The Hotel from Hell: Delivering the Devil's Mail
by, 10th January 2013 at 02:29 PM (199 Views)
This past summer I worked five days a week in a restaurant and hotel called the Hotel Fauchere. I worked as a busboy and a barback, and I occasionally ran room service and helped guests with their luggage. I would work from 5pm to 2am, typically, and the experience overall was horrid. My boss was always breathing down my neck and the crowd of people I was serving were all high-class, wealthy and snooty. In summary, working this summer was a pain in my ass. I don't mean to give the impression that I can't handle hard work or that this was the worst experience of my life, but it quickly became one of those jobs that I dreaded every time I clocked in. I'm sure some of you have experienced this.
So I'm home from college for winter break until the 22nd and have been enjoying myself playing hockey in my backyard, drinking with old friends, and as always spending hours lurking and posting at BMGf. A month made in heaven. Now, my Mum works for the owner of the hotel. She manages all of his properties and watches the money, so when she asked the owner if I could have a summer job he had no problem letting me in. Over the past few days my Mum has been busy getting checks sorted out for the new year and has been asking me to deposit a lot of them at the local banks. No problem. I love to drive, speed, and blare music out my windows. But this morning she asked me to deliver one check I thought I would never have to deliver. She asked me to deliver a check to my boss, in the hotel. So I slid as slowly as possible out of my bed this morning and washed my hair a second time in the shower, ate my breakfast at my own pace and tried on three or four different pairs of jeans; whatever I had to do to prolong the inevitable. At the end of this past summer I burned my work apron in cheers to never having to work or step foot in the creepy hotel again. An over-the-top celebration, maybe, but I felt it was deserving. I hate this hotel.
Anyway. I drove over to the hotel with this one check in a small sealed white envelope and parked in the back, near the employees' door. Instantaneously sour memories filled my head. Late nights rushing out the back door to go home, walking large garbage bags out to the dumpster, French chefs laughing at me when the overfilled garbage bags fall apart at the foot of the dumpsters. The works. I park my Jeep and turn down Third Eye Blind and walk into the back door. My nostrils fill with the smell of fish and tears, and my ears ring with the sound of people yelling angrily in French. Thank God my destination wasn't the kitchen. So I take a right and go to walk up the old, creaky stairs to drop of the envelope. As I take my first step, again, I remember the late nights running up and down these same hardwood steps with the oriental rug running down the center, carrying French dishes that I couldn't pronounce. I reach the top of the stairs after several bad memories and turn right into my ex-boss' office, and to my surprise he isn't there, only his secretary. I hand the envelope to her and bust ass back down the stairs, past the kitchen, through the parking lot past the dumpster, and into my car. I turn my music back up and speed out of the lot.
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