The Innkeeper Chronicles

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Special BulletInn: Day of Dreams

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2011-01-17T21:30:00Z

We interrupt your regularly scheduled Innkeeper Chronicle for this important message from the Innkeeper:

(Cue dramatic newsroom music here.)

In commemoration and celebration of the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday, this week’s new Innkeeper Chronicle will be postponed until tomorrow: Tuesday, January 18th.

I hope my readers will take a few moments to remember this prolific and heroic civil rights leader who dedicated his life to spreading the message of peace and freedom around the world.

Here are a few interesting and inspirational stories I've been reading today:

Dr. King's inspired by his time in Connecticut. - AP News

iReport, How did MLK get his name? - CNN

Martin Luther King Jr, A day of service. - Baltimore Sun

Sleep and Dream well,

~The Innkeeper

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Innkeeper InnSight, Volume 5

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2011-01-14T10:00:00Z

Let’s Check-In, shall we?

I Must Confess…

Life at the Inn during Cold & Flu Season is a grueling daily struggle to stave off unwanted bodily invaders. Whether cold, flu or flesh-eating virus, I find maintaining a ‘germ-free’ work environment is an uphill battle. Oh, who am I kidding? It’s more like a complete vertical incline, up a series of steep cliffs with mountain lions roaring for their lunch at each new level.

Knowing this invisible and shape-shifting enemy as I do, an offensive plan of attack is ruled out, as it would likely prove to be a wasted effort to hunt down each germ individually. So I go straight to the defense with a hoard of preventative measures: Hand sanitizes line ever counter, bookshelf and computer work station. Every few hours the staff and I systematically sterilize the phones, door knobs and keyboards with disinfecting wipes and ingest an assortment of vitamins and lozenges just as frequently.

I wonder sometimes if the stench of alcohol in the air and chalk in our mouths are even worth the effort. Our safe walls of protection are fleeting as the enemy lurks around every corner and takes different forms throughout the day. It could be a friendly hand shake, a borrowed pen or a sudden blast of mucus going 100 miles per hour from a stranger’s nose, in a closed elevator! Yes, every day is a fight, but if a bad day were a battle, then today was all out war!

Major combat hit its peak as I walked down the first floor hallway after leaving the restroom. I was pleased with myself for having maneuvered my way from start to finish with only a flexible foot and talented elbow. As I turned a corner, I noticed a woman walking briskly in my direction. I paid closer attention as I saw she was awkwardly carrying a bundle of bed sheets extended away from her body, as far as her arms would stretch. As we drew even closer, a child appeared just a few hurried steps behind her, crying out “Mommy, mommy - no good, no good!”

“Are you alright, ma’am?” I asked cautiously.

“Oh, yes. Are you the manager here?” she replied with a panting, raspy voice.

I turned my head slightly away from her immediate direction to avoid any unwanted exchange of microbes carried through the air by her heavy breathing. “Yes, how can I help you?”

Her bloodshot eyes showed a sign of relief, then without warning she pushed the sheets into my arms and said, “My son has been sick all night and threw-up in the bed, can you send replacements?”

A few seconds passed before I responded or took a full breath as I imagined the cesspool of germs sending in the troops for a full body invasion. Biting the edge of my lip, I finally uttered, “What’s the room number?”

The woman took a moment to answer back. Her attention was focused on the child, who had now caught up and was pulled at her pant leg. “No good,” he whimpered and gurgled.

No good, indeed. I have to give the kid credit though, he knew exactly what he was talking about; in his own little way he tried to warn us. I’m sure if he were old enough to articulate himself more clearly at that moment, he would have said, “Hey, mom! You think that was bad, check this out!”

His head rolled back and his eyes dropped shut, then he let out a blood curdling gag and covered my pants in regurgitated crackers and apple juice.

With my fate sealed, I begrudgingly sloshed to the Housekeeping Department to clean up and hoist the white flag of defeat.

Updates & BulletInns

You can now connect and stay up to date with ConfessInns: The Innkeeper Chronicles through Blog Catalog and Livejournal!

Do you operate a hospitality, restaurant or travel blog? Please Contact the Innkeeper for link exchanges and networking opportunities with The Innkeeper Chronicles!

Burning Question of the Week

You ask, I answer. Here’s the burning question the week:

What happens to a hotel in extreme winter weather if no one can get to work?

The Answer: This is a common issue with a common solution. Hoteliers will often ask their employees to stay at the hotel overnight to ensure key staffing positions during extreme weather periods. No charge of coarse!

Weekly Whisper

Shhh. You didn't hear this from me, but the next New Chronicle will be spicy...in more ways than one.

Thank-you

Have a safe and healthy weekend - sleep well!

~The Innkeeper

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Excuses, Excuses

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2011-01-10T10:00:00Z

The day started off very early. As I drove to the Inn, I noticed the darkened sky from the previous night was still well intact; the sun hadn’t begun to cut any light through it at all. The day was so premature, that when I arrived, the Night Auditor would not yet be relieved from his shift at the Front Desk, the dining room would stand dim and lifeless before the chaotic rush of early breakfast go-ers awoke and the lobby would project a sense of calm, similar only to the quickly passing eye of a tropical storm. These would be the perfect conditions to wrap up a slew of reports that I had been putting off for days...and were due to the corporate office by lunch time! Alas, I had finally run out of time and excuses for putting them off.

I wiped the final remnants from the Sandman’s duties out of my eyes as the lobby doors slid open and knocked loudly against its medal frame. Sound is different at this time of the morning; it’s amplified. Any afternoon of the week I could walk through those same double doors without a second thought, but at this hour - it might as well have been a shotgun blast!

While doing my best to express as little of the unwarranted terror as I was feeling and hoping that Buck, the Night Auditor did not notice my heart beating out of my chest, I approached the Front Desk and raised an open hand to wave.

“Hey Buck, how was your night?” I asked on the verge of a sweat.

“The usual,” he replied as he looked up from stacking and collating papers. “Pretty quiet except for a some loud arguing in Room #111 around 2AM, but nothing physical; they made up I guess.”

“Well, if there’s nothing pressing at the moment, I will be in my office for a while,” I said as I began to walk away, hoping he would not remember something that would deflect my attention any further.

“A couple call-outs if you want to take them,” he said casually.

“Damn!” I thought, “I knew I shoudn’t have asked.”

Buck reached over to a small yellow notepad and ripped off the top page, “There’s two of them and they’re both newbies: Melissa from the Front Desk and Jeff the new maintenance assistant guy,” he said.

“Damn!” I said out loud.

Call-outs happen all the time, but if the schedule is made well enough and those that do show up for work are well-trained, then it doesn’t have to be a big headache. It’s a little different with newbies though, because it breaks down the training process, wastes a lot of time and increases the work load for everyone else. Plus, it can speak volumes about a new employee’s dedication to their job and their willingness to lie or make excuses.

Ah, excuse, excuses. They’re what got me to the Inn at such an ungodly hour in the first place. I just hoped that their excuses were good ones, considering the jam-packed morning I had in front of me!

I snatched the note from Buck and walked to the office while considering what the makings of a “good excuse” would be on a day like today. I have heard them all, but I expect some quality from new staff members that call-out so early in the morning. If they have called by this time, it was either an absolute emergency or a really pathetic attempt to squeeze in a lame excuse before there were any managers around to speak to directly. Maybe they were worried about having to concoct a “sick voice” or answer any tough questions. Although, there was always the possibility that something legitimately terrible or life-threatening did happened... my mind wondered.

I unlocked the office door, clicked on the light and planted myself behind my desk. With an index finger I pushed the power button to start up the computer and glanced down at my other hand, still holding the folded yellow note - it seemed to taunt me. With much work immediately ahead... I sat silently distracted, contemplating on the myriad of call-out possibilities - trying to pair them with the two staff members.

Melissa seemed like an honest enough lady during the interview and orientation; arriving early for both if I remembered correctly. Chuck, the manager at the Front Desk, hadn’t given me an update yet, but as I passed through the lobby the other day, she seemed very charismatic with the guests in front of her. “Is she revealing her true colors?” I thought.

Jeff was great during his interview, he had more than fifteen years of experience with plumbing and electrical and wasn’t afraid to go into great detail about his work ethic. His references called him a real “man’s man”: early riser, hard-worker and no nonsense kind of guy. Perhaps he and his references had laid it on too thick. “Is he too good to be true?” I pondered.

As my desktop icons began to load, I felt the pressure to make my predictions...

For Melissa I guessed car trouble at first. It’s pretty easy to explain without saying too much. Just mentioning something about an engine light or leaking fluids could buy a nice day off with little effort, especially if she claimed to know very little about cars herself. Then, it occurred to me that a car excuse was more suitable for a last minute call-out, much closer to the time of her shift. I finally settled on an excuse about her children or family falling ill. I was pretty sure she mentioned having a child or two and when a problem arises with children and family it’s usually in the dead of night.

After some debate over Jeff, I figured on some variation of the ‘I’m not feeling well’ excuse. If this was his choice, I had a wide selection of ailments to narrow it down from. I considered giving him points for creativity if he invented a new disease I haven’t heard of, but decided he would lose points with me if it was some type of generic 24-hour flu. Finally, I settled on a middle-of-the-road excuse: “upset stomach”.

I locked-in my final answers, placed my imaginary wagers on the table and opened the yellow note with my thumb; it read:

Melissa called out @ 3:30AM/ Car was broken into overnight; windshield smashed.

Jeff called out @ 4:15Am/ Wife went into labor/ it’s a boy.

And so I must admit - I’m just as good at pairing excuses to employees as I am at pairing winning lotto numbers to the nightly drawing. As predictable as some excuses may be, there is always room brand new ones and you just don’t know who will come back with what!

I picked up a pen and reached for my daily calendar. Just below the bold red reminder for the day's impending deadline, I jotted:

No Excuses:

Melissa - Reschedule hours/Get car details.

Jeff - Send baby card/Ask for pictures.

~The Innkeeper

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Innkeeper InnSight, Volume 4

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2011-01-07T10:00:00Z

Let’s Check-In, shall we?

I Must Confess…

The New Year brings no resolutions for this Innkeeper. None what-so-ever. I've learned from past years that neither a minor commitment nor a major proclamation for a lifestyle change actually sticks around for much longer than mid-month anyway.

Nope, I will just abstain and save my energy. No new diets, no grand scheme to reduce my daily TV watching hours and those sky diving lessons will have to wait until I’m truly good and ready for them. I will even accept the fact that I will mistakenly write '2010' on every letter, document and memo until at least February, whereas '2011' will undoubtedly be written over strips of Liquid Paper in the meantime. Isn't it interesting that even with all the build-up and festivities that surround the new year, my mind still suffers from a lapse of this vital information when it comes to something as simple as putting a date on a check.. but I digress.

Now please don’t take my casual disregard for this popular annual tradition as a disregard for the new year entirely though. Actually, I look forward to it with optimism for a number of reasons. Among the top of that list is my work with ConfessInns: The Innkeeper Chronicles.

