Tag Archives: hotel stories

It was a Good Day for Swimming

I’m only a half hour into my last shift of the week at the hotel and I have already witnessed two marvelous things.



Two little kids (maybe 5-6?) talking by the pool as their parents gather supplies:

Boy: “Well, that was a really good day of swimming, wasn’t it Alexis?”

Girl: “I guess.”

Boy: “I really liked the hot tub because it was hot. But I also liked the swimming pool because it looks like a bean. What a really good day of swimming!”

Girl: “Jeffrey, I’m tired, leave me alone. I need to rest.”


Then, when I return to the front desk there’s a group of drunks in the lobby slowly making their way to the elevator. One man is extremely pissed, and he starts shouting, “No, goddammit, listen, in Mexican culture…”

Another man: “Goddamn, I’m sick of your Mexican culture shit. Shut up!”

Drunk #1: “No, you shut up and listen for once. In Mexican culture–in real, honest to God Mexican culture, the woman in the marriage does not get to talk back to the husband.”

Drunk #2: “Jesus Christ.”

Drunk #1: “Listen, in true Mexican culture, the man is allowed to smack his bitch if she gives him lip. It’s true.”

Drunk #2: “You need to go to bed, man.”

Drunk #1: “Fuck you–”

Drunk #1 walks straight into the wall, face-first. Embarrassed, he storms toward the elevator.

Drunk #2: “In Mexican culture, are you supposed to walk into walls too?”


How do you get to Wendy’s?

Last night, at around 1:30 A.M., this man approached me at the front desk. He was dressed only in underwear and a tank top, and completely drenched in beer. It was dripping down his face, soaking his hair, everything. Waving a half empty can of Cools at me, he goes, “Where’s the Wendy’s?”

I told him where it was, but reminded him of the time, and that it would not be open right now.

So, he responds, “Okay, yeah, okay, but where is the Wendy’s?”

I tell him again.

Then he says, “Right, right. How do I get to the Wendy’s?”

I tell him where it is.

“I just want some breakfast,” he says. “I want some goddamn breakfast.”

I tell him it’s going to be close, although I don’t know why. Let him go and find out himself.

Then he says, “Okay, sure, but what about that other place? Wendy’s?”

I open my mouth to respond, but then he suddenly shouts, “NO WAIT, I MEANT DENNY’S, FUCKIN’ DENNYS! YEAH!” and he promptly spins around, runs out of the lobby, punts the can of beer across the parking lot and yells “GOAL!”, then sprints away from the hotel.

Two hours pass. Then he returns, completely sober and dry, and dressed in a fucking suit. He waves at me, says, “Hi, how’s it going, sir?” and gets on the elevator.

I still don’t understand this. I don’t know if I ever will.

The point here is, Denny’s has changed a whole lot apparently since the last time I went there.