.” I should also point out that on this night I was wearing a black lacey dress with quarter-length sleeves that puffed out at the ends. I tucked these billowing parts into the fitted portion of the sleeve, hoping to save them from having a nice wash in toilet water.

I reached inside the tank and found the plug. While holding my sleeve back with one hand I carefully tried to find the hole in the plug that the chain was to go through. When I found it I let out a little “Aha!” as I hooked the chain into the rubber. I stepped away triumphantly and flushed the toilet to watch my handiwork. To my dismay, the plug remained fixed in place as the chain jeeringly bounced out of the water. I held my sleeve back once again and took the plunge. Well shit. I had found the problem. The hole in the plug meant for the chain was no longer a hole, but a tear. I thought about just stabbing a new hole into the plug and calling it good, but then I remembered that I was not a plumber and maybe such a decision would be more disastrous than simply asking the Head of Maintenance what we should do now.

“You’re going to need a few things,” Jason said. “First, the plug. Go into the maintenance shop and – you know where the work bench is?”

“Yes.”

“Okay good. Go to the workbench, under the workbench there’s going to be a blue and white box that says Korky. That’s the plug.”

“Okay,” I responded, writing down key phrases.

“Next you’re going to need wire cutters.”

“Am I cutting wire?”

“No, but you need something to cut the plug.”

“Can’t I just use scissors?”

“You could.” I wrote a note to grab both.

Jason then began explaining to me exactly what I was going to do. I tried to follow as best as I could, but only managed to write down the words “90 degrees = water off.”

“Do you have your cell phone?” Jason asked.

“Yes.”

“Bring it up with you and just call me.” It’s like he read my mind.

I have worked at the Orchid Hotel for two summers now. When Jason asked if I knew where the workbench was I didn’t want to admit that I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. I went into the maintenance shop and searched high and low for a bench. There were chairs and tables and even a footstool, but no bench. Luckily, I happen to be dating a guy who worked in maintenance at the Orchid last year. I called him, told him to never speak of this to Jason, and was lead straight to the “workbench” (which is just a very long table...), wire cutters, and scissors.

Having successfully gathered my supplies and removed all jewelry from both of my hands, I headed back up to 325. I was so thankful the guests were still not there and hoped desperately that they wouldn’t return anytime soon. I removed the lid from the tank once again and pulled the old plug out. The entire process seemed simple enough that I wondered if it was even necessary for me to call Jason again. I took the new plug out of its box and stopped. The new plug and old plug didn’t match. The old plug was a circle with a U on top. The two ends of the U connected to screws in the toilet that kept the plug in place. The new plug  was a circle, attached to a square that had a smaller circle inside of it.

I looked from the toilet to the new plug an excessive amount of times. There was a pipe standing in the middle of the toilet, which the plug was supposed to attach to. Obviously the small rubber circle inside the square was meant to go around the pipe. However, there was also a large tube going into the pipe that impeded the square attachment of the plug from being able to shimmy its way down the pipe. I pulled the tube to see if it would come out, but then, once again, reminded myself I was not a plumber and had visions of an Old Faithful-esque toilet dance through my head. I called Jason.

“Just cut it.”

“The part square part?”

“Yeah.”

“Just cut that whole part off.”

I was amazed at how simple an idea that was. New plug doesn’t fit? Trim it down until it fits!

Jason then walked me through how to get all of the water out of the toilet. I turned the valve 90 degrees and flushed the lever. “OH MY GOD WATER IS EVERYWHERE!” Jason screamed in my ear.

In my black lacey dress I straddle the toilet to try and use both hands while cradling the phone between my head and shoulder. This lasted for about a minute before I realized how awkward this would look if the guests happened to walk into the room. After what felt like an age the toilet finally did everything it was supposed to. Jason congratulated me and said, “Now get the hell out of there before the guests see you.”

I came back down to the desk (after running back into the room because I had forgotten the old plug and the wire cutters) feeling victorious. Jenny took a picture as I posed in my black dress, pearls, and pantyhose, while holding all of my maintenance trinkets (and the old plug of course). We stopped suddenly when we noticed a man at the desk: Mr. 218.

“Ladies,” he said, wearing his same downtrodden expression, “I know you’re going to get tired of hearing from me, but that restaurant next door – Tali’s Pub? I just want you to know that they’re very loud. And I want to complain now instead of at 10:15 when I know I’ll want to complain.”

Jenny and I assured him that we were sure Tali’s closed around 10 so the noise should not be an issue. However, right on schedule, Mr. 218 called at 10:15 p.m. to complain about loud music on Tali’s patio. I called the pub and asked if there was any way they could turn it down. Thankfully the man who answered the phone said that would be no problem.

Fifteen minutes later Mr. 218 called down once again. My tone must have given it away that I knew it was him. “You must have caller ID, huh?” he asked.

“Yeah…we do.”

“Listen,” the tension in his voice was growing steadily. Since he had first appeared at the desk ten minutes after check-in he had sounded like a man trying to keep his emotions in check. Now he sounded as though his strained patient demeanor may snap. “I have asked over and over about the noise. Now, the music is off, but there’s a group of what looks like employees just sitting out there and they’re being very loud. Could you go over and speak to them?”

“To the people at Tali’s?”

“Yes. I just think it’s ridiculous to be paying this much and to have to deal with that.”

“Okay…yes. I can certainly go over there and speak to them.” If Mr. 218 could not hear the hesitation in my voice then he was truly dense.

“Thank you, I would greatly appreciate it. It’s just – we’re so unhappy with all of this.”

“I am very sorry about that. I will go over there and see what I can do.”

And so I walked over to Tali’s Pub. On the way a man passed me who looked to be a cook just getting off from Tali’s.

“Hey, Beautiful!” he called. I gave a short wave and smiled. “Where you goin’, Gorgeous?”

“In there.” I pointed at Tali’s.

“Oh yeah I bet you are. You want to come in here?”

