Cupcake Whores (Warning: Very Explicit Language)

Working part time as a barista and shuttle driver has allowed me to nurse and grow a love of people-watching. During my shifts as a shuttle driver I simply sit in Heartbeat’s parking lot (located 6-ish blocks away from Heartbeat) and wait for someone to park their car and get into the van. Sometimes I will sit in the parking lot for two hours and not have a single “shuttlee.” While this may sound boring, the hours go by swiftly thanks to the characters on the street. This is going to sound super voyeuristic, but it is fascinating the things people will do when they think no one is watching.

One man crossed paths with an attractive young woman. A few steps after they had passed one another the man turned, stared at the woman’s ass, and gave an approving smile. He turned around just in time to run into a large low-lying limb. He let out a guttural yell, threw his hands above his head, and kicked one leg into the air. Regaining his balance, he looked to make sure no one was watching. I pretended I had been staring at my lap the whole time.

On another occasion I watched as three teenage boys walked in between a few parked cars that were located diagonally from the van. They circled each car carefully until a white BMW caught their full attention. The boys peered into the car’s windows and even looked under the car. After about ten minutes of this they finally thought to look and see if anyone was watching them. Their eyes stopped on the shuttle van and I smiled and waved.  

Caribou, however, provides more fascinating people-watching because I can actually hear their dialogue. After working at Caribou for a month and a half I have observed one thing: people choose to meet in a coffee shop for almost anything, even meet-ups that should be in a private location. Last week we had a mini birthday party in our lounge with the fake fireplace. One couple came in every night for a week and interviewed a new nanny every day (and they brought their child with them, which was an unfortunate choice because he tried to destroy something each night). A man came into the store the other night, ordered a cup of decaf coffee, and then sat and stared at the wall for an hour. Literally. He did not pull out his phone, he didn’t not scribble notes or even drink his coffee. He simply sat and stared. He thanked my coworker and I for the coffee and then left.

One afternoon I got off of Caribou at 5 p.m. and decided to kill an hour and a half before I was to meet some family members for dinner at a restaurant down the road. I took a seat in a back corner of the store and pulled out my laptop. I gave my best friend a call to catch up. As we chatted, a man who looked to be in his late twenties entered Caribou, wheeling a suitcase behind him. He paid for a drink and took a seat at the table directly in front of me. I finished my call with my friend and plugged earphones into my laptop. An attractive blond woman entered the store and bee-lined to Suitcase Man’s table.  She sighed heavily and let her purse drop with a loud thump onto the empty seat. It was clear that she was pissed.

I began searching for a song in my iTunes. I sampled a few, but couldn’t decide which Broadway musical I was in the mood for. Between each song I heard snippets of the couple’s conversation:

“How was your trip?” 

“Fine.”

Drowsy Chaperone? No.

“Good day at work?”

“Not really.”

Tarzan? Nah.

“I’m glad we finally got some snow.”

Company?

“I just want to know how the FUCK you could lie to me like that.”

Eh?

My interest was piqued. In my freshman year of college I took a Playwriting class. The professor gave us a weekly assignment to listen in on conversations and transcribe what we heard. The exercise was meant to teach us how everyone has their own specific speech pattern. Without thinking, I started a new page on the Word document I had previously been working on and began typing the dialogue that began to transpire.

“You laid in the same bed as me,” the girl said, her voice not rising, but full of vehemence. “You looked me in the eye. You looked me in the eye as we laid in bed together and you lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie to you.”

“Well you didn’t tell me, did you?”

“Well no –“

“I would have liked to know when you were coming home on Sunday.”

“I didn’t come home on Sunday.”

“Yeah. Would have been nice if you had texted that to your fucking girlfriend.” Angry Girl was all about emphasizing her words. Suitcase Man simply sat and took the anger. I found myself automatically siding with him, the weaker party.

“We’ve been dating for over two and a half years,” Angry Girl continued, “and you’ve boiled it down to this. Literally you are horrible. I can’t believe you did this to me. You just had to say, ‘Tasha, I’m having a really hard time. I feel like I’m not getting enough love and attention.’”

“I tried.”

“Yeah, grabbing my boobs is one thing, but maybe try opening your fucking mouth.”

“That’s not fair.”

“What’s her name?”

Oh shit! I momentarily left the confrontation to type this information to my boyfriend who had started Instant Messaging me. When I returned it was like being thrown into an episode of Days of Our Lives.

“My mother had just died,” Angry Girl said. “I was going to therapy. It was nothing personal. I went over to his place after the funeral and cuddled. Okay, yeah. I liked it. You weren’t there; I needed someone.” (She began speaking faster and angrier so I began to lose what pronouns she was using at times.) Suitcase mumbled something and Angry Girl responded, “I was always attracted to you. I was never thinking about other guys.” Suitcase mumbled some more. “You were dressing up nice for work!” Angry Girl retorted. “You were flirting with her and she was baking you cupcakes. I mean, if you’re just eating another woman’s cupcakes that’s just fucking disrespectful.”

