The Stripper Tales part 2 - Free For A Day

**Part 2**
(see Part 1 of The Stripper Tales here, a collection of memoirs from a job i had as a frontdesk clerk in a very seedy hotel...)

Arriving at work that afternoon Luna filled me in on the present hotel guests as she always did. She was looking particularly haggard today. Luna’s look could be best described as “Death”. Not quite commited to the being a Goth, her appearance leaned more towards the genderless witch. She wore black clothing from head to toe that was always baggy enough to conceal the fact that she was indeed a girl. Her hair was dyed black as well… about 2 months ago. Her 3-inch roots said she was naturally a blond, but from a few feet away it just looked like an out of control case of psoriasis. Her complexion had the colour and consistency of soured milk and aside from the large patch of acne on her chin, her face was caked in a foundation that was several shades too light; eyebrows, eyelashes and lips hidden with uneven, chunky smears of Cover Girl. Her face was devoid of all feeling and features – aside from the zits of course. Between her appearance and bad attitude, Luna's overall aura must have made Satan proud. I gathered she was a follower due to the stack of occult literature she brought to work daily and the pentagram tattooed at the nape of her neck.

“Something’s up with room 317. He’s called down twice to try and get me to give him an advance on the credit card he’s used for the damage deposit. It’s his mother’s card and she called it in. I told him no way – we don’t do that but he still keeps trying. I’m sure he’ll give you a go as well." She paused to nibble on an inflamed hangnail. "Brandy’s got a stalker AGAIN and he keeps calling saying he’s her boyfriend. She’s not taking anymore calls without the code word “LICK IT”.”
“LICK IT? Seriously? Is that all she could come up with? Jesus.”
“Tell the rest of the girls checking in that it’s Jell-O Wrestling week and if they don’t show up for a Jell-O show they WILL be fined.”
“Gotcha… I’m on it.” Luna collected her books, slid into her floor length leather trench and without a goodbye sulked out the front door.

317 was blinking on the callboard 20 minutes later.

“Front desk…?” A disturbed voice on the other end did it’s best to convince me that I should do the right thing and give him a $200 cash advance on the credit card. His mother said it would be fine. He was in desperate need. “Well how about this? You’re mother sends you a money order and you go pick it up across the street, because you’re not getting any cash from me.” I hung up. 20 minutes later, same guy, same phone call, same response.

41 across… Hmmm… Five letter word for “This might be the end of the line”. I was staring into space, pondering the newspaper crossword when I heard what sounded like a box of books being thrown from the top of the 1st floor staircase. I waited and heard further movement just behind the stairwell door. All of the sudden the door exploded open, smashing into the wall behind it. Expecting to see the person that had caused the commotion, I was surprised to see nobody. They were hiding behind the high counter of the check-in desk. In ANY other circumstance I would have gotten up to help/see what had happened, but I had learned to put all humanitarian urges aside when on shift at the Plaza. Then, straight out of a B horror movie a swollen hand grasped the top edge of the counter, slowly followed by its mate. They gripped tight and pulled up a mans body – the sight of which sent me reeling back in my chair and fumbling for my steak knife.

His eyes were manic wild and glassy and something resembling blood was caked around his mouth. I’m not sure that he was aware of my presence, as no eye contact with me was made. His body swung up and around and zoombie-like he careened toward the front door. Stabling himself on the door handle, he regained his composure for about 5 seconds before lurching out onto the sidewalk and disappearing around the corner. A tad disturbed, I called over to the Pub and had the bouncer come over to give me advice on how I should handle this guy. He told me to call him or the police if the situation escalated. In my head I tried to picture the "escalated" situation that would have me dailing 911...

I looked out the big glass windows and spotted our guest in the park across the street stumbling from tourist to tourist, accosting them for money. 15 minutes later he was back in the hotel lobby and stumbling up to his room. 317 was blinking on the callboard again and this time I didn’t answer. Soon after he was back down the stairs and tripping through the lobby. He’d removed his button-down shirt and was sporting only an undershirt; the entire front of which was covered in what appeared to be blood. He flew out the front door and in the process of trying to walk neglected to lift one of his legs. A nearby planter broke his fall, which he in turn used as a receptacle for his vomit. Hoooooly shit this guy was wasted! And what the hell was that all over his shirt?? I waited a few minutes until I saw him back over in the park and grabbing the master key, I sprinted up to room 317. Worried that he had cut himself up badly (or somebody else?), I just had to see inside his room!

There was no answer to my banging on 317’s door but Delilah popped her head out of 320.
“What the hell are they doing in that room?” she said, her naked torso leaning out of her doorway.
“It’s only one guy!” I replied as I slowly pushed the door open… “What the…?” A crime scene appeared before me. The comforter, walls and carpet were all splattered in a blood bath of brick red liquid; the air thick and nauseating. Hopping from one unstained piece of carpet to the next I began to poke around. There was no luggage or personal effects to be seen, just the blood-like stains. Due to the sheer amount them, I decided that if they were in fact actual blood, there had to be a dead body somewhere in that room. I finally found the donor behind the bed. In lieu of a dead body there were seven empty 1.5 liter bottles of the cheapest port wine money could buy! Beside them, two crumpled pieces of paper - photocopies of a Johnny Newark’s ID and prison release forms. OOOKaaay!…Time to call the police!

Two officers arrived within minutes to arrest a surprised Johnny. A mess of an escape attempt ended with a vigorus handcuffing, his face smashed down on the lobby floor. Apparently the officers knew him well. Earlier that day they’d picked him up from his first meeting with a parole officer and then dropped him off downtown at his request. That morning Johnny had been released from a two-year stint in prison and would now be heading back for another extended visit. Sliding him up from the cold tiles, the two cops steadied him at arms length, keeping their crisp uniforms clear of the fresh vomit.

"Free for a day... I sure as hell hope it was worth it Johnny!" said the cop. Johnny turned and looked at me for the first time, his shifty eyes fixing on my own for but a few seconds. It hadn't registered that I was the reason his hands were now secured behind his back.

After seeing his head ducked down into the squad car, all was then quiet at the Plaza. I sucked back the last of my watery soda and lit a celebratory cigarette in the back room. 41 across… Five letter word for “This might be the end of the line” hmmm...
The callboard rings. “Brandy in room 112 please.”
“Password?”
“LICK IT”
“Hold on, I’ll put you through…”