on loss.

JPR 5/19/1942-5/10/2013

I don't usually engage with guests more than I have to. In fact, I skip the polite "how are you, how's your day been?" bullshit chit chat at check-in because 1) I don't care, 2) it shows, and 3) I'm at least respectful enough to not waste guests' time. I pride myself on my speed and efficiency at check-in, not my conversational skills.

Somehow, and I honestly don't even remember how, this man snuck into my life.

I couldn't tell you the first time I met him, or the first conversation I had with him, or the first time that I stopped thinking of him as a nuisance and started treating him like a friend, but along the way this kind, gentle, thoughtful man got under my skin and made me care.

I knew this day was coming, I had heard from his brother 11 days ago that there was emergency cardiac surgery and it didn't look good. The brother said to assume the worst if I never heard back from him. I never heard back from him.

The days passed and I held out hope that maybe I missed the phone call, or maybe they were busy and forgot to place the call, or maybe someone else had intercepted the message. Still, I checked the obituaries because my heart knew. I'm not going to lie to you, I've known all along. But this morning I got the confirmation and it broke my heart.

Three days before his passing I was chatting with him about school and my family and his family and his treatments at the hospital. He was still having problems sleeping, but he got to babysit his grandkids and there would be no wiping that smile off his face. Even with the recency of the conversation, I cannot remember the last words he said to me, but I do remember how alive he looked when he told me what he did with his weekend and how happy he was to have the time to see his son Pat.

I'm a hot ass mess crying here at work. He was a good man and I am sad.

Yesterday would have been his 71st birthday, not that I knew that before today. He was never one to put attention on himself. I'd like to imagine that if there really is a heaven, it would be made for people like him: uncommonly kind, patient, gentle, and extraordinarily selfless. And maybe now he's finally getting to sleep peacefully.

on hopelessness.

Sad, sad souls.

It's miserable how many times a day I have to tell people "I can't help you."

I had a guy come in tonight asking for a room, but I'm close to selling out and negotiating rates is not an option today. I quoted him a rate and he said, "oh wow" and broke into a sweat. He started counting the dirty bills inside his wallet and he apologized to me when he realized he only had $30.

He asked if I could refer him to another hotel that would let him stay for that much money. Not gonna happen.

He asked if Greyhound was open. The office is closed, and there's almost nowhere you can travel to for under $30, plus the 15 minute cab ride necessary to get to the bus station would require at least an additional $10. No dice.

He asked for a payphone (do those exist?) and all the tips I could offer on how to get what he needed with the money in his pocket. I don't know how to get by on $30. Food, transportation, and lodging on $30? Impossible.

I've almost become desensitized to this phenomenon, as much as I feel for the lost souls who wander into my lobby I cannot solve their financial problems. Even if I was able to get them into a room, most of the time these people are in so deep that a room for one night is like trying to water the desert with a single drop. I just can't.

Tonight's sad soul had one final request: he asked that I call a cab for him. Destination, the hospital. He didn't say it, but I could read the look on his face. Either he was going to find a quiet deserted corner to sleep, or he was going to fake some symptoms to secure a bed. I don't like to pass judgments but I can almost guarantee that this person is lacking health insurance, which means the taxpayers are about to get the biggest most ridiculous hotel bill ever.

Aside from the political implications of the homeless using the hospital system as free lodging (not exactly free, but it's not as if they'll ever pay the bill), how heartbreaking is it to know that there are people in this country that are that desperate.

I'm not passing judgment. I am just sad.

on moving on.

So I've been thinking about quitting my job for a while. Part of it is that I need to get on with my life and focus on more important things, and the other part is just plain burnout.

Surprisingly, the burnout is not from my bosses.

It might be a side effect of the property itself, but I'm thinking it's really the entire industry. The hospitality industry. It saddens me to admit it, but I hate this shit. For the longest time I loved it, I truly honestly did. I wanted to do this forever (well, not this exactly, but shades of the same theme) and I had a plan.

Finance and entrepreneurial management classes taught me better and I learned to love other things in the process and I can still very much see myself part of a hotel in some aspect, but nowhere near the front desk. Not in management, not in operations, not in any part of business that is distinctly hospitality.

The problem with hospitality is that you get to see people at their worst. I can definitely say that many of the problems I see these days are signs of a bad economy, but it wears on you. To the guy trying to put his life together post-prison release: I feel for you man, but pay your damn rent. To the single mother with shitty credit and no place to raise her two young kids: I feel for you, but pay your damn rent. To the homeless, starving, traveling artist: get a real job stop ruining our fucking towels with your paints, and thank you for somehow paying your rent on time every day.

I see sad stories every day. People begging me to ease up on collecting money, as if one day of charity will ease their burden forever. I can't help you, I can't save you. It's exhausting having to tell at least someone once a day, "I wish I could help, but this is a business." Our rules are firm not because we're sticklers, but because I need a paycheck too. If I'm not collecting money, then there's no money to pay my bills. And I really wish people would understand that from my perspective, my problems matter more.

It's my job to look out for me, because nobody else is gonna do that for me. It's your job to look out for you. Not my job.

I say that with a heavy heart, because I technically do have the capacity to help. I could skip a day of payment and no one would know any better. I could give a free room and bury the paperwork and who would it really hurt? The answer: myself. I need this job, not just for the paycheck it provides but for the relationships I have built. Because the idea is that someday I'll have to move on from here and I'll need someone to vouch for me.

I shouldn't have to feel guilty that I'm looking out for myself.

It's the saddest predicament for me because the people are what wore me down, but the people are also what I loved the most about being here. But I'm almost certain that my favorite guest of all time passed away this weekend, and now I'm left with sad saps who can't seem to find money in their pockets to secure a roof over their heads but they're well stocked up on cigarettes and cheap alcohol.

I can't make them make better choices, I can't make them clean their lives up, but I can make them find somewhere else to stay, and I'm sad that's what I spend my day doing.

Your business is not welcome.

I need a new job.