I stared at him for a moment. I wanted to say, “Sir, I am wearing a nametag and pantyhose. Do I look like I want to go through this right now?!” Instead I turned and walked into Tali’s.

The restaurant was mostly empty except for a few patrons at the bar. I approached a waitress standing beside the bar.

“I am so sorry about this,” I said, wearing my feelings of discomfort on my sleeve, “but I’m from the Orchid and we’ve had about five noise complaints now and I realize this is not your fault at all, but I just wanted to let you know.”

A small blond woman sitting at the bar spun her chair towards me. “I’m the manager,” she said in a tone that was surprisingly curt and slurred at the same time. “Those people out there are guests.”

“Oh! I had no idea. Honestly, I can’t see anything from the front desk. I’m just going by pure hearsay from the guests and I just wanted to come over basically because that’s what I told this man I would do.”

If someone’s eyes could literally light with fire, then this woman’s did. “You – I have been more than accommodating to you at the Or-chid. You tell your manager that I have a Noise Ordinance that says I can do what I want until 11 p.m.”

“Do you?” This would have actually been very beneficial information when 218 had first started complaining. “That is really great to know because I honestly had no idea.”

“Yeah!” She pointed at me for extra emphasis. “I have a Noise Ordinance that goes until 11 and your manager once came over here while I was hosting a wedding at 9:30 P.M. to ask if we could quiet down.”

“Well he’s not here right now so no one told me to come over except for the guests.”

“I have been more than accommodating to you people.” She clenched the bar tightly. I noticed that her two employees were curiously taking steps in the opposite direction. “You tell your owner that I have always been accommodating to you and I will do it this one last time, but no more. I will do this – for you. For you I will be accommodating this one last time.”

By now I was having an internal heart attack that I had overstepped some major boundary and my own manager would be this upset at me in the morning (although she would be considerably more sober). “I really appreciate that,” I said. “And I am really really sorry about this. I promise I would not be over here had I not just been berated five times.” (I may have over exaggerated a tiny bit.)

“I will accommodate you this one last time.”

As I left, Tali’s two employees mouthed ‘I’m sorry’ to me. Back at the hotel I began writing this entire ordeal on the message pad so that our manager would be aware of the situation. As I debated whether or not to mention that the manager of Tali’s had obviously enjoyed her own bar a bit too much, who should walk into the hotel? Miss Curt Slurring Blonde herself. I greeted her and waited for the verbal blow.

“I just want you to know,” she said, swaying a little, “that that was an eight top out there. Of guests. MY guests. And I made them move to the other side of the patio. For you.” Her eyes began to well with tears and her voice was unsteady.

“Thank you so much for doing that,” I said,

“I should not have had to ask them that,” she responded indignantly. “Those were MY guests and I should have asked them to move like that, but I did. I accommodated you and that is the last time.”

“You are absolutely right. You should not have to do that because your guests obviously come first. I am really really sorry.”

“You tell your manager that I will never do that again.”

“I will make sure she knows and I know she will greatly appreciate it.”

“I should not have had to do that.”

We went through this back and forth a little while longer. Finally, Miss Curt Slur was done and began to walk out of the hotel. She stopped suddenly and clasped her hands together. “Calm down, Tali,” she said to herself, taking deep breaths in and out, “Calm down.” She then opened the door and carefully made her way off of the front porch.

It took a few days, but soon every one of the managers of the Orchid heard about my Tali’s ordeal. I waited to be told that I had been out of line and should have never gone over to the pub in person. Instead one manager told me about the time he went and cut the power cords to Tali’s speakers when her bartender was rude to an Orchid front desk girl. The owner of the hotel was as fascinated as I was about Tali’s love of the word “accommodating.” However, I believe the General Manager said it the best: “Tali likes her alcohol and honestly...” she looked around to make sure no one else was listening. She then leaned closer and whispered, “She’s a real bitch!”

The Egg Family

The Orchid Hotel is one of the more expensive places to stay on Mackinac. I have even been told by many an irate phone caller that it is in fact the most expensive place on Mackinac Island. Whichever may be the case, it is safe to say that about 95% of the Orchid’s guests are fairly wealthy. This, unfortunately, does lead to a certain level of entitlement with many of our guests. When you’re paying anywhere between $500 - $1,000+ for a one night stay I suppose it’s natural to assume that if you ask for something as measly as soy milk for breakfast or a carrot cake at dinner then it will be served to you on a silver plate. However, no matter the request, everything comes down to attitude. If you're nice you'll hopefully get what you want; if you're mean then good luck getting me to send you a bucket of ice promptly.
A few days ago we had two rooms check-in with the same last name. It was obvious this was a family traveling together so when the porters radioed that the Jeff party had arrived I stood at the desk with both registration cards and waited. An Indian man entered the hotel and greeted me as Mr. Jeff. Two young girls came behind him as I showed Mr. Jeff the registration cards.

“I just want to verify that we have you staying for the one night, correct?” I asked.

“Yes, that is correct.”

“And there are three people staying in each room?”

“Yes.”

“May we have the names of the other members in each room?”

Mr. Jeff took the pen from my hand. Because he had made the reservations his was the only name listed on the registration cards. He circled his name on both pieces of paper and wrote “& co.” He handed the papers back to me.

“No,” I said, “I need the actual names of each member staying in each room.”

“I do not know who will be in what room yet.”

“That’s fine. If you could just write all of the names then and we’ll sort the rest out later.”

“It is Jeff and company.”

“Yes, but I need the actual names for security purposes.”

“We are not going to steal anything.” He turned as a girl who looked about my age entered the lobby. I assumed this was one of the four adults we had listed between the two rooms (Mr. Jeff had booked the rooms as each consisting of two adults and one child).

“Oh it’s not about that at all! If we have to evacuate the building for any reason then we want to be able to account for everyone.”

“Here, I’ll take care of this,” the new girl said. She took the pen and papers from me and began writing a series of names.

“Do you evacuate the building often?” Mr. Jeff asked with a note of concern.

