I’m at the tail end of a 64-hour work week and, after publishing a delirious entry on Facebook about an atomic bomb neutralizing my hotel, it’s fair to say that I am at a breaking point. I am hallucinating. I am astral projecting myself into a lavish, imaginary world of tip-toeing around in $1,300 shoes and wandering the desert in Rodarte haute couture. I was inspired this morning to apply red Laura Mercier lipstick and orange Shisedo lip gloss to defer my guests’ attention from my insincere “fuck you” eyes to my kissable lips. I’m getting a little desperate. I’m name dropping the brands of my makeup. If you were curious, both of these were inherited or free.
The hotel hosts upward of one hundred groups every year. We’ve seen everything from conservative Christian right pro-life groups, farm equipment manufacturers, and hair dressing conventions. The front desk, after encountering these groups as one, beastly force, observes a general personality type. The pro-life groups are unsmiling, serious, and usually over the age of 35. The farm equipment manufacturers are reserved, polite, and low maintenance. The hair stylists are superficial, rude, and extremely high maintenance (35 towels, anyone?).
The most recent group in-house was some American association of loony doctors (psychiatrists), celebrating their 40th anniversary. It was amusing, yet unsurprising, that the 400 some odd attendees were even-tempered and patient, despite my unwelcoming “How the fuck can I help you, today?” The especially older ones maintained composure and spoke in a soothing, unvarying tone of voice. These people were good at paying attention, and unlike the guests who carry on a cell phone conversation while I’m trying to decipher whether they’d like a mini bar key, remained focused.
I really only had one guest issue from this entire group. Psychiatry is a field that requires a lot of training and education, sometimes upward of ten years. They listed their names with M.D., Ph.D.,etc., even on the reservations that only I would see. I had a woman smugly correct me when I called her “Ms. Blahblahblah.” She frowned and replied: “Doctor Blahblahblah.” You understand. These people are well-educated and make $200,000+ a year. They have an average IQ of 120 and above.
This guest’s name was “Tabitha.” Tabitha had approached one of my colleagues the day before, shaking the blow dyer she had brought down from her room, insisting that it didn’t work. These things happen all the time. It’s an 800 room hotel, and things break. My colleague aptly send another to her room, promising that housekeeping would test it and that it would work properly. Tabitha thanked her and removed herself from the front desk, combing her disheveled hair with her fingertips.
This morning, Tabitha approached me with another blow dryer, shaking it violently. Her hair was a damp seagull’s nest, and she raised her voice enough to the catch the attention of some other guests.
"This doesn't work, either," she cried, looking incredibly helpless and annoyed. "There's probably something wrong with the outlets in my room. I don't know!"
Now, I don’t have years experience in hospitality, but during my time here, I have never heard a complaint about electricity in this hotel. Of course, we’ve had plenty of issues with hot water and air conditioning, but the electrical outlets. I was skeptical, deciding to investigate. I pulled up her reservation on my computer and noticed she was in the psychiatrists’ group room code, and her name clearly had an M.D. trailing it.
I took the blow dryer from her and examined it carefully, like a forensics investigator scanning for fingerprints. I plugged the device into the outlet at the front desk, fiddling with the red and blue buttons on the plug in.
"I know you're already checked out of your room," I said. "So you're welcome to use the lobby restroom for your hair. There are two outlets near the sink."
She begrudging lingered into the restroom, the cord of the dryer swaying to and fro like the tail of a timid dog.
Not thirty seconds later, Tabitha stomps back to the desk, again shaking the dryer, looking desperate and furious.
"IT. IS. NOT. WORKING."
My acting skills have become very good in the months I’ve been at the front desk, and I squeeze my face into an expression of empathy. I excuse myself and follow her to the restroom, opening the door and inviting her inside. The plug the hair dryer into the outlet. I switch it on. WUUURRRRRRRRRRR.
We make eye contact and I smile coyly (problem?), and glide back out into the lobby.
At this point, my supervisor has a serious case of giggles, and she whispers, “I can’t believe you did that!”
It was a victory for us community college drop outs.
The general consensus of this story: would you trust somebody to prescribe you anti-depressants and anti-psychotics if she cannot work a blow dryer?
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