The anniversay of its inception won't come until April, however 2011 now marks the beginning of the second collection of chronicles - a feat due in no small part to my readers and fans who have aided greatly with its evolution from the beginning. Referring to my most dedicated readers as a 'cult following' may be doing a disservice to cults everywhere and is probably only accurate by measure of its numbers. Still, I appreciate your continued support!

And so, if I must resolve anything at all; if I must put ink to paper (or more appropriately: pixels to screens) - it would definitely be to continue posting my ConfessInns and carry-on expanding the Chronicles' reach & community until the next go-around.

Updates & BulletInns

Do you have secret? Go to the ConfessInnal and spill your guts! The best will be added to the ConfessInns Lobby and be immortalized as a Five Star ConfessInn. (Begins January, 2011)

You've got reservations with the Innkeeper, find out when.

SHARE and BOOKMARK The Innkeeper Chronicles through Facebook, Twitter, Google, Yahoo! and over 300 other services! Choose your favorite today from the toolbox located at the bottom of every post!

Burning Question of the Week

Many inquiries were warm, but here is the burning question the week:

Can the Front Desk tell that I watched dirty movies even though it doesn't print on the bill?

The Answer: Yes. Firstly, the average cost of those dirty movies is twice the cost of a mainstream movie and easily spotted. Secondly, the Front Desk will have direct access to the movie titles you've watched during your stay in case you challenge a charge at checkout - then title can be read aloud to refresh your memory.

Weekly Whisper

Shhh. You didn't hear this from me, but Call-outs are the hot topic of the next Innkeeper Chronicle on Monday.

Thank-you

Happy New Year and sleep well!

~The Innkeeper

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Let Me Count The Ways

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2011-01-03T10:00:00Z

Sure, it may often seem insignificant and blend into its background; tucked away in a drawer, stacked on a shelf, perceived as one of many and easily overlooked. But to me, a simple blank sheet of paper can be a little slice of heaven. It’s truly intoxicating with its crisp purity and industrialized fibrous scent - I can’t help but approach nose-first, long before my pen is uncapped, inhaling deeply and wondering what the two of us will create together. Despite this, I am a realist and typically at this point, or some time very shortly after, the reality of my endeavor becomes clear: this alluring canvas of flawlessness is just a cold, barren tundra, crying out to be filled with words. Words that may already exist, though not quite in the same order I must arrange them.

I admit, it is a strange concept, but this torrid relationship has gone on for quite some time. Along the way I learned that, much like any relationship, it can be difficult at times. It is an undertaking that requires a great deal of work and lasting effort. Sometimes the end result is not what you set out for it to be, but more often than not, it comes together somehow. Best of all is a lesson I picked up along the way, from a man named Mr Banister, who exposed a valuable third dimension to one's relationship with a simple sheet of paper.

As the year draws closer to an end, many changes are in store at the Inn. Seasonal adjustments like the outdoor pool and patio areas being closed up and cordoned off until the following Spring. And the violet summer bellflowers on each of the tables in the dining room transforming into bright yellow autumn lilies and then into slender and elegant winter Amaryllis.

Besides changes to the decor however, the typical cycle for the Inn (and most hotels) is that things die down in the remaining months of the year and a couple into the next. The number of employees goes down as guests and events become scarce. Less hours and fewer days will be available, so part-timers plan to move on to other jobs and weak links are cut along the way. This works out wonderfully, due to this very typical dip in occupancy, but it's a dip that will not come this year - and all due to our new Director of Sales. In three short months, Cheryl has continually maximized the Inn’s potential and provided a very profitable autumn that will continue deep into the new year.

What could be the down-side? Well, this unexpected benefit of steady business was just that - unexpected. Which means that I must now interview, hire and train at least twelve new employees of varying departments within just a few weeks to keep up!

I find that an interview can be very revealing when the right questions are asked and for the most part I don’t mind setting aside an afternoon or two to meet and engage individuals that are excited to work hard and be successful. My grievance with the interview process is that I must wade through so many disinterested, ill-prepared and unqualified people wasting my time and their own. To combat this, I take a page from Mr. Banister.

On the first day of an Into to Psychology class, immediately following a brief introduction, the professor began to announce our first assignment of the semester. He peeled of a clean white sheet of copy paper, from a powder blue file folder and handed one to each student.

“Write your name anywhere on this sheet of paper,” he said, then after taking a few moments to glance around the room to ensure we had all complied, “It is very important that you bring this back to me tomorrow,” he instructed.

My classmates and I did not know at the time, but his instructions were actually an underhanded invitation to a psychology experiment. The following day, as we piled into the classroom and started taking our seats, Mr. Banister announced, “Please place your papers here on my desk in a nice neat stack, anyone who has forgotten or lost your paper for whatever reason, come see me right away.”

Only one student had lost their paper, though he suffered no disciplinary action upon this admission that I could see and we were soon given a reading assignment as he studied over our papers. He spent at least a full minute examining each one, blank except for our names - and I was sure he couldn’t be that slow of a reader. When he finished, he stood and confessed his ploy. Based on the condition of the papers, he claimed he could predict our final grades at the end of the semester within 5 points.

Most of us thought he was crazy...and a few were happy to tell him just that. Though he seemed to present a fascinating argument. He chose his words carefully the day before, saying it was important to bring it back, making us express how important we really felt it was to complete the assignment, express how important we were going to take his class and even how we would apply ourselves to the entire course. He seemed certain that an accurate impression of ourselves were left behind as clues in the number of folds, tears, stains, debris, or lack thereof.

Whenever I am faced with the challenge of adding hours of interviews to my schedule, I need to make sure the time is spent wisely. My department heads: Chuck at the Front Desk, Connie in Housekeeping, Ernie in Maintenance or Mack in Food and Beverage, conduct their own first interviews and decide who they would like back. Those selected are given a blank sheet of white paper with a time and date written on it and simple instructions, “It is important that you bring this back for your interview with the Innkeeper.”

I usually cut my meetings in half by the coffee rings alone; my favorites are those that lose their homework. As a side note, Mr. Banister beat his own estimate and guessed our grades within 4 points. It may be no secret that the words on a page reveal a great deal about its author, but the page itself - quite literally, can reveal a great deal more.

~The Innkeeper

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Special BulletInn: The Innkeeper Returns

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2010-12-31T14:00:00Z

The New Year brings a time of celebration with new hopes for the future, reflections of times past and the return of The Innkeeper.

(Cue dramatic newsroom music here.)

Beginning this Monday, January 3rd, the Second Collection of Innkeeper Chronicles will debut!!

You can expect the Innkeeper to confess even more extraordinary stories and events revolving around the Inn, its staff and the ever-changing assortment of guests from unique to utterly bizarre.

These new installments are crafted to take you further into the tight-lipped world of hotels as seen through the eyes of the Innkeeper. Collection Two will also hold clues to an underlying mystery at the Inn throughout this second series.

You are cordially invited to satisfy your curiosities with the chronicles... and discover New and Updated features:

ConfessInns Lobby - Displays the Innkeeper's 'Five Star ConfessInns' - chosen from secrets submitted by readers and visitors of ConfessInns.com! Plus: Innspired quotes from notable celebrities, authors, world leaders and more.

The ConfessInnal - Share ConfessInns of your own with the Innkeeper and Innkeeper Chronicles Community! Sign our guestbook with your secret today!

Days & Distinctions - Provides the Innkeeper Chronicles' NEW posting schedule and descriptions for each posting day.

Until then - sleep well.

~The Innkeeper

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Innkeeper InnSight, Volume 3

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2010-10-01T21:00:00Z

Let’s Check-In, shall we?

I Must Confess…

The weekend is officially here and not a moment too soon. Nothing looks quite so nice after a long week, like a calendar reading Friday and a clock reading 5PM. The morning started off with its glitches though, and I doubted the day would end peacefully. Luckily, my outlook changed with a fortunate stoke of luck in just the right place.

If you have ever been a manager, of practically anything - you have probably been responsible for the daily “bank run”. The benefits are deceptive: a short break in the morning to disappear and take a drive. Soon you learn it just means more traffic experiences, long lines and awkward silences filled with elevator music. Actually, that does a disservice to elevator music - truth be told, nothing makes me wish I were in an elevator, listening with bleeding ears to gentle instrumental jams quite like listening to that same music in a long bank line.

When I arrive at the bank, I am entered immediately into a lottery for which teller will be available at the time I happen to emerge from the labyrinth of red ropes. The possibilities: The slow, shy teller, who never really makes eye-contact and counts everything three time at a snails pace; I often wonder if I should just order my lunch to her window. Next is the friendly, quick one, who always makes you feel welcomed and finishes like a good comedian - leaving you wanting more. Finally is the crypt keeper. Actually, that does a disservice to the crypt keeper. This lady has the personality of an over-stressed homicide detective from a bad b-movie. Oh, there’s plenty of eye-contact, so much that I feel as though I am being examined. Her questions are blunt and authoritative, “Is this a three on the slip, or did someone get sloppy with an eight?”

So call it a lottery or a game of human roulette, none-the-less, I am next in line! The slow one is still on her second round of counting, the friendly one is wrapping up a transaction and it looks like the mean one is berating a guy for shorting a change roll by a nickel...I squirm with anticipation. Then, to my extreme pleasure, the friendly one waves me over.

Updates & BulletInns

Lend the Innkeeper your support through Facebook and by Subscribing to the chronicles.

Which Visitor-Submitted ConfessInns made it to the top of our list? Make your way to the ConfessInns Lobby to find out today!

Burning Question of the Week

Many inquiries this week, but the burning question seems to be:

How many tales will be posted in Collection Two of The Innkeeper Chronicles and when will the next installment begin ?

The Answer: Fourteen; The exact premier date of Collection Two will be announced at the end of the year. Until, then ConfessInns: The Innkeeper Chronicles websites will experiment with new features and tools. Check back and tell us your thoughts!

Weekly Whisper

Shhh. You didn't hear this from me, but rumor has it that a "ConfessInnal" page is planned for the very near future.

Thank-you

Even if you got stuck with a crypt keeper or two this week - have a great weekend, come back soon and sleep well!

~The Innkeeper

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Karmic Termination

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2010-06-21T15:00:00Z

Unless you happen to be a time-traveling cyborg assassin with an Austrian accent, terminations are not any fun at all. This goes for both the person being fired as well as the person doing the firing. Even in cases when the employee has committed an obvious act of insubordination or otherwise gratuitous negative act in the workplace - it is only human to struggle with stripping someone of their finances and general means of living, let alone their daily routines or sense of self-worth. This is not to say that an employer should keep someone on their payroll that stands as a detriment to the business any longer than necessary; I am a firm believer that delaying a deserving termination can only make the situation worse and frankly this delay of the inevitable does no one any good. In my opinion, action should be handled swiftly and with a bit of respect and tact during such unfortunate circumstances.

Aside from a basic sense of human dignity and conscience, there is another extremely important reason for a hotelier to show respect when a termination comes up: the hospitality business is a small world of people with memories like elephants. This is an industry built on networking and contacts, job relocations and department-hopping, buy-outs and mergers…you will meet again and your actions will be remembered.