“Pretty much never, but it’s something we’re very conscious of,” I said. “It’s better to always be prepared.”

Suddenly, I noticed that during this back-and-forth, other members of the Jeff family had arrived. Our porters Ian and Elliot were bringing in bag after bag and the lobby was a jumble of luggage and people. It was clear everyone in the lobby was related to each other, but I couldn’t discern who was actually staying with us and who wasn’t. A few of the family members began taking the bags out the hotel the moment Ian or Elliot set them down. I hoped they had all just carelessly tagged their suitcases for the Orchid Hotel, but were actually staying elsewhere.

A woman appeared next to the girl who was still writing the names of the six people staying in the two rooms. “You have a breakfast?” the woman asked.

“Yes. It’s a light complimentary breakfast and it’s served from 6:30 to 10 a.m. right over there in the circle porch.”

“You have omelettes?”

“No. It’s just a light breakfast with fresh fruit and homemade pastries. There is a more extensive continental breakfast selection available through room service, but that is at an additional cost.”

“There are no omelettes?”

“I’m not actually sure what is available through the extensive breakfast selection, but you’ll find the menu for that in your room. I believe there is some type of egg dish on it.”

“What are the pastries?” the older girl asked, handing me the two registration cards.

“Mini muffins and different types of breads. It changes everyday.”

“Do you have pancakes?” a little girl asked, straining her neck to look over the desktop.

“No. Not that type of bread. Like banana bread or cranberry and walnuts.”

The mother of the group was looking severely offended now. “So there are no omelettes?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“But it is the weekend...and you will not make us omelettes?”

“No.”

Had my office manager been checking this family in it is quite probable that this woman would have gotten her way and every single member of the Jeff family would have received their own specially made omelette. Unfortunately for Mrs. Omelette I am not quite as accommodating. I handed her a stack of menus. “These are the places on the island that serve breakfast. I am sure one of them will have an omelette.” I then grabbed two room keys and attempted to lead everyone down the hallway.

I got to Room 104 with only the oldest daughter behind me. “Is there only one bed in here?” she asked, looking around the room.

“Yes. The rollaway will be brought in during turn-down service.”

One of the smaller children entered behind me. Another soon followed, struggling with a bag that was more than half his size. Two other children passed as I rounded the corner to lead the next group to their room. The lobby was still a mess of people and bags. My office manager was standing at the front desk. She looked at me as if to say, “What is going on?” as a few other family members grabbed various bags and walked out of the hotel.

I gave up waiting to catch someone’s attention and went down to Room 106. I held the door open and waited for someone to finally leave the lobby. As I stood there, two old women and an old man walked into Room 104, each holding a small duffle bag. Finally, Mr. Jeff walked down the hallway followed by three grown men. I showed them into the small room consisting of a queen bed and a single-person pullout sofa. Mr. Jeff looked around. “We will need a rollaway for this room,” he said.

I pointed at the sofa. “That pulls out and will be made up during turn-down service.”

“Okay, okay. I will tell you if we need another rollaway. Do not disappear.”

I wanted to ask why a room consisting of two adults and one child would need a third bed, but my question was answered as another pair of grandparents walked into Room 106.

When I got back to the office everyone was staring at each other looking aghast. “How many people just went into those rooms?” Trisha, the office manager, asked.

“Hell if I know!” I exclaimed. “People just kept flooding in behind me in each of those rooms.”

“Did he say there were only three in each room.”

“Yep, but he wouldn’t give me names. Just kept saying, ‘And company.’”

Another desk clerk, Bridget, pulled out the two registration cards. “There are more than three names on these,” she said. Upon closer inspection it wasn’t immediately obvious whether the names listed were even first and last names or just two rows of first names.

Mr. Jeff appeared at the front desk. “We will need those rollaways,” he said.

“Mr. Jeff,” Trisha said, putting on her soothing-but-serious voice, “how many people are staying in each room?”

“Three.”

“Only three people sleeping in each room.”

“Three plus children.”

Obviously, the Egg Family was trying to pull a “fast one” over the hotel. We could tell by looking at Mr. Jeff’s reservation that he had called and spoken with someone to book the two rooms. He had therefore been told that each of those rooms could only hold a maximum of three people (children included).

One of the men who had followed Mr. Jeff into 106 approached the desk. “Can we use those couches?” he asked.

“Couches?”

“On that porch.” He was referring to the first floor side porch, which was only available for rooms 102, 104, and 106.

“Oh yes. That porch is only for those of you in those specific rooms.”

“So we can use those couches.”

“Yes...” I wondered what he was actually trying to ask because it was clear he didn’t mean to simply sit on the side porch. “You are sharing it with the other rooms on the first floor,” I added.

“Thank you,” he said as if I had solved some equation for him. I turned to Olga, the Head of Housekeeping. “I think people are going to be sleeping on that porch tonight,” I said.

“They’re probably going to use the cushions and make beds,” Olga replied.

Trisha looked as though she was going into shock. She grabbed the master key, said she was glad the owner of the Orchid was off-island for the weekend, and left.

About an hour later Mrs. Omelette and the eldest daughter came up to the front desk. “The air conditioning in our room doesn’t work,” she said.

“There actually isn’t any air conditioning in those rooms,” I said. Mrs. Omelette looked as though I told her we let horses sleep in her bed.

“What do you mean there is no air conditioning?” Her eyes were intense and threatening, but I was in no mood to make apologizes.

“That is actually very common up here. Many of the hotels do not have any air conditioning. Neither do some restaurants. Even my apartment doesn’t have it. This is Upper Michigan and we really only need it about two weeks out of every year. This weather is unusual for us.”

The mother looked at her daughter with wide eyes. The daughter gave a sharp laugh. “We’re from a different country,” she explained, “that is just unheard of.”

I resisted asking why their registration card listed a Michigan address and using my Cuba-card – you can’t play the “I’m a poor foreigner” game with an international military brat, Eggy!

“So our rooms...have no air conditioning?” Mrs. Omelette repeated in case I hadn’t understood the question.