“The cupcakes didn’t mean anything.”

“When we first got together you told me how cheating was a big deal to you. Your dad cheated on your mum and they got divorced; your brother cheated on his girlfriend who he then proposed to; and then your girlfriends cheated on you – I mean what the fuck? Now you go and start dating someone else while you’re still dating me?”

“We weren’t dating.”

“Sorry – fucking. You started fucking some other girl while we were still fucking.”

            “Everyone cheats on each other.”

           “Everyone cheats on each other? Pieces of shit in your head. Literally all you had to do was open your mouth one time.” (Suitcase mumbled something inaudible.) “You’re moving to North Carolina?” Angry asked. “When?”

“I dunno. Two months probably. I’ll stay at Rob’s place until I go.”

“Where are you going in North Carolina?”

“Wilmington.”

“You’re just going to up and leave? Things get a little hard and you just move?”

“It’s what I do.”

“Which is why you moved here from LA.”

“Yeah.”

“What the fuck, man? You are seriously fucked up. You just run from place to place.”

“Yep.”

“I will put your stuff in trash bags and leave it at the front desk,” Angry responded.

“I’m traveling for business tomorrow.” Suitcase’s tone became suddenly defensive.

Angry crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. “Okay.”

“You have all of my suits. I need those for presentations.”

“I’ll put them in a garbage bag and leave them at the front desk when I get around to it. Probably won’t be by tomorrow, though.”

“I need those suits. You can’t just hold my clothes hostage.”

“I could throw them out the fucking window, but I thought I’d be better than that.”

“Come on, just let me come up and grab a few things. That’s all I need. I need my suits, Tasha. I can’t go on a business trip without suits.”

“Go buy one.”

Now Suitcase was really pissed. “I’m gonna call the police and tell them you’re holding my stuff!”

“If you can afford to take this girl to Mexico, you can afford a new outfit for work.”

“Goddamnit, I didn’t take her to Mexico.”

“No, you two just kept planning your business trips at the same time. I wanted to go to Mexico, you know. I asked if I could go and you said it was a ‘guys only’ trip.

“I didn’t want you to go.”

“Well it’s fucking obvious why now. It was just you and your whore.”

“You can’t hold my stuff hostage for a fucking week!” Suitcase was getting so upset I wondered if he was about the get physical. “Just give me one piece of clothing!”

Angry studied her nails. “Okay...I’ll have to see what I can find,” she said nonchalantly.

“Can I have my computer, too?” Angry didn’t respond and continued to look at her nails in an approving manner. “Please? You’re really being horrible.” (Ha! Hello, Pot, this is Kettle. I believe you’ve met.)

“Are you kidding me?”

“Hey,” Suitcase threw his hands in the air, “I’m the one being civil here.” (Stupid, stupid man.)

“You’re being civil? This is civil? You just feel bad that you were caught!”

“I’m a fucking piece of shit. I get it.”

“You’re dating another girl.”

“We’re not dating!”

“You went to Mexico together.”

“That wasn’t a date! It was just a trip – you say you were attracted to me, but how was I supposed to know? You didn’t want to have sex! You were always pissed off.”

“I was going through the worst fucking tragedy of my life. I lost my mother and my best friend, I mean that’s something the really only happens once in your life so I’m pretty sure things were going to get better if you had just waited.”

I was finally so invested in this conversation and relationship that I fought the urge to get up and just call the guy an asshole to his face. I thought about texting one of my coworkers to bring Angry Girl a free drink.

“Everyone’s parents die,” Suitcase said.

“Not when you’re in your twenties! You seemed so much more than just sex when we began dating.”

“We drifted apart.”

(The next few moments of the conversation were to low and hurried for me to hear, but I caught that Angry Girl found out about the affair because she didn’t know when Suitcase was coming back from his business trip. She went into his email to find his flight itinerary and instead found a plethora of emails from Tori Murphy: aka Cupcake Whore.)

“I thought about putting your laptop in the sink,” Angry said, staring daggers at Suitcase. “But I decided to take the classy route.”

“Thanks.”

“I threw away all of your corks, though. We were collecting them to make a table together. I threw yours away.”

“Okay.”

They were silent for a while. Angry was still leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, staring at Suitcase, who sat hunched and staring at his hands in his lap. “I hate you,” Angry finally said. “You suck.”

“Yeah.”

“And unlike me, your girlfriend is ugly and has an eating disorder.”

And with that, Angry agreed to grab a few of Suitcase’s clothes from her closet while he waited in the lobby.

Two days later, Angry Girl walked into Caribou and searched through our rack of cards. I waited for her to come up to the counter and thought about giving her a free drink. I knew that the gesture would probably reveal what a creeper I had been in listening to (and transcribing!) her break-up, but I decided it was a risk worth taking. If our roles had been reversed I certainly would appreciated a free drink! Unfortunately, she decided she couldn’t find the card she wanted and left.

