At the Inn, the weekend before the last Monday of May always has a very familiar and distinctive feeling to it. The hustle and bustle is exemplified, guests move about with an undetermined fury; packing the dining room, parading through the lobby aimlessly and flip-flopping their way through the corridors in embarrassing garments they’d call bathing suits.  The smell in the air seems to change after each few steps; morphing from chlorine to wafts of alcohol, then some sort of cheap perfume or maybe expensive cologne – often I can’t tell the difference.

As familiar as the feeling of the weekend may be, consistencies are few and far between each year, with the exception of full mandatory attendance from each and every staff member. Ah yes, it’s Memorial Day weekend; a holiday. That is, a holiday for everyone except the staff. All of which are required in order to keep the well-oiled machine running smoothly and to earn every penny charged extra for the high occupancy time period.

Less than an hour into the afternoon on Memorial Day Sunday, I found myself riding the elevator from the third floor to the first, bare arms outstretched like a surgeon entering an operating room. My hands were in no condition for internal expeditions however; frankly I restrained myself from scratching a terrible itch on the bridge of my nose. Just forty minutes ago I was shaking hands with the town alderman and his wife and now that same hand, along with its counterpart, were soiled from clearing a block in the upper laundry chute, which had cut-off the main artery for Housekeeping’s laundry station and thus halted vital production of clean terry and linen. Crisis averted – I headed directly for the employee break room to scrub and sanitize.

As I stood over the sink, adjusting the water to as high of a temperature as I could stand, Maurice walked into the room and flew quickly to the Pepsi machine.

“Phew; busy, busy, busy,” he murmured aloud as he scrapped a wrinkled dollar bill back and forth against the side of the vending machine as it discriminatingly rejected his money again and again as if it had decided he did not deserve the tasty ice cold beverage it so tauntingly depicted across its surface.

Maurice is a Porter, essentially a maintenance person without the technical or vocational degree – though just as bright and perhaps more dependable than most others in the Maintenance department, so I immediately felt for him as I dried my hands and watched his dollar get rejected a sixth, seventh and eighth time by my count.

“I think I have some change, Mo” I said as I dug into my front pockets.

“Oh, thank-you,” he said, “I was about to smack this thing around a little bit.”

“Let’s just make sure we spend all of our patience on the guests – they’re going to need it this weekend,” I laughed as I exchanged three quarters, two dimes and nickel for one disturbingly decrepit George Washington.

The change was quickly accepted as legitimate currency by the machine and a Diet Mountain Dew dropped with a thud. I had just begun to step towards the door to exit when I heard the soda can crack and hiss open, then Maurice’s walkie-talkie hissed out for a moment as well.

“Front Desk to Maintenance; Front Desk to Porter!” the walkie-talkie bellowed, it was Chuck, the Guest Service Manager. I paused to listen.

“This is Mo, go ahead,” Mo gasped, the carbonation from the first gulp had taken his breath away.

“We need luggage carts; check all upper floors and report back,” Chuck replied.

“10-4,” said Mo as we both left the break room.

I headed to the Front Desk and signaled for Chuck to meet me off to the side. I had him give me some figures concerning the luggage carts; the number available – the number missing. A common trait of the unaccustomed travelers, like the majority seen on a weekend such as this, is that they often take their luggage cart with them in the room and keep it for hours or days.  A select few will return them to the lobby, though truthfully the most one can hope for is that they set them in the hall to be collected. Either way, the delay can set a negative stage for new check-ins who are quick to fault the Inn and its staff unless preparation is made and attentiveness kept.

If you’ve ever received a courtesy call after check-in offering further assistance, specifically to send someone to “save the hassle of returning the cart yourself” you have experienced a prepared and attentive management team. This is a ploy to remind you that the luggage cart is not for permanent use and brings attention to the common demand for its availability. I was pleased to hear that Chuck had the situation well under control and he promised that these courtesy calls had and would continue to be made throughout the day and evening.

“Now if we can get these last late checkouts turned over to clean we’ll be in excellent shape down here…” he began to say before trailing off.

“Chuck, are you okay?” I asked.

His mouth was now slightly agape and he starred through me, then he said, “Sir – can we help you?”

I turned my head and spotted the person he was speaking to - an angry gent, third in line and tapping his feet wildly while clenching his fists and jaw; this was going to be a problem. The man stepped out of line and approached Chuck and myself. I could now see that his pale gray suit was covered in chunks of yellow goo and formless white globs draped his shoulders and clung to his striped tie.

“I must have missed the disclaimer about flying pastries when I made my reservations online!” he snapped.

Chuck and I met eyes and exchanged a shared confusion, “Can you tell us what happened exactly?” I inquired, “And your name, sir?”

“I am Prescott Thurton and I am a pending guest at your establishment for the time being,” he began, “I arrived early today to beat the rush – a lot of good that did, this place is a mad house!”

Chuck excused himself and took over a computer station a few feet away. Without an official exchange of words he knew to look for upgrades as I ironed out the complaint.

“Mr. Thurton, yes, it is a very busy time for us, but I assure you this is a controlled chaos and I promise the same quality and service you should always expect from us. Please tell me what happened to your suit so that I can get you back on track for a wonderful stay,” I told him.

“I am parked near the side door,” he gestured with his hand, “as I got out of my car I was bombarded with…these….stinky…things. They’re all over my car – look at my suit! It’s potato something, maybe cheese and this slimy dough!” he rattled off.

“They’re pierogies,” a woman’s voice chimed.

“They’re what?” Mr. Thurton replied.

A short woman with a round face and rosy complexion appeared suddenly and picked a sample from Mr. Thruton’s left elbow; she sniffed then tasted it, “Mmm, potato, cheese, maybe even a little bit of ham there too,” she grinned, “It’s a polish appetizer, very tasty and shouldn’t stain…better with cabbage if you ask me,” she opined.

Much like Perry Manson, Sherlock Holmes or old Colombo might have, I put the puzzle together quickly. If Mr. Thurton had parked near the side door, he would have had to do so against the building, where the outdoor pool is located. The two are separated by a tall iron gate and a series of eight foot tall evergreen shrubs; tall and wide enough to hide the perpetrator from the victim, but I knew immediately who was at the source of the flying pierogies. I handed the potato-clad guest back to Chuck for that room upgrade, some free dry-cleaning and a squeegee for his car before heading to the pool.

I walked the fine line of racial profiling, but summed it up to common sense when I remembered that the Kowalski family had rented the outdoor pool and BBQ area for a private party all afternoon. Could it be just sheer coincidence that today the sky began falling with polish dumplings?

No, as it turned out. No coincidence at all.

The dear old polish grandmother of the family, whom they call “Babcia” had chosen to confess to her loving husband of more than fifty years, that she had altered his dear-departed mother’s receipt for pierogies many years ago to account for his salt intake and he had never noticed. This caused an eruption of tossed delicacies, of which Mr. Thurton was the sole casualty. The luck of it all was that her husband had grown tired too early to cause any real damage, (I winced as my eyes caught a heavy looking kielbasa).  

Ten minutes after my chat with the Kowalski family, I was on the fourth floor dealing with an over-flowing bathtub, then a billing glitch with a group block of rooms and long night of luggage cart hunting. Minor set-backs, curve balls and temporary dilemmas aside, the Team did a great job holding the walls together and completing another typical and entirely unpredictable Memorial Day weekend.

~The Innkeeper    

*New: Days & Distinctions *

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