“I can give you a fan,” I said with perhaps more attitude than I should have.

“Well, there are just so many problems I have with this hotel,” Mrs. Omelette said, stuffing her scarf into a small purse.

“I am sorry to hear that,” I said, trying desperately to lose the sass.

“Like the décor,” the daughter laughed.

“Yes...the décor is interesting.” Mrs. Omelette then cocked her head and raised an eyebrow at me. “And sad.”

I stared at her for a moment, so taken aback by the blatantly antagonizing remark. My mind raced with, “I was just thinking how funny it was that your outfit matched the walls perfectly,” “Everyone has their own tastes, don’t they,” and the standard juvenile, “Your face is sad.” Luckily, I choked down the string of snarky remarks I wanted to respond and instead smiled widely, said, “Thank you so much,” and walked away. When I relayed all of this to my office manager she said that we must simply “kill them with kindness.” I said shutting off their power would be more effective. (I later learned that Room 106 asked for three rollaways at the end of the night. This is not Hogwarts. Where exactly were three twin beds going to fit?)

For as nice and accommodating as Trisha is with every entitled and rude person who walks through our door, there are times when she enacts a very subtle and nearly unnoticeable form of revenge. Right before I left for the day Room 102 checked out early. As usual, they simply did not want to stay in a room without air conditioning, but they were very nice about the entire situation. We were fully booked for the night and didn’t have any air conditioned rooms to upgrade them to so they packed their bags and left for another hotel. This move was most likely for the best because not only would the guests have been sweaty and miserable, but they were the only other room sharing that side porch with the Egg Family. Sometimes when a large family is crammed into a small room, Trisha offers them a complimentary extra room or, if it is available, a suite.

The next morning the Front Desk message pad consisted of only one comment from the night auditor: “Did anyone think to offer R 102 to R’s 104 & 106?”

Apparently not.

It's Gettin' Hot in Here

This week marks my third week on Mackinac Island. Or maybe it's my fourth? Let's be honest, when you're on "island time" the days and weeks seem to become one whole. Thus far the Orchid Hotel has been busier than ever. The staff is about 60% new and 40% 'returners'. Our restaurant is full four out of the seven nights we're open and we have had zero rooms vacant at the hotel on several occasions.

Sadly, the hotel has been slightly lacking in the "interesting characters" category this season although the severe heat wave striking the non-air conditioned Midwest has caused many of our guests to be grumpy and irritable. This has lead me to create The Problem Child(ren) of the Orchid Hotel awards. Already in my short time here I have realized that these awards will have to be given out weekly with maybe even a few Honorable Mentions here and there. Lately, these awards have been given to the people who come to the Front Desk, angry that their room does not have air conditioning (as is common to Mackinac Island hotels/the entire Upper Peninsula), and demand an upgrade. As mentioned above, often this upgrade to a waterfront room with air conditioning is simply not possible because we have no vacant rooms. This led one couple to angrily slam their key on the desk and stomp out of the hotel without ever checking out and another to ask to speak to management at least once every half hour.

However, there are those Problem Children recipients who I believe would have earned their award whether the temperature was a blazing 92 or a cool 70 degrees. Take the Hildebrands for example. From the moment they checked in they had something to complain about. As one of my co-workers, Rachel, welcomed the Hildebrands to the Orchid Hotel Mrs. Hildebrand asked if they had a waterfront room. Rachel explained to them that they had booked a Gardenside room and that we were full for the night and had no other rooms to even let them consider. The Hildebrands were not happy. They had booked their reservation online and had either not understood the term "Gardenside" or perhaps thought we were at liberty to upgrade everyone. Rachel showed them to their room and listened as they complained about the view, size of the room, and then gasped at how they could possibly be expected to stay in a room without air conditioning.

Over the next two nights Mrs. Hilderbrand continued to nitpick everything about the hotel: turn-down service started too late, why was there no ice machine (we have it sent to your room), why did they have to pay full-rate for their son who wanted to spontaneously join them the next day, etc etc. Typically these complaints went to poor Rachel. One evening, Rachel was on the phone when Mrs. Hildebrand came up to the desk. Thinking Rachel probably needed a break, I got up and greeted Mrs. Hildebrand. "I've been working with her," she said coldly, pointing at Rachel through the small glass window. "Oh," I responded, a bit hurt that she wasn't even going to give me the opportunity to try and assist her. I suppose I should have thanked her because for the next half hour she gave Rachel flack about trying to book the room for her son and his girlfriend who had suddenly decided to join them. (And she demanded a rollaway to be put in the room because an extra bed will certainly keep premarital sex from happening.)

On their last evening with us, Mrs. Hildebrand came up to the desk once again and was kind enough to speak to me. "There's a man on the rocks behind your restaurant with his pants down," she said. "You need to call management because it's inappropriate." Her son was with her and added, "There are children out there."

"Certainly," I responded. "I'll call our night manager right now."

Now, knowing Mrs. Hildebrand's M.O. I assumed some young kid was climbing around on the rocks and was wearing pants that sagged below his butt. However, I knew not calling our night manager would do more harm than good so I dialed Trey's cellphone number.

"Hello, Hotel."

"Trey, a guest just complained that there's a man behind the restaurant with his pants down."

"..." (Trey isn't exactly a prude and doesn't really care what people are doing as long as they are not destroying the hotel.)

"She's a guest who complains a lot and I think she's just going to get really uppity if she doesn't see someone checking," I explained. "She just said a guy has his pants down and that it's inappropriate."

"Alright, I'll go take a look."

Ten minutes later Trey entered the hotel looking perplexed. I was on the phone so Rachel relayed exactly what Mrs. Hildebrand and Hildebrand Jr. had said to me. I saw Mrs. Hildebrand walk in and tried to point to her through the office window so that Trey wouldn't make one of his normal snarky remarks. Mrs. Hildebrand pointed out the window and then took Trey with her to show him exactly what was going on. Rachel and I watched as the Hildebrand clan lined up against the fence bordering the park next to the hotel. They were all pointing at the lake. Rachel and I went into the owner's office so that we could see what they were pointing at. Nothing. What the hell was going on?