It’s a shame I never got a good look at Suitcase’s face. I’d like to cough into his next drink or give him 2% milk when he asks for skim. Taste my vengeance!

It Shall Not Be Brewed!

Wow. It has been over two months since I last wrote a blog post! Time sure flies when you're waiting for the pieces of your life to fall into place.

Sadly, since I last forced myself to sit down and write in my blog nothing much has really occurred in my life. I applied to grad school, gained a third pseudo roommate (a friend from Georgia who is trying to begin a new life in Chicago -- in other news, I no longer have a living room), participated in a three-week long storytelling festival, started a new part-time job, and (drum roll) left my apprenticeship at United Theatre Company. The short explanation for leaving United is that they grievously abuse their unpaid interns. And by "abuse" I mean they do not respect our (unpaid/volunteer) time, have those of us with a car spend our own gas money running pointless errands, and really just use us as grunt work. I had been warned by several theatre friends that United was notorious for this type of behaviour and that if I ever felt I was being taken advantage of then the Chicago theatre community would understand. After being instructed to drive around the Loop on my day off, denied the free time to go to a paid-job interview, and told I had to make up a sick day when I called in with a fever -- well it didn't take long for me to stop and think, "Umm I'm not even being paid for this and I am miserable." It was also clear that the Board had the Gala already planned and they only needed me to fill in a few gaps and basically do tedious paper work. Having already gained that experience at Heartbeat Theatre (and in a much more appreciative atmosphere!) I decided United was not worth my time and raised blood pressure.

Leaving this apprenticeship obviously left me with a lot more time on my hands than when I had first moved back to the city. I used this time to complete my grad school applications, walk around the city just to get out of the apartment, write, and apply for new jobs. Although I applied for a few semi-glamourous positions that I am still keeping my fingers crossed for, the job I ended up with is part-time barista at Caribou Coffee. Now, I have never worked in the food industry, but I have always commended people who do because just from observation I can tell that it is not an easy position. Tomorrow will mark my two week anniversary as a barista and I must admit: this feels like the hardest job I have ever had.

Those of you who know me and my love/need of coffee are probably thinking, "What? But working with coffee is right up your alley!" To these people I say yes, a job in coffee should fit me as well as a job dog-walking would. However, I have always been the type of coffee customer who looks at the board and picks a drink that is listed on the board. If it's not there then I assume it is not an option. Customers at Caribou, on the other hand, are approaching me with what sounds like made-up words and concoctions and already I find myself wanting to point at the series of boards behind me and exclaim, "If it is not written, then it shall not be brewed!" (And those last words will go something like Gandalf yelling at the Balrog Demon: "IT SHALL NOT BE BREWED!")

Up until today I have primarily been working evening shifts at Caribou (or "The Bou" as the cool kids call it). These shifts go from 5-10pm and I see an average of 15 to 20 people each night, which is really not much when the primary drink these customers want is a cup of drip coffee. Luckily, I have had a few people actually wants lattes and mochas so I have gotten a lot of practice in making those drinks. 

Today, I worked 11am-4:30pm. This meant I would be right in the mix of people still leaving for work, going on lunch break, and getting off of work (or, my favorite, the people bringing work and meetings into Caribou). Part of the daunting task of today was that not only were people expected to order beverages more complicated than a plain latte or mocha, but now food was being thrown into the equation. I can barely find the button for Hot Cider on our touchscreen registers let alone try to figure out where the hell the Turkey Gouda Pesto sandwich is listed. I have worked with money and cash registers since I was 13 years old, but these have always consisted of a scanner. Every single item having its own special button on the computer register is a whole new concept for me and one I am frankly not a fan of. Give me a good ol' ISBN any day!

After the early morning rush (pre-9am), my Caribou only has two team members working at one time. This is so one person can work the register and the other can handle the bar (i.e. where the drinks are made). Today, my "shift buddy" was the store manager, Janet*. Janet is a very sweet woman, who is probably only my senior by four or five years. She is a patient supervisor and has yet to make me feel like an idiot even when I admitted to giving someone iced tea sans ice. Janet also gave birth about two months ago. Therefore, Janet is still breast feeding and must "pump" nearly once an hour. This means, although Janet is wonderful to work with, it feels as though she is rarely there.

Janet took her first pumping break around 12:15pm. She asked if I could handle working the cash register and bar at once and I said that I would be fine. The moment Janet left a woman in a jumpsuit suit entered the store. She strode up to the counter and ordered a nonfat mocha and an oatmeal. "Oh, and can I have it Maple Brown Sugar Crunch, please?" I assumed that was a type of oatmeal mix we offered.

