The Great Chinese Take Out Caper

Well, I am back at the grind after two days off. You know, for the record I was only supposed to be here two days. They keep on saying, we’ll get another night person , we promise.

Hmmm.

My grandson’s tenth birthday was today and for the big one I decided to throw him a birthday party at a movie theater. They have the party room, it’s reasonably price and it was Captain Marvel. It was a nice experience for him, but never will I do that again. What was I thinking. Nine kids in a theater, keeping them quiet and good. Not happening easily.

So, I went into this evening thinking, I am gonna have to ramble about my day, which I did, because I thought nothing was going to happen. I was wrong.

The last day I worked, was the day of the laundry room ladies and the creaming legs. Mack, as I told you usually stumbled around, sounding inebriated. Although I am not convinced he actually is drunk, I think he’s a good actor and acts that way to cover up for what he thinks are short comings in his personality. But he’s really nice.

Anyhow, the last day I worked, he stumbled into the laundry, room, swayed to the left and right, as if he were on a tight rope, reached in his walled and pulled out a twenty.

You’re probably thinking, ‘whoa, now, what’s that for?’

“When you working next?” he asked.

“Sunday.”

“Here,” he slaps down the twenty. “Can you pick us up Chinese again.”

He asks me all the time and pays for my combo meal, and since I live near several Chinese restaurants, I don’t have a problem with it.

I remembered to get the food, packed it in the brown bag and then in one of those thermal bags from Aldis, and came to work tonight. Mack usually dwells in the lobby after eleven thirty and a night out of drinking.

“I’m ready for that Chinese,” he said.

“Absolutely.” I go back into the employee break room and look ... gone.

I check the fridge, check under the table. Everywhere ... the blue and red thermal bag is gone.

Not there.

I then move to the front desk area and begin my search. Finally, I had to break down and tell Mack.

“Our dinner is gone.”

“What do you mean gone?”

“Gone. It was on the employee break room table in the red and blue bag I carry and now it’s not.”

“Are you kidding me?” Mack blasts. “I have been waiting for that all day and someone took it?”

“Gone,” I repeated. “Somewhere in the last hour it vanished.”

I wasn’t too happy either. That was my lunch, too, which meant I was left to eat crackers and cookies from the vending machine.

Seeing that I am the only employee, reasonable deduction meant it was a guest. The break room door is always open and I was sure the aroma of Chinese food was inviting.

Mack wasn’t taking this laying down. He asked me to pull up the security footage. We don’t have a camera angle of the break room, just the hall. And still no angle of someone going in there.

We watched the cameras making note of the eight or so people that meandered through the lobby.

“Yeah, I bet it’s freaking Bill”, he said (And for the record he didn’t use the word ‘freakin’)

“Even if you think it’s Bill…”

“Oh, it is. That bastard stole six muffins the other day from the break room. Ask Marcia.’

I didn’t need to actually. Marcia was right there, boobs in her walker

“He did. I saw him,” Marcia said. “I yelled. He didn’t listen. It was six, maybe seven, the man steals food all the time.”

Before I could say any more, Mack stormed down to Bill’s room, pounding relentlessly on the door.

My first thought, ‘Oh my God.” I raced to stop him.

Bill opened the door. “What?”

“Did you take my food.”

Bill slammed the door.

Mack knocked again, louder and shouting, “Let me check that room. I know you took. Bet you’re afraid because you have every muffin in the place in that room.”

Bill, opened the door again. “I didn’t steal your freaking food.”

Slam.

Okay. Mack didn’t buy it, but he wasn’t giving up. He proceeded to knock on doors, trying to serve up his own verbal search warrant.

I tried to pull him away, apologizing to the current recipient of his food search wrath.  Just when I think I have it under control. Who do I see at the end of the hall?

The cops.

One of the guests called them.

They tried to calm Mack,. But he was irate, he wanted his food, so they suggested they take a little ride.

Poor Mack, all he wanted was Chinese food and there he was being escorted out of the hotel.

I sat for a couple hours, feeling bad, thinking about how I’d go get him Chinese food the next night. I went to the vending machine, and looked. I saw the Sun Chips, thought about getting those and thought, “nah, I’ve seen enough of them they’re all over the back seat of my car.’