Case in point:

I recently received an email from my old colleague and friend, Luke Tealy. We had worked together years ago when I served as the weekend manager and he as the Assistance General Manager for a charming extended-stay type hotel. We rarely crossed paths during the work week, however we formed a special bond during a meeting on one occasion, when we voiced our similar disdain for the General Manager’s decisions and handling of the staff as well as the generally dreadful treatment wherein. (A shared loathing such as this tends to draw people together.)

The GM spoke to his employees like peasants sent to serve their King. His language was wrought with foul language, put-downs and negativity. Worst of all was his dependency on fear to gain respect - an effort that is never as fruitful as the opposing side: giving one’s respect in which to earn another’s. In short: he was a despicable ogre and walking Human Resource Claim waiting to happen.

One afternoon, late in the Fall season, trouble was started when Luke had arranged for the landscapers to come in for some leaf removal and final grounds-keeping in preparation for the approaching Winter season. The GM was dismayed…or more accurately - flabbergasted that such decisions were made without his final approval. We can examine both sides of the argument and weigh the appropriate disciplinary action with judgment and reasoning, but given the call I received from Luke that day, it hardly seems worth the time.

I answered my phone while making lunch, which inevitably left a mustard finger print on the ‘talk’ button and subsequent yellow crust in its crevices that never came out, “Hello,” I answered.

A deep exhale came from the other end, “Hey, it's Luke - do you have a minute?”

“Sure, are you at the hotel?” I asked.

“Yeah, just having a final smoke before the execution,” he said with a chuckle.

I hardly let him finish another drag of the cigarette before I shouted, “You think you’re getting canned!?!”

“I know it,” he said with full lungs. “He’s pissed that I set-up some landscaping without him. I was sure he would find something to blow out of proportion; I’m just happy it’s sooner rather than later.”

Luke was not troubled by his pending termination at all. As the AGM, he spent more face-to-face time with the boorish GM than anyone - too much time by his account. With a promise to call me afterward with all the details, Luke hung up and walked the green mile towards his fate.

In true tasteless form, the termination came with a barrage of insults related to job performance and lack of communication, but what pinched a nerve somewhere deep inside Luke was when the GM hurled the final blow, “You might think about the impression you give, with such filthy shoes.”

The words hit Luke’s ear drums like daggers and as if acting upon reflex, his eyes went to his feet. There, on the left shoe, was a glob of grape jelly. Collateral damage from the hour he had spent in the dining room after breakfast, cleaning and resetting tables because two servers called out that day.

Luke told me his only words were, “Who do you think you are?” but he admitted he didn’t stay for the answer.

All these years later we still keep in contact via email and bump into each other at conventions every now and again. In his most recent correspondence, he shared some especially pleasing news…

It’s important to know that Luke continued to work in hotels after his departure. First at a competing hotel in town, then he returned to the same brand in another area of the country. At present, he works as a Quality Inspector for the corporate office. This means he travels the country and carries out surprise inspections on hotels, decides upon scores and relays them back to district managers, which can lead to accolades and in some cases - fines.

As fate would have it, Luke was assigned to a hotel with a familiar face as the General Manager. What followed was the most exhaustive and meticulous inspection one can imagine. Luke penalized the GM for every infraction big and small…even microscopic. No mattress unturned; no dusty storage closet unaccounted for.

With great forethought this time, Luke crafted his departing words and launched them like rockets, “Here’s your copies of the paperwork. You know, if I could take away points for your personal appearance I would have. What kind of impression do you think you are giving the guests with such filthy shoes?”

The GM’s head darted downward; his shoes were covered in dust, debris and cobwebs from the days thorough examination. Before he could look back up, Luke was gone.

~The Innkeeper

*Next Chronicle Post: Thursday*

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Innkeeper InnSight, Volume 2

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2010-06-19T19:00:00Z

Let’s Check-In, shall we?

I Must Confess…

I stand presently with the shoe planted firmly on the other foot as this upcoming week approaches. In just a few days I will return to my hometown in New England after a lengthy absence and morph from day-to-day hospitality insider to a bonafide traveler and guest. The bulk of my destinations throughout each year are related to business of coarse, which means I have little time to hang around the hotel, catch a local show or relish the delights of room service - all of which I am now determined to fit on the agenda.

The reason for this journey is that my attendance is required for a celebration of my becoming an uncle for the first time. Actually an uncle-in-law and moreover the occasion is technically for the mother-to-be…but who wants to split hairs anyway?

I look forward to visiting with friends and family as well as discovering the changes to the places I knew so well in a time that seems long past. My packing has not yet begun and will likely wait until the night before I depart, though the plans are well laid out for a visit to my favorite little hometown bookstore, lunch at the Italian restaurant around the corner from my childhood home and long scenic drives around the beautiful lakes and orchards that dot the land. I have always been the exploring type and my job has allowed for relocations further and further away from where I started, time and time again. Despite this, or perhaps because of it - it’s going to be nice to voyage back.

Updates & BulletInns

The Innkeeper Chronicles passed the two month mark this week with the postings of the Chronicles: Bitter-Sweet and What's In A Name?

With the support of readers, fellow bloggers and recent admittance to select industry directories, the growth in hits, entry views and subscribers have doubled and in some cases tripled since the previous month.

ConfessInns.com, which provides additional features and news from the Innkeeper, continues to grow with reader participation and enthusiasm. An opportunity will soon be presented for hospitality-type blogs to be featured within the chronicles - check back for more details!

Responses to Days & Distinctions have yielded positive feedback and have been considered a marvelous improvement to the consistency of this blog. You’ve got a reservation with the Innkeeper!

Care to Share? If you like what you see here at The Innkeeper Chronicles, please forward a link to a friend and spread the word!

Bonus Blog Discoveries

Banquet Manager - This is a brilliant blog from the banquet niche of the hospitality world. With frequent posts on topics ranging from call-outs to chocolate fountain adventures and pet peeves, this often hysterical blog is a must-see in my estimation.

Bullet Holes In The Mailbox - A wonderfully written blog which reflects the author’s family, friends, memories, opinions and life encounters. Each post is captivating and will send you running to his archives for more.

Weekly Whisper

Shhh. You didn't hear this from me, but rumor has it that this Monday's Chronicle will focus on employee terminations. This will be the final chronicle in Collection One of ConfessInns: The Innkeeper Chronicles.

Thank-you

My continued thanks goes out for all the support, comments and link-backs I have received. I look forward to remaining a frequent stop for you on your journeys of the road and web. Sleep well!

~The Innkeeper

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What's In A Name?

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2010-06-18T00:00:00Z

I have a friend named Joe. Joe looks very much like what you may imagine a ‘Joe' to look like. Not that every Joe looks alike, but this Joe - if you ever were to see him - you would say, “Now that guys looks like a 'Joe'." I know this other person named Joe too. He also looks very much like a ‘Joe’. This second Joe doesn’t look too much like the first, but if you were ever to see Joe #2 you’d probably say “Now that guy looks like a ‘Joe’ too. I met another man once that was also named Joe. For the sake of remaining chronological, let’s call him Joe #3 for now. This Joe did not look like a ‘Joe’ at all. At first I thought his resemblance to be more representative of a Felix or Franklin. It’s strange how some people fit right into their names as though their parents were somehow clairvoyant in matching it to their future likeness and others seem to have a much more awkward fit all together.

One day after a meeting with the Housekeeping staff in the Birch Room, one of the cozy conference rooms located on the first floor, I walked to the Front Desk to speak with Stephanie about picking up an extra afternoon shift over the upcoming weekend. When I arrived she was checking-in a guest, so I stood waiting for a few minutes flipping through brochures in a rack nearby and pretending to read their contents as they finished up. As it turned out, the pen Stephanie handed the guest to sign his registration card was dry as a bone. Since Stephanie had her head down making key cards at that particular moment and since I was failing miserably in feigning interest about the local hiking trail site map - I handed him a pen from my pocket.

“Welcome to the Inn,” I said as I pointed it at him, “How long will you be staying with us?”

“A few weeks or so, maybe longer,” he replied, taking the pen from my fingertips.

He signed his name and initialed by the rate as Stephanie had instructed him, “How long can I keep this rate - that is, if I need to extend?” He asked with his head down.

“Well, Mr. Webber, the coupon code you used online is good for five days,” she said placing his key packet on the desk beside him. “Can I have someone help you with your bags?”

Mr. Webber placed my pen into his pocket, slid his registration card forward to Stephanie, grabbed his room keys and grunted, “No need,” then he lifted three or four white plastic grocery bags which sat on the floor by his feet. He tied them together creating a common center knot that made the heaps of plastic look like puffy white flower petals.

“The elevators are this way,” I interjected to fill the lingering silence while gesturing with my vacant, pen-less hand, “have a wonderful stay, Mr. Webber; sleep well.”

He walked past me without a glance and barked, “Call me, Joe.”

Right away I thought about the odd fit of his name. I would have guessed Fredrick or maybe even Fitch before Joe any day. His awkward and off-putting personality had little to do with this thought however. I’ve never met any Fred or Fitch that reminded me of this strange fellow, actually as the level of weird increased over the course of his stay it became apparent that I had met no one at all like Mr. Joe Webber before.

Each encounter Joe had with the staff and myself seemed to top the last. The man clearly had little or nothing to do all day and just paced around the lobby making other guests feel uncomfortable and changing the TV channel in the sitting area to old western movies. I made it a point to speak with him as often as possible to monitor his mental state and encouraged the staff to do so as well. A few days into his stay he started becoming more comfortable with his surroundings. Soon it was he that spoke to us as often as possible; most conversations followed this order:

1.) Joe asks a ridiculous question. (“What brand of mulch is used around the bushes outside?”)
2.) Joe states an uneducated opinion. (“Mulch is bad for the bushes, you should use pebbles and rocks so the roots can get more water.”)
3.) Joe avoids eye-contact and shows disinterest while the person he just posed the ridiculous question and uneducated opinion to, tries to figure out how to respond to such insanity.
4.) Joe randomly interrupts with completely off-topic…let’s say ‘frugal’ inquiries. (“Do I need to order a cup of coffee to have a bunch of those little creamers?”; “Does my rate go down if I don’t need housekeeping for a few days?”; “Can you give me a list of local restaurants that serve dinner for under $10?”)

I can understand a traveler’s desire to keep expenses to a minimum, but this Joe was just plain cheap. Every freebie, sample, coupon, or minor complaint that would be rewarded with a discount was sucked up - post haste…Joe was the King of Discounts. He first checked in for fives days per his internet coupon rate, but on the day of his departure he made another reservation from the hotel’s business center to arrive that same day using another coupon. He did the same again when that offer expired and so on and so on until our dear Joe was a guest for over a two months.

I had seen Joe nearly every day of his first two months at the Inn and I recall only three different variations of the same basic outfit he wore over that time. Then, seemingly out of nowhere things began to change. He began dressing much better, shaving more often and trimming his unibrow. Joe even had a girl or two on a few occasions and returned some evenings with take-out bags from much more upscale restaurants than would cater to his dollar menu requirements up to that point. He hung around the lobby much less often and asked fewer questions. He stopped stealing coffee creamers from the dining room and extended his stay for another month in an upgraded suite without any discounts.