I made her mocha without any problem. I pulled out the Food Guide Book and flipped through, looking for Maple Brown Sugar Crunch. Finally I found it: fill the pre-made oatmeal cup halfway with steamed water. Okay, easy enough. Stir with wooden stick. Done. Bam! I am awesome. Add two pumps of Maple syrup. I held the small oatmeal filled cup under the syrup spout. The lever seemed to be stuck so I pressed down with more force. The nozzle suddenly gave way freely and fell into the oatmeal as the rest of the bottle magically unattached itself and clattered to the floor. I scrambled to pick everything up before anyone noticed. I then saw the new bottle of Maple syrup and used that instead. Stir with wooden stick. Now came the tricky part. Add two scoops of Brown Sugar Crunch. To the side of the three espresso machines at the bar are 16 canisters filled with toppings for our various drinks. Some of these, obviously, were used to create different types of oatmeal flavours. Naturally none of these were labeled. I opened each canister and narrowed my choices down to three possible toppings that could have been Brown Sugar Crunch. The bar can clearly be seen by the patrons and I didn't want anyone to see me just stick my finger in a canister and taste-test something.

The front door opened and a woman with a stroller entered. She held the door open for a tall, clean shaven young man, who held the door open for tall, bearded young man, who held the door open for a much shorter young man. It was obvious this foursome had simply arrived at the same time and were not actually together. Suddenly the Brown Sugar Crunch clock was ticking. I sniffed my three canisters -- still nothing, although now I had narrowed it down to two. Stroller Woman leaned over a cash register to look at me. "One moment!" I called. My time was up and I knew what I had to do. Quickly, I stuck a clean wooden stick into one of my two choices. I acted as though I had dropped something on the floor and as I bent down to "pick it up" I stuck the topping-covered stick in my mouth. Damn. That could be brown sugar or it could be...well I don't know what it could have been, but it certainly did not taste like what I thought Brown Sugar Crunch should taste like. 

A man in a business suit entered and got in line behind Stroller, Cleany, Beardy, and Shorty. Time was up! I scooped two spoonfuls of the whatever-topping into the oatmeal and planned to apologize profusely if the woman could tell I had made a mistake. I momentarily looked for a spoon and then decided to hell with it and just brought Jumpsuit her overly complicated 3 oz oatmeal.

Stroller Woman whispered her order to me and I had to lean across the counter to catch even a syllable of what she was saying. Thankfully, it was a white hot chocolate with whipped cream (this I had learned to make when I asked my shift supervisor how to make hot chocolate and she said, "Girllllll, it is a mocha without ex-presso."). I swiped Stroller's card and told her I would get to her drink as soon as I had taken the orders from the other people in line. Cleany ordered a miraculously completely pre-made Blueberry Parfait. As I handed it to him I saw Jumpsuit stand and turn towards me. 

"Can I get a spoon?" Cleany asked.

"Yes, that would be helpful, wouldn't it?" I responded, heading towards the bar to begin my spoon search once again.

"Can I get a spoon, too?" Jumpsuit asked.

"Yep! Just one moment..."

"They usually pull them out from under the counter," Cleany said, pointing below the register.

"Do they??" Thank god the customers are more competent than me! I dove under the counter and began pulling apart boxes. "I don't see the spoons?"

"They definitely always pull them from down there," Cleany said. "Like from the Magical Spoon Jar."

I stood and looked at the four pairs of eyes on me. "I am so sorry," I said. "This is really sad. It's only my second day and I have no idea where the spoons are." (I realize it wasn't my second day, but I thought that sounded more forgiving than admitting it was nearly the end of my second week.) "Let me just got ask my manger." I ducked in the back quickly. Janet had a curtain drawn around her desk and the hum of a pumping machine could be heard. She told me the spoons were actually behind the register; not under it. I returned triumphantly and even gave a little "aha!" as I presented two spoons to the line of customers.

"Okie," I said, "knowing where the silverware is -- check!"

Next in line was Beardy, who laughed and said, "You're doing great." He ordered a "small coffee in a medium cup." This order seemed simple enough so I quickly turned, grabbed a medium to-go cup and filled it to what I thought was the small cup level. I handed it to Beardy and he had just enough time to turn before handing the cup back to me. "I don't want to be picky, but that doesn't seem like a small size. It looks even smaller than the small."

"Does it?" I looked in his cup. I thought my measurement was accurate.

"You can pour it into a small cup if you want to gauge the size," he suggested. 

"I'll just take your word for it." At this point I was ready to start giving away free food to make people happy.

Shorty ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, a cookie, and an espresso shot. I apologized that his items would have to go in line behind Stroller's hot chocolate. As if on cue, Stroller waved my attention from the other side of the bar and asked if anyone was going to make her drink. I apologized, said I was alone behind counter, and promised to get to her drink ASAP. Businessy ordered a Caramel Highrise and my heartbeat sped up -- I don't know what that is!!

I began to make Stroller's drink. I attempted to do Shorty's espresso shot at the same time and burned myself on the steam wand in the process. As I poured the hot chocolate into a cup for Stroller she whispered something and pointed at her drink. I went around the bar and put my face half a foot from her face. "I want nonfat whipped cream," she said.

"No problem," I replied.

