Anyone who has ever been put in the unfortunate position of making a beer run right before the kickoff of a big game, a last minute snack run before the start of a movie, or even an emergency first aid kit run for a visiting senile family member mistakenly overconfident in their knife juggling abilities – share the same understanding that timing is of the utmost importance.

The unfortunate souls tasked with such pressing last-minute missions also share a common enemy. The dreaded, Lotto Lady. She seems innocent enough with her plastic weather protective bonnet, African-safari animal print housecoat and damp, debris-ridden pink slippers, but don’t let this harmless image fool you. This notorious Lotto Lady may be little threat in a dark alley, but when encountered in line during one of the aforementioned time sensitive tasks, you can consider your mission a bust. No big game for you, no movie…no proper blood clotting as the case may be. Instead, you might as well take a seat and prepare to listen to every birthday, anniversary and lucky number that she, her numerous dead husbands, dozens of children, hundreds of grandchildren, seventeen cats and every person she has ever met or heard of has ever had.

Yes, take a seat or stand with arms crossed while tapping your feet. Perhaps make faces at the person next to you in line, roll your eyes and check your watch. Whichever you choose though, I must point out that it is a whole lot easier if you come to surrender to the fact that shit happens and since strangling the Lotto Lady probably won’t get you home any faster, what choice do you really have but to roll with the punches, accept the circumstance and come up with Plan B?

A common phrase I’ve heard since the start of my career is “Hotel Happens,” regarding the same principal as the more general happening of shit. Every single day a hotel faces some seemingly catastrophic event, like the Men in Black, but with no flashy light thingies or intergalactic treaties. In the 24 hour a day business of hotels, potential Armageddon doesn’t skip holidays or weekends and has never taken a sick day. In fact, if you don’t have to resort to Plan C, D or E you should consider yourself lucky (and maybe pass along your birth date to the Lotto Lady).

The trick is not so much to expect the unexpected or prepare for the worst and hope for the best, no, an innkeeper must simply surrender themselves to that cheesy word play phrase that says it all and then, most importantly – you must get creative and find a solution that works.

As spring comes to an end and summer begins to creep up at the Inn, hijinks become increasing more present as area high schools begin to let out and celebratory seniors feel the obligation to christen their looming adulthood with pranks on neighbors and local businesses. One such prank ended my coveted morning of sleeping-in and catching the mid-day news in my night clothes with a thunderous shake of my cell phone at 7AM. Chuck, the Guest Service Manager and Delilah, the Director of Sales spoke with an echo via speaker phone to inform me about some late night shenanigans in the parking lot.

“Goddamn it, they got three cars,” Chuck called out, taking the prank as a personal attack, “the bastards laid spray paint, busted a windshield and made off with a couple stereos from what I can tell!”

“Pretty nice cars too,” Delilah added, “We’re going to have some pissed off people when they see all this. If any of these cars belong to the doctor group we have in-house they are all going to jump to another hotel - I could hardly talk them down after the runny egg incident in the dining room last week, where do I even start with this one!?” she rambled and began to panic.

I lay face down in my pillow fantasizing about finding the little punks, these Lotto Ladies in their own right, that ruined my day off; hanging them by their toes and smothering them with their graduation caps and still making it home in time for the Price is Right. But alas, Hotel Happens, so I peeled myself from bed turned my thoughts towards an effort of damage control.

“Check the registration cards for matching license plates to ID which cars belong to which guest. If any of them belong to the doctor group, do nothing except call me back right away. Everyone else needs to be informed immediately; don’t sugar-coat too much, tell them it has come to your attention that some vandalism occurred in the parking lot last night and offer to call the police to file a report. Get out there and take pictures before anything is touched or moved and I will be there shortly,” I said while wiping sand from my eyes and grabbing at a shirt in my closet.

Chuck and Delilah let out a simultaneous “Okay” before I clicked ‘end’ on my cell phone screen and reached for a tie. No calls came during my drive in, so I had dodged the angry doctor bullet.

As I pulled into the Inn’s driveway and drove along to the rear of the building, I spotted two police cruisers and three very brightly painted mid-size sedans displaying the words “C+J 4 Ever”, “Ooh la-la” and “Spanky Rulez” on the hoods and windows. I found an empty spot nearby and introduced myself to Sgt. Waterloo, who was surveying the scene.

The cars had no serious damage concerning the paint, which, as it turns out, was not spray paint at all, but instead a washable kind of window paint that car dealerships typically use to display prices or markdowns, as Sgt. Waterloo analogized. Inside the first two cars’ cabins, personal articles were in disarray and one was missing a detachable CD stereo face, only a chunk of plastic hanging from a loose red cable was left behind. The third car had a more concerning diagnosis: broken windshield, flat tire and strange brown colored goo stuffed in the passenger side door locks.

After learning the extent of the damages, I headed into the Inn through the rear entrance and made my way to the front lobby where Delilah stood comforting two Asian men in matching grey suits and dark ties. “Do you have your insurance card? You’ll need to show it to the police and get the police report, gentlemen.” I heard her say as I approached. I slid into the conversation, shook hands and conveyed my deep apologies for the incident, which I added was “not a typical occurrence.” They were confused more than angry, but Delilah walked them to their vehicle and assisted as an intermediary between them and the police.

Chuck came towards me like a bullet and gave me the complete rundown. The two Asian men were working for a software company in town; Chuck had the front desk contact the company, who were to send a car for them within the hour. The second car belonged to an elderly couple visiting their children and grandchildren for the week. Gramps was sitting at breakfast when he was given the news. He hummed and hawed about “these damn kids today” and was already back in his room on the phone with his insurance company by that time.  The third car was to be the largest concern as it belonged to Mr. Jenson, a self-described expert on Wall Street day-trading and the guest speaker at an unknown conference center that morning. It was unknown because Mr. Jenson’s only record of the address for the conference center was preloaded into his navigational system, an item that was now missing from his vehicle.

“Where is he now,” I asked Chuck.

“My office, he’s waiting for you,” he answered.

Before I stepped into Chuck’s office I directed Doug at the Front Desk to call every place in town with a conference center to inquire about early morning guest speakers and had Joyce in reservations to work on a taxi, a near impossibility without an appointment during the busy morning hours, but worth a shot. Chuck was to find free passes to the car wash around the corner and offer them to each of the effected guests.  

In Chuck’s office, Mr. Jenson sat legs and armed crossed, shaking his head in disbelief and exploding randomly with “This is ridiculous!” and “How does this happen?” between moments of shocked silence. I made sure to explain the parking lot’s “Owner’s Risk” policy, but apologized with a furry as if I had damaged his car myself and committed to him the promise to do my best to ensure as little inconvenience in his day as possible. Together we contacted his insurance company, for which he had full coverage, meaning his windshield and tire could be replaced on site by the end of the day. After the call ended, I rang Doug and Joyce, who had found the location of Mr. Jenson’s appearance, but came up short on a taxi, which wouldn’t be available for hours. I hung up and excused myself from the office, walked ten paces down the hall and pulled out my cell phone.

Teddy Johansson, a limo driver I’ve come to know throughout the years, owed me a favor as I had directed a large portion of business his way just weeks earlier. The phone rang a sixth time before a groggy voice answered “Hello.” I explained the situation and convinced Teddy to abandon his plan of sleeping late and watching the mid-day news in his night clothes for a last minute limo run to save the day. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes,” he said, “I just have to stop at a convenience store for a Red Bull first.”

“Wonderful,” I said, after all, what could go wrong with a simple stop at a convenience store? I clicked ‘end’ on my cell phone screen and began working on Plan C just in case.

~The Innkeeper      

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