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...It is currently 4:26AM. I just got off the phone with my boss, after having been bitched out for twenty straight minutes for the sins of having the lights on and for renting a room.
She knows I have the lights on, you see, because she can monitor the security cameras from home and as she has no life, she often sits around in the dead of night watching the goings-on here.
She was upset that I rented a room for a week because I didn't jack the room rent up sufficiently on the weekends. When she demanded to know why I didn't jack the rates up, I made the mistake of saying something other than "Yes," "No," or "Uh-huh." I told her that, foolishly, I had attempted to think for myself, which she didn't appreciate, and after which she ordered me to jack his rate up and tell him about it in the morning.
Which I will not do because that's bullshit, not to put too fine a point on it. She remains adamant though, that she will have her extra sixty dollars.
The punchline? Part of her defense of demanding that I jack the rate up is that she doesn't want trashy people staying here as though it was some kind of trashy property...
...Here in our roach-infested, bedbug-infested, rundown little shithole of a motel whose sign blew down in a windstorm months ago and which hasn't been replaced yet because she's really just that cheap. The sign on our porte-cochere no longer says "Dumpsterfire Inn" ever since the "Dumpsterfire" blew down. Now it just says "Inn," which is always a hallmark of class and sophistication, just like the roaches, the bedbugs, the burns in the carpet, the peeling wallpaper, the wall with a suicide bullet still embedded in the wall, the yellowing (and occasionally browning) towels, temperamental plumbing, exposed wiring, and the constant presence of cop cars in the parking lot because the police know to check here first whenever they're looking for someone.
She knows I have the lights on, you see, because she can monitor the security cameras from home and as she has no life, she often sits around in the dead of night watching the goings-on here.
She was upset that I rented a room for a week because I didn't jack the room rent up sufficiently on the weekends. When she demanded to know why I didn't jack the rates up, I made the mistake of saying something other than "Yes," "No," or "Uh-huh." I told her that, foolishly, I had attempted to think for myself, which she didn't appreciate, and after which she ordered me to jack his rate up and tell him about it in the morning.
Which I will not do because that's bullshit, not to put too fine a point on it. She remains adamant though, that she will have her extra sixty dollars.
The punchline? Part of her defense of demanding that I jack the rate up is that she doesn't want trashy people staying here as though it was some kind of trashy property...
...Here in our roach-infested, bedbug-infested, rundown little shithole of a motel whose sign blew down in a windstorm months ago and which hasn't been replaced yet because she's really just that cheap. The sign on our porte-cochere no longer says "Dumpsterfire Inn" ever since the "Dumpsterfire" blew down. Now it just says "Inn," which is always a hallmark of class and sophistication, just like the roaches, the bedbugs, the burns in the carpet, the peeling wallpaper, the wall with a suicide bullet still embedded in the wall, the yellowing (and occasionally browning) towels, temperamental plumbing, exposed wiring, and the constant presence of cop cars in the parking lot because the police know to check here first whenever they're looking for someone.
....especially to watch him confront the owner.
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