I went back behind the bar and spilled some skim milk. I looked into one of our refrigerators. Four identical whipped cream canisters stared back at me. I could have sworn the other night one of them said 'nonfat', but now it was nowhere to be found. Screw it, I thought and grabbed one of the canisters. I gave her half of the normal amount of whipped cream to make up for giving her more calories than she had whispered for.

Finally, in the midst of cautiously handing Businessy what I hoped was a Caramel Highrise, Janet came out and took over making the drinks. She left for three more pump breaks during my shift. Each time she left, hoards of people would suddenly enter the store. The worst group was a foursome of business women. One woman ordered a plain coffee (thank you, kind lady), two ordered small lattes (one with skim milk and one with 2% milk and a half shot...yeah...that wasn't confusing when trying to make simultaneously), and the fourth woman ordered a Lemon Ginger Pomegranate Something-Else sparkling tea. She warned me that the last Caribou Coffee that she went to didn't know what she was talking about either. Awesome. I searched for the recipe in the Drinks Guide Book, but alas it could not be found. Instead, I took some of our pomegranate tea and promotional Limone Earl Grey tea (because it sounded like the word 'lemon'), mixed them together, and poured in what I assumed was soda water. 

"Pomegranate Lemon...ummm...sparkling tea?" I called out. The woman stepped up to the counter and stared at the drink. "It's supposed to be red," she said.

"Is it?"

"The last time I had it, it was red."

"But that girl also said she didn't know what she was making," one of the Latte Women commented. Complicated Tea Woman stared in disgust at my drink. 

"I can go get my manager and see how to make another one," I said. "Do you want to try it at least? See how it is?"

Complicated Tea Woman sighed exasperatedly. "We're in a rush," she snapped. "I'll just take this." She snatched it from the counter, took a sip, and grimaced. (I wanted to say, "Would you even admit to liking it, if you did?") "Whatever, let's go," she commanded. The foursome left. As they did, Plain Coffee held the door open for ANOTHER foursome of business people. I silently cursed Janet and her milk-filled boobs. 

Please, someone hire me before I give people coffee poisoning.

Welcome Back to the Windy City, Georgia! Love, the CTA.

Hello dear readers! I am now back in the Windy City and today could not be a more appropriate day to finally update my blog from my beloved city because we are currently under a wind advisory. Winds are ranging between 30 - 35 mph with occasional gusts blasting between 45 - 50 mph! I attempted to ride my bike along Lake Shore Drive today (despite the hurricane-esque winds it is sunny and in the upper 60s today -- summer!), but was literally knocked down by the wind just a few blocks from my apartment. Every way I tried to bike was somehow against the wind and I felt ridiculous peddling with all my might, barely keeping enough speed to stay upright, and with my helmet repeatedly blown from my head and hanging by my neck. Needless to say, I am now safe and snug inside a Starbucks and have no plans to venture out until I have to.

I am back in Chicago to complete yet another unpaid internship at the United Theatre Company. I am working with their Development department as the Gala Apprentice and will basically be in charge of the whole operation (especially since my supervisor's last day was Friday...there are currently no paid employees in the Development department, but instead three volunteer apprentices). I am also still working Heartbeat Theatre and (drum roll) I now have a PAID position with them! That's right, I spelled that correctly: P-A-I-D. As in the opposite of "unpaid". What is this? you say. Paid for something other than hotel work? I know. It baffled me, too, but since I just deposited my first paycheck from Heartbeat then it must be real! I am their shuttle driver. Baby steps, dear readers. Baby steps.

My first few shifts as a Heartbeat Theatre shuttle driver have been uneventful. I have met some very happy patrons and was even surprised to receive a tip at one point! My third shift ended with me staying an hour later due to a birthday party Heartbeat was hosting. As soon as I deposited my last few "shuttlees" at our parking lot I headed to the El stop so that I could make it home in time to cook dinner and then drive right back to Heartbeat for a trivia night at a local bar. The hosts of the birthday party gave us all their leftover pizza and since I wanted to postpone grocery shopping as long as humanly possibly I took one box.

The moment I entered the train stop a CTA personnel held up her hand and said, "All trains are stopped. A car derailed at Granville. There will be a shuttle service set up momentarily." This must have just happened because I had heard a train go by five minutes previous. I crossed the street with everyone else and waited at a bus stop since the shuttle would probably take another half hour.

 I now live in the city of Chicago as opposed to Evanston so getting home in a timely manner was not much of a concern. I board Bus 155 and headed south. While I was on the bus a slightly eccentric homeless man sat across from and began making jokes about the pizza box in my hands. He seemed to just be having fun so I responded a tiny bit, but in general I do not like to bring unnecessary attention to myself in public so I was happy when my transfer stop arrived. I left the bus and immediately boarded the 151 that was to drop me a block from my apartment. After about five minutes I realized the bus was heading in the wrong direction. I got off, crossed the street and waited for the southbound 151. When the 151 never arrived I embarked the 36 bus instead, which got me within at least five blocks of my apartment.