STOP.

SHIT.

No! I was not that dumb. Immediately, I ran out to my car and sure enough, sitting right there on the front seat of my Subaru was the Red and Blue thermal bag of Chinese food.

I carried it in, put it open the break room table, feeling even worse, thinking do I tell him, not tell him, and what was when Mack returned. The police brought him back.

“How are you?” I asked trying to escape that break room. But he just walked in.

“Fine. No charges. They understood. We went to McDonald’s, and they brought me back and ...  heeeeyyy.” He pointed. “Is that the Chinese food in that bag?”

“Yeah, how about that?” I said. “After you left, I guess the person felt bad and brought it back. I didn’t see who it was. It just appeared. It’s not touched. It’s all good.”

Mack walked in, opened the bag and grabbed his Chicken and Broccoli. He lifted the lid and took a piece. “Ah, this is awesome, all that trouble was worth it now.”

I just smiled my agreement.

He took his food and went to his room, and me? Well, a tad shamed, I wrote this blog. Hopefully, he’ll never read it, because I’m never telling. I like that he pays for the Chinese take out.

Even I can't make this up ...

What is it about the guest laundry room? Do they honestly think that’s private. I can’t see how considering there is a big window and a camera in there.

Oh, well, if it wasn’t such a hot spot, I wouldn’t have anything to blog about today.

I was so glad that Dante was here to witness it. I was supposed to be his relief. But he never left.

Warning this is not as pornographic as it leads on to be.

First let me tell you about Dante. He acts fifty, looks sixteen and his age falls somewhere in between. He’s quick to tell everyone he identifies as a straight man because it’s a point people tend to get confused about because he has a passion for clothing design.

I really never got why he had to tell people that. Anyhow ... He’s a really nice guy, he works a lot of hours here because, as he tells us, he has to support his five kids. When I asked about them the first time, he pulled out his wallet. I found it strange because who pulls out their wallet anymore to show pictures of their kids? Usually, it’s the phone. He showed me his kids, and I realized why he had the pictures in his wallet. They were pictures, but they were cut from those ‘Save the Children’ postcards you get when you sponsor a child.

I was like, “Dude, that’s really expensive, you know. Five of them.”

He said it was cheaper than having his own biological children and has a nice relationship with them.

Anyhow ... my point of my blog.

Dante and I were in the employee laundry room folding and chatting when Mack walks in. He’s a resident whom, we still can’t figure out if he’s really drinking or it’s an act.

Mack comes in and said in his Jack Nicholson on crack raspy voice, “Hey, I want to do laundry but there’s some funny business going on in there.”

I glance to the monitor and saw only Marsha sitting in the chair. Her back to the camera. “Oh, it’s fine. It’s just Marsha”

Stop.

OK, who is Marsha. She is a wonderfully sweet woman, middle age, lives here, has some problems with her legs and uses a walker, but I think she uses it less for her legs than she does for her exceptionally large breaths which she rests on a towel on the handle.

“No, it’s not just Marsha, Maria is there,” Mack said.

“You mean Maria the under sexed, want to be over sexed, four foot six Puerto Rican woman?”

Alright, I really didn’t say that, but it was my clever way to tell you about her.

Just as I was about to question Mack, I hear a peep of a scream from Dante. You know the type, high pitched, short. He’s staring at the monitor.

I looked at the Monitor and sure enough, I can see a smidgeon of Maria on the floor before Marsha.

“No, no, no.” Dante tossed down a towel. “Not in my hotel.” He storms out, a second later comes back in and says. “I can’t. I don’t want to see it.”

Before we rush to judgement, I thought let’s rewind the security footage. We did. Sure enough, Marsha walks in, sets her walker aside (Thankfully we didn’t see what happened to the breasts) then she sits down.

A few seconds later, in comes Maria. She stands before Marsha, then suddenly drops to her knees. Keep in mind, from the camera’s angle all we can see is the back of Marsha from the shoulders up.

“What if we just let them go,” Dante suggested.

“Nah,” Mack said. (Man I wish you could hear his real voice) “It might be a while.  From my experience women can take a while.”

Dante looked at him. “Clearly, you aren’t doing things right.”

“You know what,” I said. “I’ll handle this. I’ll tell them to take it elsewhere.”