We sat back at our desks and joked about how much Trey was obviously enjoying all of this. We waited for him to return and tell us what morons the Hildebrands were, but as the minutes passed he never did. Suddenly we heard a commotion in the front lobby.

"Can you see them?" a guest coming down the stairs asked a couple sitting in the glassed-in porch.

"We just saw the girl," the woman in the chair responded.

"It doesn't look good," the sitting man said.

"His pants were down and everything!" exclaimed the woman who was now off the stairs and careening her neck to see a spot in the lake.

Rachel and I were fed up. I leaned over the desk, "What exactly is happening?" I asked. "We can't see anything back here, but we just keep hearing about a guy with his pants down behind the restaurant."

"Not the restaurant," Sitting Man responded, "they're on the break wall."

For my non-coastal living readers, break walls are barriers set up along shorelines as a defense against rough waves. Sometimes these are large cinder blocks or, like on Mackinac Island, they are gigantic (almost five to six feet tall) rocks. While technically these rocks are behind the Orchid's restaurant, the break wall is actually located about seven or so yards from the hotel and sits about three to four yards from the shore. These were definitely not the rocks I thought Mrs. Hildebrand had been talking about.

Rachel and I dashed into the owner's office once again. Finally we could see everything: the crowd of people watching the activity occurring at the break wall, the two cops standing at the edge of the shoreline, and a man in a bright green shirt wading back to dry land. We wondered what he was doing out there by himself and then we saw the top of a woman's head from behind one of the massive break wall rocks. As soon as she hit the water it was obvious Home Girl (as we termed her) was not having a good time. She stumbled a bit, but managed to keep herself from face planting into the cold water. At first we thought she was perhaps not coordinated in the water and walking on the slippery rocks. When she finally reached dry land, however, we could see that too much water was not Home Girl's problem. While one of the cops talked to Home Boy the other tried desperately to keep Home Girl upright. Even from yards away Rachel and I could see her hysterical tears as her body wobbled violently to and fro. We looked over to the fence where the Hildebrands looked on scornfully. Trey was grinning ear to ear.

The owner's office can neither see nor hear what is happening at the front desk so Rachel and I took shifts to keep each other updated.

"Home Girl is on the ground now," Rachel said. "Oh oh, and now she's puking. Oh man. The cop is just standing over her. Come on, at least hold her hair back or something."

Switch.

"Okay she's standing now," I reported, "and whoa she's pissed. We've got arms flying everywhere. Oh yeah, she is not happy." I opened the window. "I can't hear what she's saying, but I can tell she's yelling."

Switch.

"Now they're both on the ground. Oh, Home Girl's trying to get up. Nope - she's down again."

Switch.

"The Hildebrands are at a picnic table giving their statements to a cop. Good god, I bet this has just made their night."

Switch.

"Home Girl is puking again. Where are her shoes? Where are either of their shoes?"

Switch.

"There are a lot more people gathered around now. They're both sitting and the cop is doing something behind Home Girl's back...there's no way they're cuffing them. Are they cuffing them?"

They were. I called Rachel over and we watched as Home Boy and Girl did the walk-of-shame across the point and straight into a police cruiser. Mackinac Island is a no-cars allowed town with the only exception being emergency and construction vehicles. When the cop cars come out you know something serious is going down. For this circumstance the SUV cruiser seemed a bit overkill, but with the strength one of the cops was using to keep Home Girl on her feet it was clear the car was not due to the severity of the crime, but the fact that one of the two delinquents probably could not make the quarter of a mile walk to the police station. Poor Home Girl sobbed and yelled all the way into the car.

When Trey finally appeared back in the office he was like a kid on Christmas; he absolutely loves when people make fools of themselves (and being Mackinac's Fire Chief he's always one of the first to know when someone is making a fool of themselves). He filled in the rest of the story for us: Home Boy did not just had his pants down on the break wall. He and Home Girl had been up against on of the rocks having sex. Now, I should mention that this was not happening at 10 or 11 at night. Oh no. The entire ordeal spanned from about 7:45 to 9pm. The sun does not even begin setting until 9:30pm. Home Boy and Girl did it against the rocks for all of the world to see (they could have at least been smart enough to lay down between the rocks and try to shield themselves) and even had children throwing rocks at them to make them stop (hence the "there are children out there" observation). I swear you cannot make this stuff up (well...you can, but isn't it so much better knowing that it's all real?).

Nearing the end of my shift (Rachel left at 10pm and I continued on until midnight) Trey suddenly burst through the office door. His eyes were wide with excitement and he smiled like the Grinch after he took all of Whoville's Christmas presents. "Georgia, it gets better!" he cackled. I waited as he caught his breath. The man was literally giddy with whatever news he had just ascertained from one of his cop buddies.

"So, we have shipped Home Boy over to the mainland because not only does he already have a string of priors on his record, but there is a felony arrest warrant out for him." I started to gasp. "Wait," Trey said, "it gets better. Home Girl is only twenty so we obviously gave her an MIP [Minor in Possession] AND..." he paused, giving the punchline the weight it deserved, "Home Boy and Home Girl are HALF brother and sister."

"WHAT?!"

"That is the BEST shit I have ever heard!"

"That sounds like something that should happen in my area of the country."

"Doesn't it?! Oh my god I love my job sometimes."

And thus ends our tale of The Break Wall Bangers.  

When There's No More Mishegas

While talking to a friend the other day I lamented how it had been over a month since I last had a blog post. "I just have nothing to write about," I said. 

"Anymore crazies on the train?" she asked. 

 "Not really. Just this guy who likes to go into a corner and yell at himself while throwing himself against the walls." He and I have ridden the train together on several occasions. 