The moment I boarded the 36 bus I was met with a cheery, "The cheese pizza!" There he was: Crazy Homeless Man.

"You didn't eat the pizza yet??" he said, grinning from ear and patting the seat next to him. I laughed and muttered 'no', pretending not to see him gesturing for me to sit by him. I took a seat in the middle of the bus and hunkered down for what was possibly going to be a long ride.

It only took a few more pick-ups for the bus to become completely packed. Six of the northside redline stops were shutdown due to the derailment so everyone was forced to commute by bus Crazy Homeless Man regaled everyone by singing the CTA bus rules at every stop: "Back, back, back of the bus. Move back, back, to the back of the bus so that everyone can get on! Back, back, back of the bus." Every now and then he would loudly proclaim something else about being nice to everyone and being gracious to our bus driver, but mostly he sang his 'Back of the Bus' song.

At one point a man in a wheelchair boarded the bus. Crazy Homeless took it upon himself to part the Red Sea of people and flatten the handicapped seats against the wall. When the man in the wheelchair disembarked, Crazy Homeless once again went above and beyond, even escorting people off the bus to make way and then making sure they got back on before any new passengers tried to seize the opportunity to grab what few open spaces there were. The woman next to me asked how to get to Diversey now that she couldn't use the train system. This was her first time in Chicago so I pulled up a map on my phone to give her a visual.

"Back, back, back of the bus. Move back, back, to the back of the bus!"

As we once again let on more people than the bus seemed capable of holding a young man in a tye-dye hoodie leaned over to a business woman in her thirties and said, "I heard what you said about me and that was uncalled for." I think Tye-Dye was hoping to make his statement and then righteously move to the back of the bus, but Business Woman would not allow him the last word. She spun around and snapped, "YOU deserved exactly what I said. You so worried about losing your seat on the bus that you didn't even MOVE for that man."

"I didn't know he was in a wheelchair!"

"Don't give me excuses, you rude-ass."

Tye-Dye attempted to stop his journey to the back of the bus so that he could defend his honour, but other passengers continued to move him away from Business Woman. The two continued to gripe at each other until we got to the next stop. A woman with two small children boarded the bus and stood in front of Crazy Homeless. One of the children was eating a banana and Crazy Homeless decided to sing a song about that. I could tell that some of the older passengers were getting annoyed with his singing at this point, but the mother didn't seem to mind and the kids were humoured by the song so everyone let him be.

However, one bus rider had apparently had enough of Crazy Homeless's eccentricities. "You need to shut your mouth!" an angry voice called from the back of the bus. Crazy Homeless did not and instead started singing slightly louder. The bus stopped and Angry Man pushed his way to the front of the bus. Just by looking at his face you could tell that he was PISSED. He bent down so that his face was just inches away from Crazy Homeless's face.

"I want you," he said very slowly, "to shut yo fuckin' mouth."

"I don't want to shut my mouth," Crazy Homeless responded, still smiling at the child with the banana.

"What you say to me?" Angry Man asked.

"I don't want to shut my mouth." Then Crazy Homeless began singing the banana song again.

"Say that again," Angry Man said. "Say that to me one more time."

"Kumbayah, y'all," an old man resembling Stevie Wonder said from his corner directly behind the banana-eating child. "Kumbayah!"

"I want you to shut yo fuckin' mouth," Angry said once again.

Another man standing near Angry raised his hand as if to block Angry from head-butting Crazy Homeless. "Man," he said, "let's cool it. There are children on the bus."

Not paying the peacekeepers any attention, Angry began reaching into his jacket. "Say that to me one more time," he said. "Tell me you won't shut yo mouth one more time."

To set the scene: Crazy Homeless was sitting at a window seat, facing forward. The row of seats in front of him were sideways seats that were turned towards the middle of the bus. Angry was standing, holding onto a support bar. A woman sat in between Crazy Homeless and Angry. In the sideways seats were the two children, an older woman, and Kumbayah. The mother of the two children and Cool It Man stood beside Angry. As Angry reached into his jacket the mother of the two children scrambled to push her kids out of the way. Cool It Man continued to repeat that Angry needed to settle down because there were kids and the woman literally sitting in the middle of the confrontation shielded her head beneath her hands. Others on the bus began pipping up for Angry to chill out and the entire sardine-packed crowded jostled Angry around until he lost his balance and had to once again use both hands to keep himself upright.

Angry started a stream of profanity and threats at Crazy Homeless again, prompting people to stand up for Crazy Homeless. After all, he was not hurting anyone. He was not being rude, demanding, or even all that unstable. He was simply a very happy man, who liked to sing and make friends and on this particular evening he just wanted to sing a song about a banana to a child.

"Is this normal?" the woman next to me asked.

"I'm more used to the train," I said, "but the good thing is that there's a bus driver on here so things can't get too bad."