When I walked out of the room, I heard Mack tell Dante to make sure my reaction was recorded.

I went to the laundry room, covered my eyes with one hand and pushed open the door. I was trying to ‘not see anything’. “Um, ladies,” I said sheepishly. “I respect your privacy, but is there anyway you can do that elsewhere?”

Silence

That was when Maria barked. “What the hell is da matter with you? What are you doing?”

I lowered my hand with a shocked, “Huh?” When I saw Maria, holding a jar of cream, and Marsha’s extended legs were covered with the crea,.

“She has cellulitis,” Maria said. “She can’t reach her legs.”

Awwww! Well, of course, not, I thought, her boobs would inhibit that.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Dante made me come in here. He said there was some hot lesbian action happening and I had to stop it. His words not mine”

“Dante’s an asshole,” Maria said. “Tell him to get his butt in here so I can whoop it.”

“Okay.” I merrily walked off and to the employee laundry area. “All’s good,” I told them. “She was only putting cream on Marsha’s cellulitis. And by the way, Dante, Maria needs to talk to you.”

Without question, Dante went to the guest laundry. I wish I could get the video of Maria, hands going wild trying to hit Dante, then chasing him.  Perhaps my manager will give it up.

If you noticed the picture, that’s Dante, post trauma, taking a break. In the same chair that Marsha enjoyed. Ge could have gotten a room, but said the dryer noise soothes him.

Go figure.

Naked Wednesday Truth

Long term living in a hotel is more common than you think. For traveling workers, single people, and for older individuals it’s a lot more affordable than a retirement community. Especially if they come equipped with a kitchenette.

Plus, the longer you’re there, the more you get to know the employees and the perks kinda add up.

Like a freedom to do things, that let’s say, the local Holiday Inn wouldn’t give you.

Freedom to hang out in the lobby at all hours, sit in the employee break room, wander parts of the building that are marked ‘employee only’, and of course, in the case of John (Not his real name), do your laundry naked.

John is a seventy-two year old retired homicide detective that has a wife and a girlfriend and lives in the hotel because it’s easier than dealing with two women. He is my four am coffee drinker, making his way I to the lobby in his boxer shorts with a bottle of Grey Goose. He gets his coffee, and adds the vodka, takes a seat to enjoy it.

I have the ability, with a monitor to see what is happening in different areas of the hotel. One of the areas ... the guest laundry room, which is right by the employee break room. The monitor will flash a room, show it for a few seconds and move on to another area.

It was during training that I glanced at the security monitor, it flashed (No pun intended) to the laundry room where I saw him standing, half bent over a washing machine, reading a magazine, buck ass naked.

“Dante?” I asked the guy training me. “Um, is that guy naked?”

“Yeah, he is. He does his laundry on Wednesday.”

“Naked?”

“Yep. But don’t worry about it. He does it late so no guests are around and stays in the laundry room so no one can see him.”

“Does he know there are cameras in there?”

Dante just shrugged. Apparently it was the norm for him.

Not that I judge, mind you, but one morning I asked John why he does his laundry naked at two in the morning on Wednesdays.

He replied so no one sees him. I don’t think he quite got the question was geared toward why he did it naked.

So I asked again and he explained to me that he only had four pairs of good underwear, and his wardrobe was minimal living in a hotel. He didn’t want to limit his options and cut his underwear supply short in case something happened. Pretty much he explained, everything he owned was clean at the same time.

It makes sense, really. You wear clothes to do laundry so in a sense your hamper is never empty.

Who am I to tell him he can’t do it when obviously he has been doing it forever. I’d allow him as well, and would try not to look. Sometimes though my eyes cross the monitor, like last week, when it flashed (Again no pun intended) from the lobby to the laundry room just as John was bending over to pick up a sock.

Tonight though, was a close call.

When I came in, Lola, who I relieve, tells me there is a large group of women with some religious organization staying at the hotel for the next week. She didn’t know what kind, they weren’t nuns, they were older and wore veils, but she didn’t know,. She didn’t ask. They were very subdued and she only informed me that they were on the third floor in case I decided to go up again at three in the morning and holler out, ‘whoever is smoking the fucking weed. Stop.”

