02 June, 2011

A bit of reminder for myself on class differences.

You know, sometimes at the hostel, things can get a little weird, a little uncomfortable. Sometimes, and this happens often enough throughout the year, we get two or three old guys in here, paying day by day, drinking night by night, hard luck stories about trying to find work and/or housing. It freaks out the eighteen year old princesses and the suburban soccer moms to pass the enclave of guys who go fifty-fifty or even thirty three-thirty three-thirty three or sometimes quarter-quarter-quarter-quarter on a single pack of smokes out on the patio, the frat boys and assorted cunty college males make smirks and rude remarks about the hard luck club, and we get shitty reviews about having the atmosphere of a homeless shelter from ponces that don't even share dorm space with the guys. And sometimes they leave a mess and I have to pull out my Who's-running-the-show-here? card and correct them and sometimes I wish they would just leave because the air around the house grows ooky.
And then you have the "cultured" and "refined" types like the ones I had about forty five minutes ago. The guy, a tall Aryan twat with a frog face and a young Republican haircut, found me in the kitchen cleaning out the guest refrigerator, telling me that he and his lady, a Raven-haired woman angry at the universe for never having blessed her on chest or in the caboose, were checking out a day ahead of schedule in their two-day stay and that they expected to be refunded.
I placed the now growing Pad Thai whatever the fuck it was on the counter and told him I was sorry: There were no refunds.
He followed me into the office and began bickering about the condition of the bathtub, a valid argument, and I told that housekeeping was here right now (standing right behind me, as a matter of fact) and that I could have her take care of the bathtub right away.
The Nine Year Old Boy this guy called a girlfriend said, "It should've been done yesterday."
Froggy Reagan kept repeating the question, "What are you going to do about last night?"
Last night!? I wasn't even here last night.
"What are you going to do about last night?"
What would you like me to do?
"I want a refund."
We don't issue refunds.
"What are you going to do about last night?"
After about five or six more laps around this dance floor, Nine Year Old Boy pipes up and says, "Forget it," and places the key on the desk. Froggy Reagan looks at me with a mixture of contempt and disgust as I take the key, toss it in the drawer and tell him: Have a good one!
Given daft cunts like these, I much prefer the Hard Luck Club.

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