The yelling from Angry towards Crazy Homeless and the protests from the other passengers escalated until the whole bus seemed to roar. Angry began to reach into his jacket once again until the noise was silenced by one boisterous shout: "CAN WE PLEASE REMOVE THE MAN, WHO DIDN'T EVEN PAY, FROM THE BUS? HE IS CAUSING A DISTURBANCE!"

The bus went silent. Angry stood up slowly and turned towards the back of the bus. A hipster looking girl of about my age stared back defiantly. "That's right," she said, "I said it."

"What did you say to me?" he asked.

"You got on the bus without paying and now you're just being rude. You need to get off."

"What are you a-ccusing me of?" Angry began pushing through the crowd to get to the girl. However, given the reputation he had already built for himself he was met with much more resistance than when he shoved his way to the front of the bus. The bus driver was obviously tired of all the animosity on her bus and finally decided to participate in the action. "Sir!" she yelled.

"When we stopped to let the man in the wheelchair off," Hipster Girl responded, "you got on without paying."

"YOU didn't pay neither, bitch!"

She laughed. "Oh, real classy," said the bravest girl I've ever known. "I had already been on the bus and got off to let him off. You just got on with the rest of us then without paying."

"Sir!" the bus driver yelled again, pulling the bus over at what did not look like a designated stop.

"Bitch, I --" the rest of Angry's words were drowned out as once again the entire bus rose up against him, telling him to simmer down, and the bus driver laid on the horn.

"GET OFF OF MY BUS!" the driver screamed. The bus went silent as everyone turned towards the front as two cops boarded. The bus driver had been honking to get their attention. Without any other words, Angry let himself be escorted off the bus by the officers. You could almost feel the sigh of relief pass through the bus as we finally got back on the road.

Mercifully, we finally got to my stop and the now irksome pizza box to myself as I squeezed my way off the bus. Everyone smiled and gave knowing nods to one another as if to say, "We survived!'

I made it home in time to put the pizza box in the fridge and then head right back to the bus stop. As I waited, a girl weighted down by Target bags stood next to me. She cocked her head as an unfamiliar bus number drove past. "A train derailed," I explained, "they're using certain bus lines as shuttles because the redline is down from Wilson to Howard (the northern most half of the redline)."

"Wow," she said, "that has got to be fucking people up."

"Good god you have no idea."

Thanks for the grand welcome back to the city, CTA! I missed you, too.

Code Word: Pigeons

Happy Halloween everyone! I realize it is not the 31st just yet, but here on Mackinac Island it is! Today was the day of the annual Great Turtle Race. This specific race was supposedly the largest one in its seventeen year span with a record 2,500 runners! And those were just the registered ones. I checked in a few guests yesterday who said they were going to be in the race, but had neglected to register for it.

Halloween Weekend itself is supposed to be the "craziest" weekend on the island -- even topping the yacht races. If we are basing "craziness" on the number of drunks stumbling in and out of the hotel then I would say this observation is true. Last night, I watched as a woman shut herself in our front door (as in, she was leaning against the doorframe and kept closing the door so that she was sandwiched between the two surfaces). Once she had finally broken that riddle and freed herself of the door she proceeded to stumble back and forth in the lobby. It took me a few moments to realize she was trying to figure out which of our two staircases to use. I rose to offer assistance, but she hid her face behind the flowers on the front desk so I left her alone. Finally, she made her way slowly up our main staircase. Since I never heard from or saw her again I am assuming she made it safely to her room.

I would say that all around, compared to last season, this year has had less drama with hotel guests and more drama with hotel employees. Obviously the employee drama has not made it onto the blog because - honestly - who wants to listen to a rant about never ending girl drama? That is why this summer Mackinac has been labled: "Mackinac Island: The Lifetime Movie that Never Ends." (One plus side is that my experiences have made me look at my roommate from last year, Summer, in a whole new light. It turns out she wasn't all that bad!)

The few guest-related stories I have at the close of this season would be in my favourite theme of "entitlement." The guests who came to stay with us during the On Season were paying anywhere from $300 - $1,095 per night. The guests who come during our Off Season are paying between $215 - $850 per night. We even have a special at the very end of the season where our rates are discounted 50% from our typical rates. I am not sure why this pattern forms, but it seems that the cheaper the room, the more entitled the guest.

For example, we had one woman come to stay at the Orchid a few weeks ago. She and her husband had booked one of our two Mackinac Suites. Now, I feel like I've covered this issue before, but just to reiterate quickly: the Orchid books by room category and not room number. You can put in your request for a specific room, but we cannot guarantee that room. This little quirk is drilled into every front desk agent at the Orchid Hotel and I know that we are all unlikely to forgo mentioning this tidbit when booking a room. That being said, this particular guest, Mrs. Gibson, requested the Mackinac Suite that has yellow walls. Unfortunately, that particular room was occupied with a stayover when Mr. and Mrs. Gibson arrived so they were put in the blue Mackinac Suite (the suite that nearly everyone at the Orchid agrees is the nicer of the two Mackinacs). From the moment I informed the Gibsons of this it was clear that Mrs. Gibson was severly unhappy. According to our porter, she complained all the way up the stairs and was disgutsed when she was led into the room. I received a call from her mere moments later and she stated that the current guests in the yellow Mackinac Suite should be told to move since the Gibsons had clearly reserved that room. I explained our policy of 'requests vs guarantees' and mentioned that her reservation notes even confirmed that the desk clerk she booked with "did not promise" the yellow suite. Mrs. Gibson reiterated that the guests in the yellow room should have been told at check-in that they would have to change rooms during their stay. She then asked to speak with the manager.