The staff wondered about the sudden changes and hypothesized about him having won the lottery or being switched out for a cleaner, wealthier twin brother. For the life of me, I could still not get over how his name terribly mismatched his face. (Maybe Fabian or Floyd would fit better, but I digress.)

A few days before his third month came to a close, I received a call in my office from the Front Desk as I sorted through the day’s emails. Nelson told me that there were some men in the lobby to see me and that I should hurry.

I closed my office door for a moment and adjusted my tie in the mirror behind it. Then I flew out to the hall and B-lined it straight to the Front Desk where I spotted four men in black suits and ties milling around each other with two uniformed police officers in tow.

The men in the suits ranged in age from fifty-five down to about thirty and they all looked equally intimidating and intense. The oldest stepped forward after I introduced myself to the herd.

“My name is Special Agent Claude Malkison. I understand you may have a guest here by the name of Joe Webber,” he said glaring.

What happens next in this situation is that I say five simple words. The answer will be simple as well and absolutely definitive in dictating how/if we go any further…

“Do you have a warrant?”

It is the requirement and policy of every hotel I have known, that guest information is sacred and protected. This goes for all anonymous callers, ex-spouses, family members and yes - law enforcement too. Unless of coarse, direct permission is given by the guest or inquirer has a warrant. Police and agents like those that stood before me know how it works and usually won’t waste time asking if they don’t have one.

The second oldest of the four Suits raised a blue folder, “Here you go,” he said.

My eyes danced around the page and I quickly spotted the name Joe Webber, however it was listed in a section labeled “Aliases.” His other names included Mike Tobber, Nick Popper and Tony Langetti. The document was legal and allowed for the complete search of his room and vehicle as well as a direction to apprehend him immediately. I instructed the front desk to provide the Suits with any and all information they required and soon after they left the lobby with the officers to head for Joe’s room.

The only one of the men that stayed behind happened to be the youngest, “Probably not seasoned enough to come along for the bust,” I thought. He was quite pleasant once we were alone and very loose-lipped.

The young Suit told me that Joe had taken a cruise with his wife five months previous and had never returned. His wife reported him missing and it was ruled that he had suffered some kind of accident and fallen to his death from the ship. The authorities were immediately suspicious due to a very large insurance policy which was collected months later. Large withdrawals were then made from her account and wired to newly opened checking accounts under each of the alias listed. He would hide out until the money came in and they would fly out of the country when the time was right.

The trouble for Joe was that the police had been putting increased pressure on the wife as time went on and finally managed to convinced her to spill the beans about their plot to fake his death.

I realized at this point that I had neglected to look for Joe’s real name on the warrant and casually asked to see it again. First Name: ‘Fletcher’ - I should have known.

~The Innkeeper

*Next Chronicle Post: Saturday *

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Bitter-Sweet

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2010-06-14T15:00:00Z

I’m often faced with a frustrating predicament; an unavoidable catch-22 that comes as the unfortunate down-side to the opportunity of peeking randomly into people’s lives as they navigate through their travels and stop at the Inn along the way. Limited by our position in time, their respective journeys may have just begun or stand only mid-way through. Most frustrating is when their fascinating expeditions are nearly complete and lack just a few pieces to reach the finish. This disadvantage; this absence of closure and lack obligation to follow-up can be a hard pill to swallow, but they make the rare encounters with people like Earl Garrett - a guest at the very end of his extraordinary journey - so much more special.

It was at the end of six long months that Mr. Earl Garrett, a private investigator, found his way to the Inn. Despite his dapper blue suit and well-groomed hair, his weathered eyes were red from the extended travel and lodging and he was tremendously relieved to have it come to a close. More than he, his client (whom he called Cassandra) would be ecstatic as her story had begun more than thirty years earlier…on her birthday.

Cassandra’s twenty-third birthday was much different than her twenty-second. In just a year’s time she would go from a confused college senior, regretting and second-guessing her choice of a communications major to transform into a popular personality in multiple radio and television markets. The witty young woman with the soft, charming voice took on fans by the droves as the side-kick on a popular morning radio show and landed re-occurring spots on local TV weekend programming. The speed of the sudden fame and prestige didn’t go to her head though, rather it just made her work harder. No time for social events, dating or late nights out of the office for Cassandra. Before she knew it, the year had passed and her birthday made her pause.

Upon reflection of her hard work and success, she decided she was ready to let lose a bit and enjoy the special day, but reality and disappointment would soon set in. She received only empty, emotionless birthday greetings from acquaintances and generic paper cards that filled her office mailbox from advertisement sponsors and company big-wigs, but no meaningful birthday wishes that seemed to matter or fill her with any warmth. Her parents called by noon that day, but by 8PM she hadn’t heard from any friends and her mind focused on regret.

Depressed and lonely, Cassandra began to drink and weep at her work desk under a pathetic dim light. She had confessed to Mr. Garrett that the light was just bright enough to catch the shine on a marvelous gift basket placed on the counter space in the corner of her office. She staggered towards it and marveled at its beauty. The wooden basket was wrapped with green plastic that continued to catch the light and bounce it back in varying shades. Inside, Cassandra could see a series of treats and trinkets, but pulled back the small white card attached before going any further. Taped to the card was a delightful piece of mint chocolate, which she unwrapped and devoured as she read the note:

“Somewhere there's someone who dreams of your smile,
And finds in your presence that life is worth while,
So when you are lonely, remember it's true;
Somebody, somewhere is thinking of you.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks and mint chocolate down the corners of her mouth. The unsigned message was exactly what she needed to hear and she vowed to herself that success and personal happiness would both be present on her next birthday and every birthday to follow from then on.

Making good on her commitment, Cassandra continued to progress in her career and relationships; by the following birthday she was promoted to co-anchor of the local morning television news program, she had established a meaningful romantic relationship and she struggled to get any work done between answering all the singing birthday song phone calls and telegrams throughout the day from her closest of friends. She made it a point to leave the office early that second year, but noticed a marvelously familiar green gift basket on her way out. It wasn’t alone on the counter this time, but it remained the most alluring. She detached the anonymous white card from the green plastic wrap as she had done the year before, discovered another tasty mint chocolate which she gobbled down hastily and read the lovely new poem on the elevator ride to her car.

Years past on and the number of gifts and calls increased steadily each birthday. Her office filled with cards and baskets and for the first five years or so Cassandra made certain to keep her special green basket to the front of them all - the most prominent as it arrived each year on that day. Further along to ten and fifteen years she paid less and less attention. She wouldn’t notice it sometimes until days later; in years when she was dieting she skipped the chocolate mint; by year twenty she had stopped reading the poems.

Having achieved as much success as her local media outlets would allow, Cassandra finally retired from her work in front of the camera and took an editorial job for a long while at a newspaper before finally deciding to retire all-together and write a novel.

After her departure from the TV news the calls and gifts dwindled. When she left the newspaper and started her retirement they slowed and lessened to only her closest friends, but she could always count on her dependable green basket, note and mint… that was until just six months ago - when suddenly Cassandra’s birthday came and past with no special delivery.

“So here I am,” said Mr. Garrett wiping his brow, “when it didn’t arrive, she was instantly filled with regret; she had never looked into the source of the gifts and had taken them for granted. Now she fears it’s too late.”

“Is it too late?” I asked; I bit my lip as I awaited his answer.

His eyebrows furrowed as he pressed his lips together and nodded his head slightly. Mr. Garrett was relieved that his case was closed, but saddened at the news he had to give his client. The private investigator traced the last eight years worth of gift baskets to a law office in town near the Inn. He took a meeting with an attorney that was not completely surprised to hear from a private investigator inquiring about the matter. The attorney told Garrett that he had organized the deliveries for the last eight years on behalf of ‘the diseased’ and conveyed a shocking story of how the mystery gift-giver was Cassandra’s father. After she was conceived, he would be shipped away to war and expected never to return. To save the child heartache, he urged her mother to take another man’s hand and keep the true paternity a secret. The agreement was that Cassandra would never know of him and he could never contact her.

Later, having survived years of combat, he returned alive to face his decision and life without his daughter; he longed to know her and lived in loneliness because of his sorrow. Bound by his agreement, he stayed loyal to his word in hopes that her life was somehow better; he could only wonder.

Then one day she showed up on his television.

At the age of twenty-three, with the face of her mother and last name of the man who had taken his fatherly place - there she was. He could not stop himself from sending her gifts and poems to express his love even if it was anonymous. He hid clues throughout the years to provoke her curiosity, but even the mint chocolates that were made at the candy factory he worked at for twenty years went over-looked.

At the end of his life, he put aside an account to be drawn upon each year to ensure she received her basket, an additional amount was added to cover the fees for it’s personal assembly by the attorney and to guarantee its accuracy and poem selection. Last year, the account balance dropped to zero and the baskets forever ceased to be shipped.

I never saw the private-eye again and I have only my imagination for the heart break Cassandra must have suffered when she heard the news. I am grateful to have been provided with closure for this chronicle, but I realize that Cassandra’s closure may never come and the revelation of her loving father will remain forever bitter-sweet.

~The Innkeeper

*Next Chronicle Post: Thursday*

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Memorial Day Palooza

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2010-05-31T15:00:00Z

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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Special BulletInn: The Power of Suggestion

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2010-05-25T17:00:00Z

This Special BulletInn is brought to you by the Innkeeper.

(Cue dramatic newsroom music here.)

A few days ago, a loyal reader of The Innkeeper Chronicles forwarded a marvelous suggestion to make a beneficial improvement for both the structure of this blog and its readers alike. After continuing correspondence with the reader over a number of days and lending careful consideration to the recommended approach - I have acted upon the idea and will begin its implementation today.

Going forward, The Innkeeper Chronicles will post on designated days of the week with on-going distinctions for the particular days. I hope you will think of this as consistent weekly reservations with me; my aim is to help you identify a favorite day or two (or more) that I can count on you to return to read, share and learn.

More Information and complete descriptions can be found in the Days and Distinctions tab on the top of each page.

Thanks again to Jess, for your insight and to all others joining this Innkeeper and his chronicles.

Since all that’s left is providing a proper sign off...

"Good night and have a pleasant tomorrow," “Take care of yourself and each other," "Glad we could get together," "Good night and good news," “I’m Chevy Chase and you’re not,” "Keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars," "That's the news, and I am outta here," "Good day and may the good news be yours," "See you on the radio." "And so it goes," “Seacrest out,” "That's my story and I'm sticking to it," "Stay classy, San Diego"... and sleep well.

~The Innkeeper

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The Night Light - Part 1

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2010-05-21T03:00:00Z

Room #309 was odd in every sense of the word.

It was assigned with an odd number, located on an odd floor, positioned oddly in proportion to the hall and its décor was terribly old-fashioned, especially odd considering the modern appearance and tight upkeep on all the rest. But most odd of all; odd with a dash of mysterious and a sprig of spooky was that for a very long time – Room #309 did not officially exist.

It was during my first few months at the Inn, at the very beginning when I had just begun to wet my feet and embark on what would be my journey as an Innkeeper, when I became aware of this inherently odd room. The Front Desk Supervisor at the time was a man named Eric. I learned a lot from him in the very short time he was my supervisor, most of which were lessons of “don’ts” in working at a hotel. He never took his job or himself too seriously, which explained why he did not last long. Perhaps, just last long enough to introduce me to Room #309.