I promised I wouldn’t go on the third floor and swear or be loud. And it was after eleven pm, they’re religious, they were sleeping and I’d never see them.

Or so I thought.  John started his laundry. I gave him my phone so he could listen to the Greatest Showman soundtrack (He likes dancing in there to that) and not ten minutes into this wash cycle, who steps off the elevator? One of those women (And she wasn’t wearing a veil, but she was wearing a plain old style, almost Amish style dress.

She wasn’t up in the middle of the night, she was starting her day.

She said, “Good morning,” I looked up from my laptop, and not only did a double take when I saw who she was, I did a triple take when I saw she carried a basket... a laundry basket.

It was like in slow motion, “Nooooooo” I heard many distorted voice in my head as I raced to stop her. I felt as if I couldn’t run fast enough. Hell, I out ran a car, yet I couldn’t stop an elderly religiously dressed woman carrying a load of laundry.

I hit the hall just as she turned into the laundry room. I expected a scream, something, I cringed and waited ... nothing.

I hurried to the back to see the monitor, waiting impatiently for it to flash (No pun intended) to the laundry room. Sure enough, she was there, filling the washer, John had taken a seat.

I exhaled.

They’ve been back there for almost an hour. She is talking to him and helping him fold his clothes.

I don’t know what religious organization she is from, or if it is even a religious one, but obviously whatever organization it is, they have no problem with a naked senior man, doing his laundry, two sheets to the wind in the middle of the night.

Ramblings of a Writer on Night Shift

Tonight was the first night since I started working the night shift, that it was exactly as I imagined. Although as I pen this, there are still several hours to go and it could erupt into chaos. When I took the job (Originally two nights a week) I was the fill in person, working alone. I imagined it to be quiet, because, you know, people sleep. This job has been anything but.

Most nights that I am here I do find time to write, and I started thinking about blogging. This could be my way to get back into it.

You’re probably wondering why I, a D-List established writer, would take such a job.  I always dreamed of being a writer. I remember years ago when I started, was all that I wanted to do was be a full time writer and live off my writing.

I am blessed and fortunate that I can pay my bills with writing. Some months are great, some suck. It’s the game with sales. But unlike a lot or even most writers who ‘claim’ to live off of writing, I don’t have a spouse or partner. I am sole provider for my family and especially my grandson. That’s a lot of pressure.

Financially, that’s not why I took the job. Sanity and health are. 

What?

Sanity? Health.

This job I have, only a couple days a week, sometimes more, has an official title of Night Laundry Auditor. I audit nothing, and fold sheets and towels. Most of the laundry can be completed in two hours. I spread it out. It’s not glamourous, but it keeps me moving. 

The life of a writer isn’t glamorous either. Most writers drink. We don’t eat right or regularly, and when you don’t feel the need to get up, shower and actually dress, there are issues.

I started Lunch Lady work because as a writer,  I packed on the pounds. That’s not healthy.

Is night shift at the hotel hard work? Nope. Not at all. In fact, I actually love the job.

When an irate guest tried to run me over with his car, yeah, that got a little scary, other than that, it’s perfect for a writer. I don’t need my fit bit to tell me to get up and move every fifty minutes, the buzzer on the dryer does that.

Other than the eating, forced to shower at normal times and not wear my famed red ugly sweatpants, the best part of this job ... people.

It can do nothing but help my writing and have dialogue realistic. Although, the people here are pretty interesting.

Hence, why I decided to just start blogging about it. Because it dawned on me, the reason I stopped blogging was because I was buried in my office, buried in my books, never really going out and truly had nothing to blog about any more.

Now I do.

The people in his hotel, most of them live here. Permanent residents, so it’s a community. They hang in the lobby at all hours.

From the drunken construction workers, naked senior men airing it out in the laundry room, to the woman who uses a walker to carry her super large breasts and the man whose feet are so hideous someone called corporate about them.

All of them are real and here and will give me stories to share on a blog. I wouldn’t meet them in my writing room, then again, I probably would, with in the depths of my writer mind.

I took the job for the quiet nights and prospect of endless writing, And now that I have experienced a quiet night that is giving me the prospect of endless writing, I want the insanity back, because that gives me prospect of endless ideas. As a writer, as long as you have ideas, you can write.