Finding hookups while on the clock. Cute.
That’s as close as I come to getting paid for whoring it up.
I snort and close down the app. Now that I have my potential for the night, I can concentrate on getting off this plane. My favorite thing about being at the front of the plane is that I’m one of the first off. There’s very little I hate more than hanging around and waiting for people to get their shit together and move.
I’m told I’m an impatient man, and I don’t deny it.
The airport is crowded. Excessively so. It’s the end of February, for fuck’s sake. What’s with all these people traveling?
By the time I get my checked bag and head outside to the shuttle, I’m frustrated with people all over. Crowding around. No manners. Very little spatial awareness. Americans, man. Rude as fuck everywhere you go.
At least the shuttle seems to be filled with primarily hockey players, for which I’m grateful. I recognize many, though I don’t give anyone more than a nod in acknowledgement. I’ve been outpeopled today and that’s without conversing. A day of travel will do that to you.
The hotel is just as miserable. I swear, there’s a bigger clusterfuck here than there was at the airport. There’s someone yelling at one of the receptionists. My gaze trains there and I absently watch as the line moves slowly. Really fucking slowly.
It’s been almost forty minutes by the time I make it to the desk and am standing in front of a gentleman. I give him my name, and he taps around on his computer for a minute then sighs. Glancing at his face, I see the wariness there.
“Welcome, Mr. Duval.” He butchers my name but at this point in my life, I’ve mostly given up on correcting it. “Your room is ready, and your partner is already checked in.”
My eyes narrow. “I’m sorry. I thought you said mypartnerhas checked in, which I know is a mistake since I don’t have a partner, nor am I sharing a room with anyone.”
Yep, that wariness isn’t imagined. “My deepest apologies, sir. There’s been some confusion and the hotel is overbooked. We’ve paired up some of the event rooms to accommodate.”
“That’s the wrong answer,” I say, irritated. “If a franchise like the NHL pays for 100 rooms, you don’t get to take their money and only give them 90 rooms. This is your problem; not one to be pushed onto the rest of us. If you’ve overbooked, then you cancel the most recent bookings and give them a refund—maybe double their refund since you fucked up and now they’re scrambling. That’s how you do business.”
“I can get a manager,” he responds.
“You do that.”
There are two managers and both of them are at reception, dealing with two different irate customers. I do not move over for someone else, but I do concentrate on what they’re saying and so I hear everything they’re going to tell me when one of them gets here.
They’re sorry. Yes, it’s their fault. Yes, they’ll be in contact with the league to make it right. They have located some localrooms at a Motel 6 or a Red Roof Inn down the road if we’d like to be moved there at no cost to us. Yes, they understand that it’s not a comparable room, but the local hotels are completely booked this weekend due to all the events in the city.
On and on and on.
If the more expensive places are booked, I have no doubt that these supposed free rooms they’ve found are also booked and they’re blowing smoke out of their ass.
A woman joins the gentleman I was dealing with and waits for the barrage from me that she’s doubtlessly received from several others at this point. I wonder just how much they actually overbooked this place. How does that even happen?!
“I expect compensation and I will make a suggestion that the league no longer does business with your hotel chain for your massive irresponsibility in overbooking so erroneously.”
“We’re terribly sorry, sir.”
“I’m sure. I’ll take my card.” Both sag a little in relief.
The thing is, yelling at them isn’t going to make me feel better, nor is it going to fix the situation. I’ve heard all they have to say and having them repeat it isn’t going to change their message or the outcome.
Besides, I’m confident this isn’t something either of them did personally. Probably no one on shift right now. Since bookings are all done electronically now, I have to assume that there’s something wrong behind the scenes with their software. A glitch.
“Thank you, sir,” the manager says. “Please let us know if you need anything.”
I give her a bemused look and she smiles wanly. Words she’s supposed to say, but obviously can’t fulfill.
The gentleman gives me my keycard, I throw my bag over my shoulder and leave the front as I hear another voice rise. The bank of elevators is crowded, and it takes them coming back half a dozen times before I’m able to get into one.
The floor is blessedly quiet as I walk to my room. Belatedly, I realize I should have asked who my ‘partner’ was. I should have asked anything at all.
Instead, we’re leaving it a surprise as I scan my card and the door gives its little beep as the lock releases. I see the hockey bag right away. There’s at least the comfort of knowing this is a hockey player and not some random schmo.