Short staffed for a busy weekend, the Inn wasted no time in throwing me to the wolves after just a few short weeks of training. I was scheduled for a busy Friday shift with a jam-packed arrivals list and only Eric as back-up to assist me. The night was sheer chaos all the way through; the flow of check-ins seemed to continue on like a steady parade of elephants, each more demanding than the last.

Due to Eric’s lack of leadership and my novice expertise at the time, I took up making notes on everything that passed through my hands to avoid any errors. Room assignments for example were unbearable; matching numbers and locations to demands and requests was a delicate game. Since I dreaded double-assigning a room or voiding keys by mistake, I kept a detailed running list of vacant rooms and crossed them off manually as I checked them in so that I would have back-up for later reference as I went along. Towards the end of the shift the computer showed the Inn was over-sold by one more room than made sense according to my notes. Soon I realized that Room #309 was not crossed off and yet the computer would not recognize it as an assignable room number.

“Eric, I think we can break even here if you can help me get this last arrival assigned to #309,” I said to my vain leader as he adjusted his hair in a painting’s reflective glass covering.

“309? We don’t sell that one, don’t even bother,” he replied without turning his head.

“Is there a 309? It doesn’t show up in the computer; did they skip a digit when they numbered the rooms or something?” I chuckled.

“You haven’t heard about 309 yet?” he seemed more interested now. “If you can stick around for a few minutes after your shift, I’ll show you.”

Eleanor, the full-time Night Auditor, (who remains with the Inn to this day, though limited to only weekend 3^rd shifts) arrived ten minutes early and plopped her large white purse on the back desk, setting off rumbles of prescription pills and loose change, “How was the night, fellas?” she asked.

We filled her in on the essentials and griped about this and that as the last minutes of my shift ticked away. Eric let Eleanor in on his plan to educate me on Room #309 and added that he would return shortly to finish his paperwork and end his night.

“Is that really necessary Eric?” she asked, “I wouldn’t go messing if I didn’t have to.”

“We’re not ‘messing’, it’s just a quick tour and I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he replied as he scooped the master set of keys from a mounted box in the back office.

We made our way out the door, through the lobby and stopped at the bank of elevators nearest the first floor guest room hallway. Eric stretched out his arm and pressed the call button.

“I don’t know if anyone has been in there lately; I haven’t stepped a foot inside since last Christmas and the last guests to use it was over year ago - and they didn’t make it over night,” he told me, “we had just opened it up again after a long hiatus to try to maximize revenue, but we had to move them a few hours after check-in and issue a full refund in the morning. It was taken out of inventory later that same day.”

The elevator doors flew open and we stepped inside. Upon Eric’s direction, I reached over and selected the round white “3” for the third floor which illuminated a bright yellow. Gravity shifted as the as metal box moved upwards and Eric continued, “Decades ago, the owner of the Inn was an old man named Bookhart and he had a sister, a resident at some loony-bin, who in turn, had a son named Lloyd .”

The elevator came to a halt and the doors opened exposing the 3^rd floor; we stepped out and continued down a long hallway. After passing the first set of four guest room doors, (# 301, 302, 303 and 304), I thought back to the tour I was given by the General Manager on my orientation day, which I then realized was thoroughly useless as I could not remember ever being shown the third floor in particular, rather the extent of that initial walk-around was limited to locating the pool and a couple random rooms on the first floor only.

“Keep up, okay?” Eric whispered; I wasn’t sure if he was lowering his voice for the guests in surrounding rooms or to set the ambiance for our destination. “Lloyd was terribly neglected and eventually abandoned for a number of years when his mom was put away. So Uncle Bookhart basically adopted him as his own and since he spent so much time here at the Inn, Lloyd got a room all to himself.”

The hall began to widen to the left as we passed rooms 305, 306, 307 and 308. The widening created an oddly disproportionate inlet that housed a boardroom with a wooden oval table and twelve chairs that I could see into through two large panes of glass and open faux-wood blinds. A plaque hung on the door reading, “The Pine Room – Max. Occupancy 16.”

“And here we are,” Eric said as he stopped in front of Room #309.

The door was fit into the wall on an awkward angle that made it seem more apt to be a broom closet than a guest room, but was labeled just as Eric had said, “309”. The room numbers following chronologically after it seemed to skip the chaos all together and pick up again a few more feet down the hall, creating a new grouping of rooms.

Eric jingled the master set of keys from his pocket, “They lock the deadbolt so regular key cards don’t work,” he said softy.

The heavy lock pounded open and the door swung inward.

~The Innkeeper

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Innkeeper InnSight, Volume 1

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2010-05-18T09:15:00Z

Let’s Check-In, shall we?

Today I introduce Innkeeper Innsights, a running newsletter of sorts that will allow me to comment on updates, changes and happenings regarding ConfessInns: The Innkeeper Chronicles and its companion site ConfessInns.com. I will also post and answer questions/comments and perhaps even spout off about any off-topic rants that may be lingering in my thoughts or cramping my brain. But I should not digress when...

I Must Confess…

A last minute glitch in a banquet set-up for Mrs. Esther Carver’s book club sent me scurrying to a first floor storage room ten minutes after 7PM one Tuesday night, long after the point when I should have been gone for the day and enjoying General Tso chicken from my favorite Chinese restaurant (extra spicy!) and catching up with my DVR. It seemed Mrs. Carver’s request for maroon colored tablecloths was overlooked and the tables were dressed with cream colored cloths instead. Pressed for time with only twenty minutes until the sea of gray-haired ladies began their enthralling discussion of the latest Danielle Steele installment, I apologized and dashed away to change them out personally.

As I made my way down a dark hallway between the kitchen and the ballroom, I noticed a light coming from Mack’s office, the Inn’s Food and Beverage Manager. I walked by and waved, but his back was turned towards me as I passed; he was hunched over and rearranging a series of items sprawled out on his desk. I reached the storage room, slide my key card through the lock and felt for a light switch. The maroon cloths sat in a mangled pile on the top shelf of a four tier wall organizer. They were clean in appearance and smelled divine, but had wrinkles that looked like a complex spider web of criss-crosses and zig-zags leading everywhere and nowhere; covering every square inch. Committed to try, though not entirely convinced of its plausibility, I loaded my arms with tablecloths and headed to the Housekeeping Department to battle the army of wrinkles with hot irons and steam in the hopes of making the looming book club deadline.

I dashed back down the hallway and stopped this time at Mack’s door; I could now see that the items he had laid out were from his wallet: small pictures of children and pets, piles of ATM and fast food receipts, loose change, seven or eight dollars in ones, a few old movie stubs and more.

“Hey, Mack – you want to lend me a hand or two?” I asked while peeking over the leaning pile of table cloths in my arms.

“Where you going with these?” he said as he lifted off the top half of the pile.

“We need these pressed for the book club in fifteen minutes; how are you with an iron?” I repositioned my remaining load to rest on my hip.

“We’ll get these knocked out in ten,” Mack replied, “as long as you let me back into my office afterward, I’m not finished yet and this door is going to lock behind me.”

On the way to Housekeeping and all throughout our Olympic ironing challenge, Mack discussed his after-hours wallet project. He was excited about upgrading from a generic bi-fold Velcro version to a new tri-fold leather one. With the enthusiasm of a new car owner, Mack described the features which included double the compartment space, a transparent driver’s license window, functional zipper pocket and convenient security clasp. Even though the old one was perfectly fine and acceptable by basic standards, the new one looked much better, provided superior organization and allowed easier access. I understood the logic,despite my personal feelings towards wallets in general, a relationship that was turbulent and regrettable at best. I recall when I received my first wallet and the conversation I had with my father regarding it.

“A wallet is a very important possession,you’ll probably keep this for 10 years,” he said, “I had my first wallet for 10 years – you get attached, like a lucky charm.”

Looking back I have two thoughts – One: someone should start a support group for obsessive wallet lovers and Two: my father was quite mistaken about my wallet’s longevity. I lost the first and every one I have ever owned, right along the cash, ID and credit cards it held. I can hardly bare to imagine the time I’ve lost standing in line at the DMV for replacement identification or the torturous hours of hold music I endured while canceling cards and stopping charges.

I thought of the exchange I had with Mack when I decided to make some updates and improvements to ConfessInns.com and the Innkeeper Chronicles:

Updates & BulletInns

Today you’ll notice a completely new look at ConfessInns.com, which is now fully integrated with The Innkeeper Chronicles to ensure fast, efficient navigation and a bunch of little extras for those who wish to spend more time in my little world.

Share your thoughts on new/experimental features such as Daily BulletInns, Hospitality Headlines, Group ConfessInn Polls and more, which will be appearing throughout the ConfessInns website over the coming weeks and months. Plus, opportunities to share your own ConfessInns!

Reader Feedback:

Some items currently under consideration based on popularity of requests:

The Inn’s Family Tree – a detailed diagram of the Inn’s staff members mentioned in the chronicles and a summary of memorable guests.

Reader ConfessInns – stories and reflections submitted by readers that work in the hospitality industry or have had a memorable guest experience.

Weekly Whisper

Shhh. You didn't hear this from me but rumor has it that the next new chronicle is an open-ended tale of a mysterious guest room that qualifies as odd in every sense of the word.

Thank-you

My appreciation goes out to my subscribers,loyal readers and the quick passers-by that take the time join in the ever challenging, always chaotic, often peculiar and fantastically rewarding journey of an Innkeeper and his chronicles. Sleep well!

Oh, what happened with Mrs. Carver? She received her freshly pressed maroon table cloths about fifteen minutes late. To make up for the inconvenience, Mack and I stayed another half hour to bake two complimentary sheets of cookies for the book club, a gesture that went over smashingly and put the complaints to rest.

Exhausted, I finally stepped through my front door at 8:42PM, slid off my shoes, loosened my tie and called in my order for General Tso chicken – extra spicy.

~The Innkeeper

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Signs Of A Memorable Guest

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2010-05-13T10:00:00Z

During the summertime one year at the Inn, years ago, yet etched in my memory as if it were yesterday - I experienced, as if by fate, the most fortunate of chance meetings. I recall clearly how the pastel pink and orange colored afternoon sky seemed to darken more quickly than usual; in no time at all, the day had turned to a coal black and starless night. It seemed the evening could not wait to begin, though my thoughts were focused squarely on its end. Merely seven hours into a double-shift, which would include the overnight shift to follow, I was already weary and restless from sheer boredom and limited human contact. My arrivals list (very much in need of life-support), showed one lonely name for its sixth consecutive hour of the seven, which was not much less bleak than the first hour, having maxed out at two arrivals total before coming to an abrupt end when an old married couple checked-in and disappeared soon after. The main topic of stimulating conversation was kept to a brief discussion about the dining room’s breakfast hours and a request for a 5:15AM wake-up call.