Suddenly it hit me. I talked about him like that was totally natural: a very disturbed young man who gets into an absolute rage, starts screaming at the empty space around him and slamming his body into the car walls. The first time I was on a train with him I was understandably concerned, but after a few stops went by and no one on the train seemed particularly upset I was able to tune him out. When Yelling Man was on my train a week later my only thought was to turn up my music. The crazies are no longer seen as special enough to warrant my attention or to even write about! It's time to leave, ladies and gentlemen. I am clearly too acclimated. 

When I first arrived in Chicago everything fascinated me. The people on the train, protestors on the street, the quick and determined way everyone moved around on the sidewalks and in their cars. Now, I am one of them. I don't give a second look to the afro-engulfed woman, constantly shouting profanity, who is staked out around the corner from Heartbeat Theatre. I don't question the man who walks around downtown Evanston rapping about how caffeine will kill us all (and I typically get his songs stuck in my head). And I try to act like I am talking on my phone when I see someone in my path who is clad in some sort of uniform, holding a clipboard, and smiling right at me (although I did give $2 to the Gay Rights Campaign today because that girl was very persistent and I am weak to a cause I care so much about!). 

I know it is not a bad thing to grow comfortable in one's home, but to an aspiring travel writer in her early twenties who is still seeking compelling material no longer noticing the oddities of a place is deadly (in a writer's block kind of way). Therefore, I am heading back up to Mackinac Island for the summer to work at my beloved Orchid Hotel where I will hopefully come away with as many entertaining stories as I did before. Life will be a bit different on the island this year. I will not arrive until the end of June and I will be there until the season closes at the end of October. I have also recently learned that I am able to live with one of my best friends for a good part of the season and I can only imagine that hilarious and possible hazardous events will ensue. I will certainly miss the friends I made on the island last year who will not be returning this summer, but I have my fingers crossed that I will still meet some fun and interesting people. What will I do after my time on the island? Who the hell knows...but while I postpone thinking about my future even longer I will entertain you with a story from the past month and a half: 

Towards the beginning of last month I was invited to a college friend's birthday get together. It was at a bar far from any train stop in Wrigleyville so I took a bus there. The bus ride itself wasn't terribly eventful and I watched the blinking blue dot on my phone's Google Map the entire way so as not to miss my stop. At one point I looked to my left and a person in very detailed skeletal makeup was leaning over the empty seat next to me. I somehow managed not to jump at this unexpected sight and turned back around to stare at my dot. 

Finally, the next road was the one I needed. I pulled the lever, walked to the front of the bus, and then watched as the bus driver sailed past the stop. What the hell? I looked at him, but he made no notice of me. In the rear view mirror I could see Skeletal staring intently at street signs. She sprang forth suddenly and yanked on the lever. The driver stopped immediately and Skeletal and I disembarked. We were about five blocks from where I needed to be so I began walking in the direction of my original stop. Skeletal walked in front for a few paces before darting into an unmarked bar. It was then that I noticed a lot of Skeletals walking on the sidewalk. Their makeup and outfits were so exaggerated and Tim Burton-esque that I couldn't figure out if they were serious or costumes. 

Upon walking into the designated birthday bash bar my immediate reaction was to run. Hearing someone is going to have a party at a bar brings to mind crowded mingling and music so loud you can't understand the name of everyone you are being introduced to. To me, this sounds like the ideal social situation to show up to alone when the only other party goers you know are the birthday boy and his girlfriend. Instead, the party consisted of about four tables that had been dragged together banquet style. Guests were seated on either side and it was very apparent that everyone was part of a couple. Being the only single attendee it was my infinite pleasure to take a seat at the head of the table. Making this situation even more joyous was the fact that to my right sat a boy and girl who came to this shindig as a first date and on my left was a couple who had only recently become official. I ordered a drink before even taking off my coat. 

Mercifully, my roommate Cassie* decided to be my "plus one." By the time she arrived everyone was a few drinks in and becoming quite chatty. The boy on the first date was not having a great experience and each time his date left to use the loo he would lean to me and say, "Is my humour too crass? I feel like I'm scaring her with the off-colour jokes and profanity." 

"I think your jokes are funny," I assured him. 

"I know! I wish she was laughing as much as you! I think she's too much of a good-girl." Thank you? 

When the party ended and everyone began to go their separate ways, Cassie and I were invited to hangout at another party goer's apartment. We agreed and all set off to catch the brown line. While on the brown line Cassie had the wise revelation that if we did not head back home right then we would miss the last purple line to Evanston. She got off the brown line abruptly and I had sense enough to follow because somewhere in my clouded mind I thought, "Best not to lose my roommate after three drinks. We boarded a red line heading north. 

As usual, the red line was crowded, but we were able to find two sideways-facing seats. At the next stop an extremely intoxicated college student entered the car and plopped into one of the forward-facing seats directly to mine and Cassie's right. His loud volume and swaying body caused the person next to him to move to the back of the train. Unperturbed, the drunk student spread out across both seats. He turned to Cassie, "That guy thought I was too loud." 

"You are a bit loud," she answered good-humouredly. 

 "But now I got these seats allllll to myself!" 

 "It's good to spread out." 

"Do you want to scare off your seatmate? I can show you how." 

I leaned forward and smiled at the drunkard. "Hello." 

"No," Cassie responded, "I think I'll keep my seatmate." 

"Oh! Well she's a pretty seatmate." He widened his eyes to look more sincere. "If I had a seatmate like her I wouldn't want to scare her off either." 

"You've got some glitter on your face," Cassie observed. 

"Ah yeah. I got glitter bombed by some dudes at this party." 

 "It's kind of all over." 

 "Got hit real hard." 

