What? Somebody asked for an
epilogue? Okay buddy, you got yourself an epilogue and a bowl of
hot grits, but you have to add your own hot grits because the
front desk staff is at
war with the morning
cook and lives in fear of
kitchen vengeance, but that's a different true story maybe for later.
Um, epilogue. On Sunday, I found out that Mr. Backoffice knew that 331 was not the right room to check the
happy drunken guy into, and if I had listened to him instead of
arrogantly shooing him away and playing
John Wayne, the
evening would have gone a lot smoother. Or at least, whatever happened would have been Mr. Backoffice's fault instead of mine. I met with the manager on
Monday morning, filled him in on the two weddings and damn near one funeral story, along with an update of what the
NASCAR blowhards did us and each other during the
Sunday night shift. He just kind of grinned, then tried to look
stern, and told me that
everyone makes mistakes, and that hopefully I learned from that one. A
slap on the wrist. Which is wierd, because they tend to
randomly fire people for no apparent reason. Maybe
job security in this place is tied to maintaining a certain base level of
incompetence. That would explain a number of things, come to think about it.
<-previousThis mostly-finished
true story was
sponsored by:
The Unfinished Stories Metanode