So there I sat for hours, turning figures of speech like “twiddling your thumbs” into literal avenues of passing time. The evening that had come so quickly now seemed to linger, refusing to allow time its natural passage. I visited the snack and beverage machines more often than I’d care to admit, checked my e-mails, read every word on OSHA posters and various memos that hung in the back office and won four paper football super bowls against myself before midnight struck.

At this point, I stood for a ceremonial AM stretch and headed towards the lobby’s front doors where I met with Earl, the Inn’s night watchman. He leaned on a plastic smoker’s post and sucked a few hard drags from a filtered cigar as the sliding doors opened. He promptly scraped away the fiery red tip against the grated side panel of the post and tucked its remains into the front breast pocket of his navy blue uniform. Earl handed me a clipboard and together we walked to each of the main entrances; I watched and signed-off for each door as he latched and locked them one by one – the usual protocol.

After Earl was on his way, off patrolling the shadowy parking lot (or more likely catching a nap between late night talk radio shows), I found myself refilling staplers and paper trays to keep from losing my sanity. With office supplies readily stocked, I then settled back into my comfy captains chair in the back office, dug my cell phone from my pocket and pulled up Tetris. At level five or so, the silence was pierced with the blare of the ringing phone at the front desk. I felt like an island castaway spotting a plane in the distance; I paused my game, picked up the receiver on the switchboard phone that sat next to me and pressed the blinking line.

“Good evening, Guest Serv…” I managed to get out before I heard a click and a dial tone. “What a tease,” I thought. I hardly had time to hang up and return to my game when another ring let out from the front desk. Again I picked up the blinking line, “Good evening, Guest Services, how may I…” - another click and dial tone. “Kids are getting lazy. At least when I prank called people when I was younger there was a joke to go along with it,” I complained to myself as I slammed down the receiver.

A full two minutes went by in familiar silence, then more ringing. This time I looked more closely at the incoming description text on the phone before I answered the line and saw that the call was coming from the Inn’s front entrance. I slid my chair to the surveillance monitors and enlarged the feed coming from the front sliding doors, aimed quite directly at the phone mounted near the key card reader. “Some drunk has forgotten his key,” I figured. I picked up the blinking line and tried again, “Good evening, Guest Services, how may I help you?” I said as I watched the monitor. A man held the phone in his hand about a foot from his head, he starred and studying it for a moment, showed it to a woman who leaned in and shook her head, then – click and dial tone. “What is wrong with these people?” I wondered.

I made my way around the corner and back to the Front Desk where I looked through the lobby to the large glass sliding doors at the main entrance; the man lifted the phone from the hook and it rang immediately to the front desk again. At this same moment a third person, a little girl no more than eight or nine, stepped forward and leaned against the door with her hands raised to block the glare; she saw me and began to wave. I reached for a rectangular metal button on the right wall of the front desk, which flew the sliding doors open, allowing them entry. As they walked through the lobby and towards the desk, I could hear them murmuring to each other, but I could not make out any specific words. Their tones suggested some type of impairment or disability and I began to hope they weren’t upset or confused with the delay at the door.

“Mommy, Daddy – it’s just like Zack and Cody,” the little girl said as she gestured quickly with her hands. I realized that her parents were deaf when I recognized several of her gestures as American Sign Language. As luck would have it, my mother had studied and instructed sign language throughout my childhood and exposed my sister and I to its value. Since the beginning of my career I had listed it as a fluent second language on resumes and prided myself on my ability to hold a coherent conversation (as well as hand-sing ‘I’m dreaming of a White Christmas’ if the moment presented itself).

The father dropped two sepia brown suitcases at his feet and reached into his back pocket to reveal a small red spiraled notebook and a thin BIC ink pen. He placed the notebook on the front desk and flipped through page after page of hand written messages, no doubt a map of sorts, documenting his family’s journey through endless moment-by-moment written conversations, questions and directions. I smiled and waved at his wife and daughter then reached over the desk and gently touched his wrist. As he raised his head I removed my hand and signed, “Good evening, how are you?”

The relief that rushed across his face reminded me of a lottery winner holding an over-sized check on the local news or an island castaway who has actually gotten the attention of the plane in the distance.

“You sign?” he asked.

“You can sign,” the daughter echoed with her hands and voice.

“Yes, I little,” I replied humbly, no need to profess my fluency to this family.

“Daddy, he can talk to you,” the girl said reassuring her father.

The couple smiled widely and confirmed themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Kern, the remaining name on my arrival’s list. I ensured they were assigned an ADA (Americans with Disabilities Act) compliant room, which came standard with benefits like assistant listening devices, closed captioning televisions and light/vibration signal enabled fire alarms, telephones and alarm clocks. We chatted for a while about the weather and nearby locations to shop and eat. They shared that they were visiting Mrs. Kern’s parents, the first quality visit for their daughter Ally to have with her grandparents in nearly two years.

All the while, through the check-in and hand chatter, little Ally spun in circles studying every corner of the lobby and repeating “Just like Zack and Cody” and asking “Do Zack and Cody live here?” She went on to explain with great joy that The Suite Life of Zack and Cody was her favorite show “in the whole wide world,” and described in her own way that it was a child sitcom of sorts starring twin brothers living in a hotel. I could see that this trip to visit grandma and grandpa was being trumped a bit by the mystique of Inn through her wonderment for these Zack and Cody guys.

As I passed the couple their keys and pointed them towards the elevators, I regretted having to lose the privilege of their company, especially after so many hours of solitude, but I wished them a wonderful stay and waved good-bye. As Mr. Kern lifted his bags and walked away, Ally stood in place, rummaging through a little yellow pocketbook that hung from her right shoulder. Its pink strap twisted around her neck as she dug deeper and the smiley-face flower on the front flap contorted as she searched even more thoroughly than that. She signed to her mother intermittently, though she was much too quick for me to read or understand the words. Finally, she pulled out a small white sea shell and reached her miniature hand just barely above the surface of the Front Desk.

“What’s this?” I signed.

“She collects shells,” Mrs. Kern replied, “she wants to give you one,” she added.

I thanked them both with one hand over my heart and waved again as they rushed to catch-up with Mr. Kern as he entered an elevator. I spent the remainder of the morning shuffling paperwork from one side of the Front Desk to the other and reflected dearly, as I still do to this day, about the sweet family that brightened my otherwise dreadful double-shift and turned a night to be forgotten into a night to be remembered. They reminded me that it takes very little to have a positive effect on others and that sometimes the best conversations are those had in silence. A part of me is sure that I was able to brighten their night too - and perhaps remain in their memories as a welcomed surprise along their travels, filed somewhere between Grandma, Grandpa, Zack and Cody.

(Ally’s sea shell remains in my personal collection of keepsakes and mementos to this day.)

~The Innkeeper

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The Curious Case Of VIPs

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2010-05-08T07:45:00Z

“Everyone loves to talk about celebrities,” is one of the very few statements in life that can be made with guiltless disregard for generalities or even the need for a second thought. The reason: It is undeniably true, without exception; no matter who you are or what you do.

Teenage girls have and always will fawn over the likes of Donny Osmond, John Stamos, the Hanson brothers or Justin Beiber, whichever one, or ones like them is considered “so hot” during their formative crush years…and maybe twenty-five years later at the reunion concert too. Likewise, I have known grown men that can’t ever seem to find the time to patch the hole in their roof before peak rain season hits, but they effortlessly memorize the names, numbers and positions for entire sports team rosters so they can keep up with their buddies down at their favorite sports bar. If fact, even celebrities love to talk about other celebrities; each with their own long-time Hollywood idols that inspired them to success and plenty of rival careers to disparage as well. And who could deny that the Pope himself dotes constantly on a certain famous celebrity? After all, his position itself affirms him as the #1 Fan doesn’t it?

Innkeepers like me are no different; if you get than one of us in the same room for a given period of time the subject is bound to come up. Additionally, hotels offer a great amount of opportunity for sightings, encounters and confrontations, no matter its brand or location. Performers, politicians, athletes and religious figures travel quite frequently and show up in some pretty unexpected places. This is primarily due to their burdened, chaotic and inconsistent schedules and lifestyles. Assistants and travel coordinators may develop favorites based on details of location or cost, but when it comes to booking hotels most are plausible locales.

The topic of celebrities for an innkeeper is a much broader subject than you may initially expect, as I realized while I began writing, documenting and organizing a category for it in the Innkeeper Chronicles. I discovered that I would have to consider three distinct sub-categories of ‘celebrity’ in order to create a complete picture. For the purposes of my job, ‘celebrity’ really just denotes importance; a person that is particularly important for some reason beyond the standard level of ass-kissing. It really amounts to being a VIP; an artificial, society-created class above the rest. For the sake of argument, let’s define a VIP more clearly though:

VIP (Very Important Person) – A person of extraordinary importance or influence who commands special treatment due to their recognition for achieving success through fame, wealth or title of dignitary.

The first VIP tier is the authentic “VIP Encounter”, which involves coming face-to-face with a truly important person; see definition above. Special allowances, accommodations and security are to be expected for a true VIP. That’s not to say that laws are broken necessarily or that any other guests are treated badly by comparison, but special considerations will be made because a hotel can benefit via notoriety and reputation from having been successful in hosting a VIP guest and the certainty of obtaining additional revenue (budgets for VIP travel is usually larger by multiple times compared to that of standard travelers.) And let’s not forget to mention the autographs, memorabilia and life-long bragging rights for some staff members.

Secondly, there are people that only think they are important; they suffer from a condition I call “VIP Syndrome.” This group of guests feels they should be afforded additional and unfounded exceptions based on some various contrived sense of entitlement. They start their check-ins clouded with ego and use it to pull and stretch their service limitations. They might be in a position of authority within their company or recently received an accolade therein; perhaps they are a platinum or diamond credit card holder or just spent a mortgage payment on a treasure trove of plastic surgery for their face and neck. Whatever the mistaken reason for their self-admiration, they use it to gripe and complain about parking fees, room service menus, and complimentary items and services or lack thereof; they make unreasonable late-checkout requests and ask for private fitness center and pool facility time; they freely share their genius opinions about what they would do if they were running a hotel and let’s not forget the endearing way they end every exchange with passive-aggressive statements about not coming back, filling out bad surveys or spreading nasty reviews to friends, family and co-workers.

Finally, we have people with a “VIP Agenda”; those that claim to be closely related to an actual important person. For every movie star or US Senator I’ve had the pleasure or displeasure of crossing paths with, there are hundreds of supposed brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts & uncles, 3^rd grade teachers and ex-college roommates that have commanded the same respect. Those coattail-riding name droppers try every angle to get something for nothing in the name of someone else. They naively ask for and expect access and information about their alleged VIP relatives with delusional confidence. Was there ever a time when people took others at their word? If so, it’s this group that ruined all that.

I hope I have been able to provide a clearer understanding for these distinct VIP classifications as I will be posting endless MB of space in the future for each category respectively – I do after all, love to talk about celebrities…even if the notoriety exists only in their heads.

~The Innkeeper

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Mistaken Identity

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2010-05-05T14:09:09Z

After completing the census recently, I am left with the feeling that a large section of the population is being overlooked. I’ve noticed a dramatic burst in the community of uncategorized “Crazies” and even though I have not yet discovered scientific evidence, I still think the smaller unratified groups such as the idiots, the psychos and the insane should rally themselves together as a definable citizens group so that the 85% of drivers on the road and 25% of guests at the Inn I encounter each day, can wave a proud common flag.

