"Whatcha need, Bri?" asks a familiar scratchy voice, and I sigh, relaxing. It's Jimmy, an older man who still wears corduroy and thinks he's in the 70s. But besides his penchant for living in the past, he's pretty cool and will empathize with my pain. This isn't the first wrecked room that I've walked in on, and it certainly won't be my last.
"We have a problem," I tell him, letting the direness I feel seep into my voice. "A big, big problem."
"Is it that bad?" Jimmy asks. There's a slight note of hope in his voice. I know what he's thinking. He's hoping that maybe it's nothing a little bleach and elbow grease won't fix.
I feel sorry for him. And to think I didn't even step foot into the bathroom.
I shudder at the gross images that flash in my mind as I reply, "Yes! Your boys will have their hands full. Room 333. Bring steam cleaners, a sandblaster . . . and maybe a hazmat suit."
Jimmy groans over the radio. I hear him inhale as if he wants to say something, but the transmission cuts. He knows that he can't say much about it. Our radios aren't monitored like the police scanners, but they can still be listened to. And with what's going on, we can't take chances. A crackling sound pops my ears.
"If you guys get it done, I'll worry about the towels and sheets," I add.
"Grand Waterways Hotel . . ." Jimmy says forlornly. "Grand Water Sewer Way would be a more apt name."
I huff out a chuckle at that. Jimmy shouldn't have said that over the line, but it's the damn truth. "Can't argue with that," I say wholeheartedly. To the hotel's credit, though, it can't help what guests like a team of pro and collegiate ballers do to its rooms when they're hosting drunken parties. I've heard that they stay here instead of in the city to keep the players ‘out of trouble'. But they still have their parties.
"I'll handle it, Bri. We'll be up in a half hour. Maybe you can catch the rest on the back half of your shift?"
A feeling of relief washes over me. The man is a lifesaver. There's no way I could handle these types of situations without him.
"Thanks, Jimmy."
"No worries. Maintenance out."
"Poor man," I mutter, tucking my walkie talkie back into my pocket.
Grateful to be free of that disaster, I make my way to the elevator, press the down button, and wait for the doors to open. Once inside, I mull over which floor I should go to, but my watch beeps, reminding me that I need a break.
I jam the button for the basement, leaning against the wall as the carriage starts to go down. My back aches, my feet ache, and I'm pretty sure that my skin needs to be scrubbed with something stronger than soap and water after just walking into that filthy room. The image of the used condoms on the floor flashes in my mind and my skin crawls.
I can't wait until I finish my degree and never have to step foot into this place again, I think with disgust.
I definitely don't feel like working the rest of my shift after that. I'm aching and sore all over. I'm seriously overworked, and I don't think I can take any more surprises.
But at least I'm mostly finished, and I've got the next thirty minutes to chill out, try to get myself back together, and maybe pop a Tylenol or two before I do the last set of regular rooms, the suites, and then the floor that I normally hate most because I never know what to expect, the penthouse suites. They can range from sparkly clean to a pigsty as bad as the room I just left … depending on who's been staying there. Sometimes, the ballers are too damn cheap and just trash a regular room.
The ding sound and opening doors pull me out of my reverie. I walk out of the elevator and head to the maintenance room. I wash my hands using rubbing alcohol and some germicidal stuff from the medicine cabinet in the staffroom before I apply two coats of lotion, praying that maybe this time I won't be bleeding from between my fingers like the last time I had to do this.
I look up in the mirror and sigh, shaking my head at the reflection that looks back at me. Bra-length, dark brown hair, tired eyes, and a grumpy countenance. I look like I haven't had a decent night's sleep in over a week.
I don't need this shit, I say to myself. I can't wait to get out of this place. Hell, I'll take just about any job with benefits over this.
