As time passes and the seasons flow by, the doors to the hotel open and close, admitting people of all walks within its luxurious spaces or vomiting them out into the harsh and cold world. For this revolving door is only a part of the world of modern commerce, and if you want your voice heard over the droves of mindless, credit card munching zombies, you had better have the scratch to speak up. In my experience, those with money get pretty much whatever they want, regardless of their private indiscretions or sexual deviances. The hotel world is a place where even the most abusive asshole can get what he wants, as long as he ponies up in the end.
Mr. Meyersmith, not his real name, was no exception. He was a Platinum member, the highest level of our loyalty program’s scale of precious metals, and spent thousands of dollars on room, in-room dining, booze and pornography, for which he was famous. He was also famous for his lewd and disturbing behavior, which banned him from the hotel and expelled him from the loyalty program altogether. I’ll explain:
I first met Mr. Meyersmith over the phone. I just arrived at work and was told to contact him because of a string of complaints he had about the hotel. I quickly picked up the phone.
“Hello, Mr. Meyersmith,” I said is my most nonchalant voice.
“Yes, this is Mr. MAYOR-smith,” corrected a nasal voice that seemed to crackle at every syllable. I can only describe it as “crusty”.
“I’m sorry Mr. Meyersmith,” I said, using the proper pronunciation, “This is the Manager on Duty. I understand you would like to talk to me about some concerns you have about your experience with us.”
“Yes,” he expelled. “I’m coming down.” I was left listening to dial tone.
I met him at the elevator, pen and notepad in hand, ready to be the most attentive and non-judgmental listener I could, but I almost laughed at the figure that finally shuffled out of the doors. He was of average height, but that was all the averageness that he could muster. His thin, curly wisps of unwashed hair bobbed up and down as he waddled penguin-like toward me, as if treading thin ice. His arms were folded tightly across his chest for fear they would fall off if moved from their preciously positioned points. His teeth jutted this way and that in an attempt to escape that foul vent behind them. Furthermore, several of them were broken and stained brown by years of neglect and disgusting oral habits. He wore a T-shirt matted with holes and stains, as if it had not been washed in days and used by a hobo as a pillow, and below it all was the loudest pair of the plaid shorts ever stitched. But what made Mr. Meyersmith stand out like a living troll was his fanny-pack, which no living man would ever wear.
I sat him in an obscure place and listened to his petty grievances, which were unremarkable, but due to my stellar service recovery skills, Mr. Meyersmith booked a reservation for the following weekend, which was doomed to be his last.
What I did not know about Mr. Meyersmith is that he was a colossal pervert. What he did not explain during his diatribe about his less-than-perfect in-room dining experience was that he called repeatedly for a specific engineer, I’ll call him “Brad”, to his room to fix a fake problem only to answer the door in his skivvies, assume a bawdy position and watch “Brad” fix the problem while keeping his eye on the pornography package playing on the television all the while. Naturally, Brad found this deeply disturbing, if not for the porno package than the horrid condition of Meyersmith’s underwear.
When Meyersmith came back the next week, he immediately called for Brad to come fix his night light. I could hear the collective grumble of disgust and dread as the operator relayed the message to Brad via the radio. Up Brad went, hurled through the dark, cold elevator shaft and down the long and well-light eighth floor corridor, and found himself knocking on the door of the colossal pervert. I imagine him feeling quite like Jonathan Harker as he pounded on the great doors of Castle Dracula, his heart thumping with the anxiety of some unknown, impending horror.
“Enter,” called a crusty voice in the most seductive manner it could marshal.
Brad swallowed what little saliva his mouth could produce in his terror and opened the door, which seemed to creak and laugh as he entered.
The sight before him was worse than the delusions of the mind. On the bed, studying the headboard lamp on his hands and knees was the bulbous ass of Meyersmith, his tighty-whities aimed with careful precision toward Brad. Brad involuntarily called a teaspoon of bile to his mouth, but swallowed both it and his pride in order to perform his task to the letter of his job description.
When I learned about these goings on I felt, as Manager-On-Duty, in my gut that there was something I should have been doing. The colossal pervert was harassing one of our associates, which is a big no-no, but the man, as bizarre and lewd as he was, was a Platinum member. And, after all, I thought, he spends a lot of money at our hotel.
But Brad’s supervisor thought beyond terms of money and made a quick call to the General Manager of the hotel. The GM called the Customer Service to explain the situation, then called the Platinum line to strip the man of his status, then called the hotel to tell me what was happening and, finally, called Meyersmith and told him to leave the following morning and never come back.
Meyersmith did not order anymore room service, opting to get take out from McDonald’s instead. Fast food, it seems, is the final refuge from any man’s fall from grace.
I left the hotel that evening around one thirty in the morning. I glanced up at the room I knew housed Meyersmith for the second and final time. The light was still on. As I started my car and pulled away, I imagined him defending his position to himself, with only a bed full of scattered French fries and a TV full of pornography to listen to him. I left the hotel that night knowing that I would never see Meyersmith again, but as the door opens to express the perverts, so too does it welcome them in.