I made the acquaintance of a guest named Glen Glassman via telephone when the Inn’s out-of-state central reservations office transferred his call so that he could speak with a manager. Typically this kind of transfer occurs when a reservation agent does not have a particular authority or permission, such as a guaranteed room upgrade or special corporate rate. Mr. Glassman had much more asinine inquiries to pose however, with seemingly no purpose other than to take me down his winding road of outright absurdity.

I tried in vain to determine whether he asserted his ridiculous requests as they occurred to him in the same moment or if he had actually designed them more carefully prior to the call. He wanted me to guarantee an odd numbered first floor room; he needed only one pillow and since he “never knows what to do with the rest,” any extras should be removed prior to arrival; he told me that he kept his watch running seventeen minutes fast at all times and whined that he would get confused unless all the clocks in the room were set ahead also. Mr. Glassman then confided that he was interested in keeping a “low profile” during his stay and asked me ensure he had no loud or intrusive neighbors.

As ludicrous as the requests sounded (and as positively unnecessary as I considered them), they were technically manageable, so I agreed. I hung up the phone and pulled up his reservation on the computer in my office. Hotel computer programs have come a long way in the last decade and provide some useful tools for just this occasion. I pre-assigned him to room #133 and created a flag for the room in the housekeeping program on his date of arrival with the note: “One pillow only” attached. I listed him as a “night-time worker” in his profile so that staff members would not attempt to call his room during the day time without going through management or assign rooms to guests with children and pets nearby; night-time worker translates to minimal daytime interruptions. Lastly, I posted a pop-up message for Maintenance regarding the clock-setting responsibilities.

On the day of Glen Glassman’s arrival, intrigue began to circulate quickly around the Inn about who or what he was exactly. Wild rumors began to fly at a stunning pace – all created and instigated by Mr. Glassman himself; his value of privacy was flawed at best. Select staff members from every department whispered about the tall, grey haired man in room #133. When he wasn’t peeking around corners and questioning the security of his guestroom door locks or obsessing about anyone that may be asking about or looking for him, he would corner staff members alone and confess unbelievable tales about his true identity. Complied together, they look something like this:

Born to a shoe salesmen and housewife just outside Providence, RI, he was a mistreated and misunderstood child prodigy who’s never found his proper place with academics in his local public school system or with his simple suburban hometown lifestyle. He ran away at 16 and joined the military, where he soon found his niche in life. After outperforming his comrades and superiors alike, in both training and in the field, he excelled in the armed forces’ exceptional international affairs training academies and was enlisted by various US intelligence agencies for further employment. He tracked down war lords in the Persian Gulf, single-handedly stopped assassinations of heads of state, talked terrorists into surrender, invented the Clapper, helped Al Gore invent the internet and rescued dozens of orphans from guerilla warfare in the Far East…imagine all these accomplishments with only one pillow for rest at night.

Calling Mr. Glassman’s autobiography a work of fiction may be putting it lightly, but what got me the most was the way he ended these little confessions, “I have pressing matters so I have to go now, but let’s keep this between me and you,” he’d say before shifting his eyes back and forth while slowly creeping away.

Despite all the stories and rumors, the staff refrained from getting too carried away with Mr. Glassman in-person. They would nod and listen as his stories became more and more far-fetched and always promised to keep their lips sealed about his disclosures. They unquestioningly passed along phone messages from men with bad fake accents and fax pages marked “Confidential” (most of which curiously came in while he was out of the hotel during the day).

The only prolonged direct contact that I had with him was when he rented one of the Inn’s safe deposit boxes. He pulled a small, locked tin box with a wide, hollow key hole from his pocket, placed it into the deposit box and asked if he would be in the way if he sat in the front lobby for a few hours while he waited for a visitor. I had no objection of course and realized that he just wanted me to chomp at the bit, so I asked him if he’d like to leave a name with the Front Desk in case his visitor arrived while he wasn’t around, but he did not. Instead, he asked me to deny his status as a guest at the Inn if anyone asked, especially a woman - a redhead he added.

I heard later from Ivan, the Front Desk’s Night Auditor, that he returned the same night to check on his box and relay that it was the basis for his stay. He was retired now, he told Ivan, deactivated officially by the government ten years earlier with a mandatory retirement, but he was often contacted for specialty missions every now and again to be carried out in anonymity. He would get a package in the mail containing a key to some bus station locker which would then contain an odd tin box and instructions for it to be transferred to another agent who would show up unexpectedly at the Inn some time soon.

On the day he checked out, I was sampling the Inn’s new dark roast coffee in the lobby when I was approached and tapped on the shoulder by an unknown redheaded woman.

“Are you the manager?” she asked, “Can you help me find my brother?”

“Is he a guest here?”, I responded.

“I hope so; he goes by Dan Acorn, or Terry Drigger, or sometimes Glen Glassman,” she said.

I couldn’t confirm or deny to her that I had a guest named Glen Glassman, but after a heated appeal to speak with me privately, we sat and spoke at a corner table on the other side of the lobby.

She told me about Mr. Acorn-Drigger-Glassman, her brother, “I don’t even know how he gets these IDs with these names,” she said, “he has three or four of them.” She went on to say he was an ex-Army vet, dishonorably discharged after picking too many fights in the kitchen where he worked as a dishwasher for the entirety of his military career. He lived with her now and worked as a merchandise stocker at a department store. She described him as well meaning, but helpless without his medication, which she was sure he hadn’t taken in many days, even prior to his disappearance earlier in the week. She told me he was known to pick up and leave unannounced every so often, “I should have known he was going to have an episode when he started becoming distant after he got a package from an old Army buddy in the mail last week,” she blamed herself, “too much to handle I guess.”

I allowed her to stay in the lobby for the rest of morning and eventually she encountered him before noon. I saw them chat a while and before long they approached the Front Desk to inform us he would be checking out right away and wanted to retrieve his little tin box. The redhead plucked a small silver key from her pocket and fit it smoothly into its keyhole. He removed an orange pill bottle with a white label, tapped a few pills into his cupped hand and pitched the contents into his mouth.

Wave your proud flag, Mr. Acorn-Drigger-Glassman; wave it high.

~The Innkeeper

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Hotel Happens

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2010-04-30T11:45:00Z

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

Tipper Tango

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2010-04-25T12:00:00Z

The newest addition to the Front Desk staff at the Inn is a college student named Stephanie. My first impression upon meeting her was that Chuck, the Guest Service Manager, had aired on the side of appearance rather than experience when deciding on this new hire. A legitimate argument could be made, as it so often is, that someone like Stephanie, a cute brunette, bubbly and seemingly sweet-as-can-be, could bat her long, lovely eyelashes over her olive green eyes and diffuse an otherwise tense situation or maybe even convince a frequent traveler that the Inn should be their first choice in future lodging in a way that a balding, middle-aged man named Herman could not.

With the exception of forgetting her password to the Inn’s computer system a few times and directing a bikini clad guest to a crowded dining room instead of the pool in her first two weeks, her performance has been relatively positive. Stephanie has also proven herself to be a quick learner and makes up for what she lacks in technical procedure, with the fine art of bullshitting. I’ve learned that filling quiet or uncomfortable moments with idle chatter, for example, correcting a double charge to a guest’s credit card before the conversation ends and without them knowing it, by feigning interest in whatever ego-stroking topic they latch onto, is a very valuable natural ability.

Living-up to her newbie-hood status, she’s posed a lot of questions about her new position, which I see as a good thing this early on. Insert your favorite “You don’t know if you don’t ask” or “The only stupid question is the question you don’t ask” type words of wisdom here. She’s been curious about basic things like break times, wake-up calls and group rates. She’s spent some time creating a slew of hypothetical scenarios involving lost reservations and over-bookings too, but as it so often happens, the most vital piece of advice I’ve given her, came from an actual situation, involving a guest passing her a tip.

Unlike other departments at the Inn, such as Food & Beverage or Housekeeping, the tipping procedure can get complicated. Firstly, there are no real standards set up for tipping someone at the Front Desk, no monetary equation can be done; 15% of a three hundred dollar stay seems a bit excessive to most, so the amount is entirely at the guest’s individual feeling and discretion. Additionally, there’s no comfortably indirect way of leaving the tip on a night stand or under an empty glass of juice, causing the tipper to have to make very direct contact. It all appears so simple in the movies, but in real-life it is much more of two person dance.

Stephanie, having mastered the steps of a checkout to Chuck’s satisfaction, was left to handle the tail end of a short list of departures alone one morning and seemed to keep up with the pace quite easily. Checkouts should be quick and painless: review the bill, make sure the guest enjoyed their stay and welcome them back again sometime soon. One particular guest, a bargain hunter, who had booked his stay online at one of those third party, last minute discount, fill an empty hotel room type websites, had particularly enjoyed her congeniality and decided to pass his savings along to her.

As Stephanie described him; Mr. Goo-Goo Eyes was a creepy, awkward older man in his fifties. His salt and pepper hair was combed over from his left temple and struggled to reach the other side. He wore a green jogging suit blemished with greasy stains on the lap which he obtained over breakfast that morning and he made several attempts and failures to “hold” her hand. Clearly smitten; he thanked and complimented her repeatedly and made one final request for a blank envelope. Goo-Goo signed his receipt for Stephanie, then stuffed what turned out to be twenty bucks inside the plain white envelope, scribbled her name on the front and conspicuously left it behind as he left the Front Desk.

I thoroughly enjoyed the story as she recalled it to me. The guest was surely no suave cat, though he certainly did leave a lasting impression. Not quite the same as if he had lifted her hand elegantly without breaking eye contact, complimented her perfume and gently kissed the soft, top part of her hand just above the knuckle and returned it safely to its owner; far on his way before she realized he had planted a gesture of gratitude for her hospitality on the opposite side of the kiss. No, that’s the movies – in real life you have unsure people frustratingly digging in their pockets and playing grab-and-snatch with your hand before they start to consider mailing it to you.

I will share with you now, my rules for accepting tips, as I shared with Stephanie. This will be the first in a long line of Innkeeper-isms you will see throughout my chronicles. These rules, which I call the Tipper Tango, are to demonstrate how tippers often need a little help; it is all a dance and the receiver is leading.

Foresee the Tip.
Give Them an Opening.
The Humble Approach.
Don’t Argue.
Return the Gratuity with Gratitude.

Step One is crucial and because of this, you must always be on guard. Warning signs that a tip is about to occur includes extended pocket-digging, comments like “they should give you a raise” or positive overuse of your name, “Thank-you so much, Stephanie”; “Stephanie you’ve been so great”.

Step Two ensures that the tipper can easily exchange the tip with little effort. Keep your hand on their receipt for a few extra seconds while asking for their signature or rest your hand on the desk as you banter back and forth.