But more than benefits, I need money. Doing twenty-nine hours of maid work in a hotel just doesn't cut it when you're like me-Master's degree student with no family, no credit cards, and about two thousand dollars left from a student loan. Somehow, I have to stretch this small amount of money to cover the gap in my living expenses for the rest of the year.
I shake my head again as I think about how close I'd been to that internship.
One computer error. That's all that kept me from landing a paid internship. One idiot at school who typed in my GPA wrong, saying I had a 1.8 instead of a 3.8. By the time I got it all sorted out, it was too late. All of the internships were already snatched up.
"Face it, girlie," I grumble to myself, "if this keeps up, you'll be going down to the food bank for canned goods by Christmas." I rub the last of the lotion into my hands. The sound of heels clicking against the tiled floor causes me to turn around, and I see my best friend, Mindy, holding a mocha latte in one hand and a cup of green tea in the other. She wiggles the latte at me.
I take it from her, feeling grateful for her thoughtfulness. "Tell me you put cinnamon in it," I say.
Mindy steps back to survey me, shaking her head, her dark brown hair that's cut into a side bob glinting under the lights and her large brown eyes flashing with a mischievousness that almost makes me smile. I have to say, she looks hot as hell in her uniform-a white dress shirt, open at the front, a short black skirt, an apron, and stockings, her feet adorned with black glossy heels.
"You bet your sweet ass I did," Mindy chirps before going over to the free table in the staff break room and kicking out a chair with her foot before sitting down. "Double cream, double sugar, double cinnamon, basically double everything I could get my hands on. Come on, I know your schedule as well as you do. It's the least I can do."
"You're a lifesaver," I tell her, raising the cup to my lips and taking a sip. I close my eyes as the warm liquid hits my tastebuds and I let out a groan. It really is sweet.
"You know, you keep moaning like that, and people are going to think you're up to no good during your coffee breaks," Mindy jokes, sipping her green tea. "I mean, I get it. You skipped breakfast like you always do, but damn, girl, should I leave you and the latte alone with a necktie hanging on the door?"
"You keep making drinks like this and bringing me scones, and you may just have to," I joke. "But how'd you know?"
"What? That you'd be tired?" Mindy asks, laughing. "Uh, in case you forgot, for the past two weeks, we've all been wiped out. I'm sure that V-man loves the money, but he's not the one busting his ass" -Mindy glances down at her thighs critically- "or in this case, big ass."
"Oh, come on, you're a size two!" I protest.
Mindy scowls. "A big size two."
"There's no such thing!" I scoff.
"Want to see my ass?" she offers.
"I'll pass." I chuckle. Mindy always does this, complaining about her weight when there's nothing to complain about. I just argue with her to get kicks. I take another sip of my heavenly latte before adding, "And if Mr. Vandenburgh hears you call him V-man again, you know he's going to blow his stack."
Mindy laughs and screws up her face, looking remarkably like John Cleese as she pitches her voice perfectly to match the hotel manager's. "Ahh . . . yes, Miss Sayles, we've noticed that you're taking your job far too seriously, and I'm going to need to make sure you don't have a broom handle lost inside your buttocks. Please bend over and spread your cheeks for me."
I laugh, barely holding onto the coffee in my mouth as I set my cup down, trying not to cough. I can't help it. Mr. Vandenburgh does look a lot like a very short but chubby John Cleese, and Mindy's got the voice down to a tee. Mindy lets up, and I swallow before sitting back, wiping at my eyes. "Girl, thank you. I so needed that. You don't even want to know what I had to deal with today."
"What, the production monkeys aren't appreciative of the fine rooms we've made available to them?" Mindy asks. For the past two weeks, The Grand Waterways has been rented out by a Hollywood studio that's producing a film in town. While the production team staying at the hotel haven't exactly been the cleanest guests, they've been a hell of a lot better than the sports team that just trashed that room.
"No, actually, it was that rowdy ball team." I shake my head. "And you don't even want to know what I saw in their room," I say, pinching my face into a disgusted scowl.