Directly across from Cassie and me was Zach Galifianakis's twin. He was wearing a purple baja and held a phone closely to his ear while watching everyone from the corners of his eyes. Across from Glitter was a young downtrodden man with his head in his hands, who was swaying dangerously to and fro. I looked around at the other occupants of the train. There was a man in slight business attire holding a Starbucks bag (I wanted to know what Starbucks was opened this late). By the back door stood an extremely curvy woman in petite clothing who was hanging onto a man I could only assume was her boyfriend or soon to be one-night-stand. I wondered if I looked as outwardly inebriated to these people as Glitter did. No one else on the train seemed as unsteady on their feet as I felt. To be fair, however, I was not swaying as Gumby-like as Glitter and I was fortunate to be sitting. My dumb smile was perhaps the only thing giving me away. Then again, to smile on the CTA only makes you look either like a tourist or mentally unstable. 

Luckily, my rum-and-coke-induced smile was to be upstaged when the downtrodden man across from us turned out not to be sad or tired, but sick. He began spewing pink foam onto the floor. Like a machine, half of the car around us sprang from their seats and huddled around the front door. Their terrified looks as they "sardined" themselves into a few feet of space would make one think this man was wielding a weapon instead of a stomach obviously too full of alcohol. 

 "Dude," Glitter said, "you're sick, dude." The man ignored this observation and continued to puke. "You should get off the train, dude. You're throwing up." Suddenly, the voluptuous woman in Barbie's clothing came strutting in between Glitter and Sir Sick A Lot. "Is he botherin' you?" she asked forcefully. 

"No, I'm just pointing out that he's sick." "IS HE bo-ther-in' you?" 

"No. I just think maybe he should get off the train if he's sick." 

"He ain't none of your concern, okay? He ain't puking on you." 

"No, but I just don't think he should be on the train like -" 

"You just mind yer own business, okay? He ain't botherin' you -- he ain't botherin' nobody, okay?" 

Magically, Sir Sick A Lot was standing beside Hoochie Mama like he hadn't just emptied the contents of his stomach for the last eight minutes. "What's your problem?" he said to Glitter. 

"I don't have a problem!" Glitter threw his hands in the air. "I was just saying that you're sick." 

"What's your deal, man, huh? You got a problem?" 

Hoochie Mama's boyfriend decided to join in the fray as well. He made his way to her side, which was right in front of Cassie and me. "Dude," he said to Glitter, trying to put on a friendly smile, "just stop talking." 

"I was just saying he was sick!" Glitter protested. 

"You want me to punch you in your face?" Sir Sick asked. "Cause I'll do it. I'll punch you in your motherfuckin' face." 

"I don't want you to punch me in my face." 

"Dude, just stop talking," the boyfriend advised again. A bottle of vodka dropped from his pants. "Opps," he said, picking it up and stuffing it in a pocket once more. I could see another bottle sticking out of a pocket on the inside of his coat. 

"I'm just saying that he was sick and now I'm about to get punched in the face." 

Cassie leaned over to Glitter. "You should just stop talking." 

"I'm gonna punch you in your motherfuckin' face," Sir Sick repeated. 

 "If that's what will make you feel better." Glitter crossed his arms across his chest. 

Hoochie Mama and Sir Sick became a cluster of "He wasn't even botherin' you" and "I'm gonna punch you in your face." Around this time I suddenly noticed a severe lack of passengers on the train. Baja Man and Starbucks were still here as well as another young guy, but I could have sworn there had been more. 

"Dude, you got glitter on your face," Alcohol Pants pointed out, still smiling pleasantly. 

"I got glitter bombed." 

"I'm just pointing out that you got glitter all over your face." 

"Well at least I'm not the one puking on the train." 

The smile faded. "Now you're just being a smart ass." 

Hoochie Mama took a seat beside Glitter and convinced Sir Sick and Alcohol Pants to go to the front of the train. "I got this," she called. It was not clear what she had, but she continued to say that until finally joining both of the men at the front of the train. She soothed and petted each of them, changing her boast to, "It ain't worth it. It ain't worth it." Everyone left on the train remained silent until all four of them - Hoochie Mama, Alcohol Pants, Sir Sick and Glitter - departed at Loyola. 

As soon as the doors shut Galifianakis Jr said into his phone, "Did you get all that?" Starbucks looked over at Cassie and me and said, "I cannot believe they all got off at the same stop." 

"I know!" I had been bursting with this exclamation since the doors closed. "That boy is a dead man." 

"He should have just ridden the train one more stop and then come back down." 

"My friend recorded the whole thing," Galifianakis said to Cassie, gesturing at his phone. "I do recordings and we're going to put that in something." 

"Oh." 

"Here's my card. Add me on Facebook." He handed the card to Cassie. It was bright yellow with buttons crafted into flowers in the background. The card read: "Sid Yiddish. Actor, Poet, Writer, Throat Singer, Mishegas."(I later looked up this last word and found that it is Yiddish for "Insanity or craziness"...Clever, Sid.) 

 Finally, we reached the Howard station. Cassie's original concern about missing the purple line turned out to be apt. We had missed the last one of the night by two minutes. Thankfully, Cassie often works late in downtown Chicago and has found herself in this predicament on more than one occasion (until this night I had only experienced this once and practically sprinted the 1.8 miles back to my car because the Howard District terrifies me so). 

We left the train platform and headed downstairs where we found a bus that would take us within a few blocks of our apartment. Unfortunately, the bus was not leaving for a half hour (making the departure at 2:30am). Cassie and I took a seat inside the bus. We were shortly followed by Sid, Starbucks, and the other young guy from our same car. Starbucks turned to us and said, "So you ladies survived the festivities, eh?" We had indeed.

I Plead the Fifth

My position as an Artistic Administration Intern at Heartbeat Theatre requires me to float between all of the administration departments. Since starting in January it has been apparent that my primary interests are in Development and I now basically go between Front of House duties and helping the Director of Development, Tad*, plan for our annual benefit. Thus far, the majority of this planning involves researching and soliciting possible donors for live auction prizes and raffle items. Most of the time I look up a place in Chicago, fill-out a letter of appeal, give it to Tad to sign, and then I post it. Other times, however, Tad and I go door to door with our letters, hoping an in-person interaction will prove more fruitful.