For the next ten minutes I listened as Trisha practically trained Mrs. Gibson on our reservation software in an attempts to explain why we would never guarantee a specific room and why we were not going to ask the Yellow Roomers to move. Mrs. Gibson informed Trisha that she and her husband would be checking out of the hotel shortly. Oddly, this never happened. Instead, when Mrs. Gibson and her husband left for dinner they stood at the doorway and Mrs. Gibson complained loudly of how they "should just leave" because they were "clearly not going to get what [they] wanted."

The next evening, Mrs. Gibson approached the front desk and asked if she could speak with the owner of the hotel. I had already been warn that Mrs. Gibson was trying to track down Mrs. Cannes so I told her that Mrs. Cannes was gone for the day. "Will she be back tomorrow?" Mrs. Gibson asked.

"I am honestly not sure," I lied. "I think she might be going off-island for the day."

"Well, I really need to speak with her. I don't think you were here yesterday, but --"

"I checked you in."

"Oh...well we are just very unhappy with our room. You see, we had reserved the yellow Mackinac Suite, but we're in the blue one instead and we are just very unhappy about it."

"Yes. We spoke on the phone after you checked in."

"Oh...well I would just like to speak to the owner."

"Mrs. Cannes is aware of your complaint. I'll make sure she knows that you stopped by again."

For the next two days Mrs. Gibson practically stalked Mrs. Cannes. Trisha had yet to lay eyes on the Gibsons and every morning I stood at the front desk, waiting for the Gibsons to emerge so I could point them out to Trisha. Our code word was "pigeons."

Unfortunately, "pigeons" was never used and Trisha never saw the Gibsons. Mrs. Gibson was able to finally corner Mrs. Cannes as she began to walk home one night. Apparently, Mrs. Cannes was just about to walk out the front door, chomping on some peanut brittle, when Mrs. Gibson swooped in to tell her of her complaint. Mrs. Cannes told the Pigeon Lady that the matter had to be taken to Trisha. The next morning, Mrs. Cannes told Trisha not to give into any of the Pigeon Lady's demands.

When Mr. and Mrs. Gibson finally checked out Mrs. Gibson refused to make eye contact with me. Her husband was pleasant and thanked me for their stay. I tried to get Pigeon Lady to look at me and dared her, "Complain one more time. Act like you don't recognize me just one more time." Sadly, she did none of the above and kept her eyes glued to the ground.

Besides Pigeon Lady the only other mishap at the front desk has been two negative reviews on TripAdvisor stating, "Our trip was great, but we felt ignored by the front desk staff. It was like we were just the same as the other guests." These reviews really irk me. For starters, Mrs. Cannes and Trisha then post the reviews in our employee notepad and write messages underneath saying we should all strive to do our best. Perhaps it is still my young age and stubbornness, but I feel that those of us left at the front desk are doing our best (these negative reviews would be more appropriate if two of the original front desk clerks were still here). I do not know a single one of us who does not acknowledge every guest who walks through the front door. Also, one of the reviews came from a couple who stayed in our Lighthouse Suite - our most expensive room in the hotel. Their review said that they were unhappy because, for the amount they were paying to be in our "top" suite, they expected a more pampered treatment than what they received.

Here is where the pattern of 'the less money spent the more entitlement felt' comes to play. The Lighthouse Suite is $1,095 per night in the On Season and $850 in the Off Season. This couple came to stay at the Orchid when we were running that 50% special on our Off Season rates. Therefore, they were paying $450. Yes, this is a lot of money. I am not scoffing at the price at all because even at $450 you would not catch me shelling out that kind of cash for a single night's stay. However, I believe that when you put that room price in the perspective of the entire hotel and the fact that it doesn't matter if you're paying $150 for our rooms or nearly $2,000 -- all guests are going to be treated in the same warm and inviting manner (and I am from the South -- I know how to do hospitality!). So, dear guests, please do get off your high horse at times and just enjoy the beautiful fall weather.

(Sidenote: tonight marks my final night on Mackinac Island. I think it's definitely time.)

(UPDATE: The woman who shut herself in the door last night just strode into the hotel confidently, picked the correct stairs on the first try, and the proceeded to fall on them a total of three times and then once more in the hallway for good measure. Happy End of the Season! Next stop: Chicago for Round Two.)

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!”