Step Three is optional, though very effective in convincing or authenticating that you do not perform to such high standards just for tips, rather for your promise of hospitality and dedication to service. The line is simple, “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly...” To add to its effectiveness and induce a demand that you accept it, a slightly tilted head and puppy-dog eyes during the delivery is nice touch. Please note that this maneuver is also referred to as the Escape Plan as it pertains to the tipper. If you invoke Step Three in the name of humility, you must be prepared lose the tip, while the tipper takes the credit and the cash.

Step Four seems simple enough, but touches on an important caution point that can prevent Step Three from getting out of hand. Don’t turn down a tip more than once, any more than that and it qualifies as an argument, something you don’t want to happen between you and a gracious guest. First time is humble, any more is obnoxious. Note: If you really don’t want the tip, just say it’s against the rules to accept it; the guest won’t want to get you in trouble and may just write a nice letter to your boss instead.

Step Five accomplishes two things: it makes the tipper feel proud of themselves and it increases the possibility of future tips – a long term investment in a business that sees many repeat travelers. The trick here is to be genuine and direct. Make eye contact and say “Thank-you”.

~The Innkeeper

Pet Friendly

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2010-04-22T11:13:00Z

Here’s a strange coincidence: Every single person that ever calls a hotel to book a reservation with a pet, is the proud owner of a sweet, cuddly, well-aged, housebroken, bladder-holding, friendly, people-loving, peaceful, 23 ½ hours a day sleeping, little 20-pound-or-less bundle of furry love – or so they say.

All pets pose potential problems for a hotel and its guests. Pets, due to their nature, cannot be relied upon to have restraint at all times; furniture could be damaged, carpets could get stained, flees and fur may be left behind. Not to mention the non-pet guests may have allergies, be disturbed by noise or odor and even suffer from a phobia or fear of the animal. For all of these reasons, many hotels will not accept pets at all. The question becomes: Do we risk losing more money with guest complaints or by alienating guests traveling with pets?

How many guests travel with their pets? Estimates bounce around from 18-27%. Even a pet rock could figure out that these figures carry a huge portion of business. In fact, some travel agents and websites like petswelcome.com , petfriendlytravel.com and doginmysuitcase.com are dedicated entirely to catering to pet travelers.

Once a hotel decides they will become “pet-friendly,” the rules must be drafted. In addition to special deposits and fees, there are rules for weight, size, walking areas, restricted areas, supervision and noise curfews – most of which are bound to be broken. No need to be concerned though, after all – every single person that ever calls a hotel to book a reservation with a pet…well, you know. It all starts so smoothly until an ill-tempered, hyper-active pee machine with a taste for human blood and a bad case of insomnia shows up at check-in. Plus, there’s a factor I haven’t mentioned: the pets’ species.

People love to travel with their dogs and cats, but they also love to travel with their fish and lizards. They’ll pack up their rabbits, hamsters, snakes, turtles and ant farms too and the right hotel will gladly accommodate them all, given their owners agreement to comply with the rules. I have had each of these species as guests at the Inn throughout the years and privately keep a running list. My end goal is to have at least one pet for every letter of the alphabet and become a drinking game champion some day. Regrettably, I once had to turn away a pet viper snake, leaving me with a blank for the letter ‘V’, but I digress.

One of the strangest requests I’ve had for a pet friendly reservation came from one the most honest people regarding their travel buddy’s size, shape and complications – of which, there were many.

I strolled across the lobby of the Inn one afternoon, returning from the boiler room where a technician worked with the enthusiasm of a sloth on the building’s water temperature; a health inspector issued a citation the previous day for a one degree discrepancy of the city mandate. As I crossed the front desk, Monica, a reservation specialist, stood with a look of bewilderment before she noticed my presence and signaled to me with a frantic “come here, I need help” hand gesture which looked much like a mimed version of a broken lawn sprinkler.

“Okay, sir, I’m going to place you on hold for just a minute to speak with the manager for you; just hang on there for me,” she said, then in the same breath, as she laid down the phone, “He wants to bring his horse!”

“A horse,” I chimed back to her, “Is there a horse show coming to town? A circus?” There was no horse show; no circus. “Is he asking to park a portable stable here?” No stable either, the horse was to be his vehicle and later on, his roommate.

The wheels in my head turned. The Inn is not located in a rural area and I had never considered the city streets to be very horse friendly, then again, I hadn’t ever really considered the Inn’s lobby, hallways or guest rooms as very accommodating for the likes of Mr. Ed either. Still, I had to find out for myself if this was a prank or a genuine request. I stepped around to the rear of the front desk, took a seat at a computer work station and picked up the line from a phone mounted on the wall.

I placed Mr. Nickelby at around age 65, he coughed every few sentences and took long, loud drags from a cigarette in between. As it turns out, Mr. Nickelby had received word that his niece, his oldest brother’s daughter, was to be married at a church in town. For decades at this point, Mr. Nickelby lived thirty-five miles away, in the other direction of modern civilization, on a private stretch of land with no vehicle to speak of and little understanding for the journey he proposed. As I said, he was quite honest though; the horse would be a hand-full. Beyond the obvious concerns for damage, manure removal and stampede - the horse was a bit clumsy and had ongoing flatulence problems. Despite this, he was a loveable creature, he said, and his close friend.

I knew full well that I would not be able to accept his pet at the Inn and that I would be the first in a long series of rejections he would get from every hotel in the area. I suggested he change his mode of transportation and call back again for a reservation if did, which I hoped he would, since he also mentioned he planned to travel with a pet praying mantis, which would add a ‘P’ to my list.

~The Innkeeper

Phillip Barnstead’s Body Under The Bed - Part 2

innkeeperchronicles@gmail.com (Innkeeper) — 2010-04-19T16:13:00Z

Some guests don’t make reservations; you just don’t see them coming. They show up to the Inn unexpectedly – often even to themselves. More times than not, they’ve simply bitten off more of the road than they can chew. All with that same look of defeat and annoyance, as if they blame their map for deceiving them into driving 18 hours through 7 or 8 states. Those few short inches between start and finish amounts to a much longer trip than you can imagine and all the iPod tunes and car games won’t stop your vision from weakening, the scenery from blending together into seas of green and brown or a serious case of ass-paralysis from kicking in; it all amounts to bad planning. Phillip Barnstead was the polar-opposite of this type of traveler.

Predictable in every way, Mr. Barnstead made all his reservations two weeks in advance, arrived every other Sunday evening at 7PM like clockwork, left the Inn each weekday morning at 8:30AM and came back each afternoon at 5PM. He ordered spaghetti from the kitchen on Mondays, soup on Tuesdays, rib- eye steak on Wednesdays (the day he sent out his dry-cleaning), Thursday he ordered pizza from the local Italian pizzeria downtown and he checked-out promptly at 5:30AM Friday mornings to beat rush hour traffic.

As a frequent guest of the Inn, Mr. Barnstead was well known by the staff and could rarely enter or exit the hotel without being approached and chatted-up like a favorite uncle; a designation he was very happy to possess. His employment as a district supervisor for a woman’s sanitary napkin dispenser company caused him to be separated from his own family for two weeks every month as he performed his area quality inspections - making him quite lonely at times. He would take out his wallet and flip through family photos to dish out updates on his son’s soccer tournaments or his daughter’s honor roll achievements. His wife Sharon, a business woman turned homemaker, loved action-comedies and volunteered at soup kitchens and school events between juggling the kids and the house while he was away. Mr. Barnstead was exactly the kind of likable, dependable and low-maintenance guest that any innkeeper could hope for, with a near-perfect incident record right up until the end.

A frantic knock came at my office door one Friday morning while I sat contemplating which of two banquet functions I would have to cancel and break the terrible news that an over-booking by the sales department had been made. This oversight put a 90^th birthday party and a young girl’s Bat Mitzvah overlapping during a critical two hour period on the same night. I hadn’t yet lifted my head from the banquet contracts when fifteen more knocks came, followed by another fifteen or so before I could even utter the words “come in”.

Penelope, a veteran housekeeper at the Inn, nearly collapsed forward as I swung the door open. I had just enough time to maneuver her to a seat when I heard footsteps pounding down the hall and Pedro, a housekeeping supervisor, joined the confusion and asked the obvious question - “What are you doing, Penelope!?” he gasped.

Managing only the words, “the bed”, “215”, “oh-my-goodness” and “a body”, she summed up all I needed to know. In room #215, either on/in/under or by the bed was a body – oh my goodness!

The fact is that people die, sometimes people die in hotels. Another fact is that people commit suicide and therefore sometimes people commit suicide in hotels. Finally, it is a fact that people are murdered – you do the math.

I directed Pedro to stay with Penelope in my office until I could determine what exactly we were up against – truthfully, I hoped it was just a heavy sleeper. Making my way to the front desk, I called the Chief Engineer to meet me in Rm #215, I instructed the front desk agent to have an ambulance sent for a “possible injured guest” to the rear of the building (closer to the stairway that led right up to the room, with the added benefit of being away from the street and the front entrance.) The Guest Service Manager pulled the guest’s name: Mr. Barnstead, who, according to the record, had checked out as usual at 5:30AM that morning.

My only real thought as I entered the room was how unqualified I was in the medical field. My certification in CPR covered the Heimlich maneuver, making creative splints and some breathing exercises – none of which gave me any confidence at that point. I would just try to find a pulse, I figured, provided the scene wasn’t messy enough to determine death from sight.

The room was surprisingly well maintained and neat considering it was at the end of a five night stay. Trash cans were full, but stacked together in the far corner. I could see the coffee maker in the room’s kitchenette station blinking 12:00 in red and a mug upside-down in the sink. The television sat in the center of the room in a large wooden credenza, its blackened screen reflecting the king size bed – the pillows arranged in an L-shape near the headboard, sheets wrinkled into a ball in the center, the comforter blanket hung off to the right side and down to the floor, where is housed an ominous bulge.

I shifted my eyes to Ernie, the Chief Engineer, a man standing six feet tall and probably pushing three hundred pounds. His eyes were wide and darted from me to the bed and back to me again – the only back-up I would get from Ernie would be him backing-up to the door.

I decided my best bet was to rely on touch; I would feed my hand under the blanket and poke. Stepping towards the bed, I knelt down, extended my index finger and let out a sharp, “Hello?” No response came.

My hand crept under the blanket now and my finger met flesh; I held my breath and poked.

Two things happened at this point. One: A burst of air cut through the room like a knife, it was abrupt and loud. Two: Ernie ran screaming from the room.

Finding myself alone now and finger deep in whatever tragedy Mr. Barnstead had left behind, I pulled away the blanket completely and exposed the face of a woman. She laid topless, eyes open and glazed over, completely motionless, her full lips painted ruby red. My eyes followed her pale white skin to two exposed, firm and perky…air valves on the back of her neck. I poked again and watched her flinch as another gust of air blew from her neck, leaving her left arm deflated.

I picked-up the phone on the nightstand and called the front desk. “Cancel the ambulance; this is a Lost and Found issue.”

As I walked back to my office, I imagined the moment that Phillip (I prefer a first name basis for anyone whose blow-up mistress I must pronounce dead) discovered his fatal mistake. I expected to never hear or see him again, but to my surprise we spoke one last time the next day, when he approved to have his credit card billed for her shipment home.

~The Innkeeper