Yesterday, Tad and I drove to my neck of the woods to visit some of the popular shops and spas in downtown Evanston. Whenever we drive somewhere we take the Heartbeat shuttle and Tad drives. I have to admit that Tad is one of a handful of people who makes me slightly nervous when they drive. He doesn't pay much attention to other drivers and every now and then I so doubt his ability to brake that I find myself doing the parental "invisible brake" move.

Our drive started out as it always does: Tad backed out of the Heartbeat driveway and I braced myself for the inevitable impact with the cement wall across the narrow cobble-stoned road. Thankfully I was proven wrong once again and we headed into the city to pick up a candle-filled gift bag. We got the gift and then made our way to Lake Shore Drive. On the way we encountered an intersection with downed lights. The woman in front of us was not a terribly assertive driver and let about five cars go before she finally took her turn. When she did, Tad plowed on behind her much to the surprise of two other cars: one which was attempting to turn in front of us and another which got about a foot away from my passenger side door.

"Why are they honking?" Tad asked. "That lady went and no one seemed to mind."

I should mention that, like me, Tad is a fellow military brat. However, unlike my military brat life, Tad's overseas experience was spent in the Middle East as the son of a diplomat. Tad's family had their own driver and Tad only came to the States to attend a college in Chicago. Basically, Tad has had little experience driving his own car. I explained to Tad how powerless intersections became four-way stops. I am not quite confident that the next time he'll actually follow that rule, but maybe he'll at least not question the dirty looks from the other drivers.

We arrived in Evanston and Tad pulled up in front of the first business we were to solicit. Neither of us had enough change for more than thirty minutes at a meter and we wanted to save that for the row of businesses on the main drag. I hopped out of the car and found that the place was closed. I got back into the car and we headed a few blocks west. I pointed to the awning of the next store that was on our list. There were two cars parallel parked out front with enough space between them for the Heartbeat shuttle. "I'll wait in here," Tad said as he started to pull between the two cars. I watched anxiously as the side of the shuttle seemed to near the front of the parked white Lexus. We can make it, we can make it, I thought.

SCRAAAAPPPPPP - BOOM!

We didn't make it. Tad turned to me suddenly. "Did we just hit that car?!" I thought the sound and vibration through the shuttle had made the answer very obvious, but I craned my neck anyways to inspect the damage. All I saw was the curb and Tad turned the shuttle back towards the road. "I'm not sure," I said, "but it sounds like we did."

"Oh my god. Did we -- oh my god." Tad's eyes were wide and he looked from the wheel to the rear-view mirror.

"Maybe it was just the headlight," I offered. "Cars can make a lot of noise even when there's no real damage."

"Oh my god." Tad was looking over his left shoulder.

"I had a car fly past me once and they were so close that the sound sounded like he had just scraped all the paint off my car."

Tad pulled back into traffic. "We just hit that car...can you see a dent?" I wasn't sure if he meant the shuttle or the Lexus. We were now a block and a half away from the Lexus so I tried to look at the side of the shuttle.

"I can't tell," I said, watching the Lexus disappear completely from view. "Are we...we're not going to stop?"

"I can't believe I just hit that car. It's probably not that bad, right?"

"Probably not. Are we really not stopping?"

"Oh god. I think I saw a silver streak left on the car." We paused at a red light. "Are the rest of the shops north?" Tad asked.

"...Yes...we're really not stopping?" I felt dumbfounded. The side of the shuttle read "Heartbeat Theatre Shuttle" from wheel to wheel. The owner of the Lexus wouldn't have even needed to run out and read our license plate. The shuttle literally spelled out the name of the streak-leaving culprit.

I couldn't tell if Tad had stopped answering me because he wanted to ignore the situation or because he was that petrified. A typically self-assured man, I had never seen him so at a loss for words and indecisive.

He turned north on a street a few blocks away from my apartment. "Do you think we damaged that car?" he asked.

"Pull over here and I'll check the shuttle," I said. "If we left paint on their car then it has to be missing from ours."

Tad pulled over. I checked the rear-view mirror, only slightly paranoid that the owner of the Lexus might have seen the incident and followed us on a warpath. I mean, that's what I would have done if I had seen someone hit my car. Luckily, there was no paint missing from the side of the shuttle. Not even a scratch! There was, however, a small dent in the side door. A ten year old shuttle, Tad and I were not completely certain as to whether that dent had already been there or not.

We spent the next hour handing out appeal letters and walking from shop to shop in downtown Evanston. By 4pm we had only four letters, one of which was addresses to the business where the white Lexus had been parked. Tad and I stared at the letter for a moment. "Do you think we should go back?" Tad asked. I knew he meant only to deliver the letter, not to apologize to the Lexus owner. I fully believed that he would have dropped me off around the corner from the business and waited for me, safe from view. "Let's just post it," I said.

I realize that this story makes Tad sound like a horrible person who does not take responsibility for his actions. This is not true. As I said earlier, Tad's reaction to the hit-and-run took me completely by surprised. In the past three months I have known him as a thoughtful, upstanding, and confident person, who is not afraid to admit when he is wrong. It was not until after Tad had dropped me off at my apartment that the true cause of Tad's panic hit me: there is a very high probability that he does not possess a U.S. drivers license. Having spent his entire high school career in the Middle East being driven around by an armed guard, I am unsure as to whether he has any type of drivers license at all. Like me, Tad is in his early twenties and needs an ID to order a drink, but age can be demonstrated by a passport, too. I had ordered drinks with Tad once while hosting a Bingo benefit for Heartbeat. I could not recollect what he had shown as his ID. Actually, now that I think about it, I don't think either of us were even carded that night.

As the Heartbeat shuttle drove down my street I thought about how often I needed to show my drivers license for one reason or another, but how each of those instances could have been satisfied with a passport. Maybe Tad had a military ID. That would show his age and have the hologram to prove it wasn't a fake. The shuttle yielded briefly at a stop sign before speeding through the intersection. I watched until it was more than a block away. I wanted to make sure he didn't hit my car.