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The clerk was a middle-aged blond man in a pressed blue polo shirt and wire-rim glasses. I couldn’t figure out how he’d managed to end up behind that desk. And I don’t think he had figured it out, either. Maybe this was his second job, the one that paid for the questionable Internet online orders he didn’t want his wife to find out about?
The clerk was on the phone, apparently on hold, all the while ignoring the drunk swaying in front of the check-in desk.
“I just need a room, damn it,” the drunk slurred, sweat rolling from the thinning hair on the back of his head, dripping down his neck, and soaking into the cheap pea-green suit he was wearing. He smelled like a brewery. I was sincerely glad that he was facing away and I was out of his line-of-breath. “Got a cute little thing waitin’ outside, and I don’t want to lose her.”
Nice. This guy had clearly met his soul mate on a nearby street corner. I checked the desk for an “Hourly rates” sign and was relieved that I didn’t see one.
“Look, man, I’m sorry, the credit-card company has me on hold.”
“Just run the card again,” the drunk demanded.
The clerk cradled the receiver on his shoulder and glanced at me. “Yeah, can I help you?”
“I need two rooms, please,” I said, putting my license and credit card on the counter. I silently prayed that there was enough room on the balance to allow the charge. And that the clerk didn’t steal my identity to buy equipment for his gaming system.
He gave me an apologetic little shrug, checking my ID and placing my card next to his computer keyboard. “It will be just a minute.”
“Look, I got a little hottie out in the car, I need a room,” the drunk slurred. His bleary brown eyes settled on me and gave me a moist, crooked smile. “Hey there, cutie. You lookin’ to party? You could join us.”
“No, thanks.”
“Oh, come on, honey,” the drunk whined, leering at me. “I’d show you a real good time.”
He lurched toward me, giving me what I’m sure was supposed to be his best smile. I leaned in closer and in my most menacing voice whispered, “If you so much as breathe on me again, I will crush you like a bug, little man.”
The drunk pouted, stumbling back a few steps.
“I’m sorry, what is the problem?” the clerk asked the person on the other end of the line. He rolled his eyes and picked up a pair of wicked-looking scissors the size of hedge clippers. “All right, I’ll do that.”
The clerk hung up the phone and sighed.
“Mr. Reynolds, I have bad news for you. The card company has requested that I destroy your card.” The clerk picked up the card nearest to his hand and snipped it with a decisive snick! He ruthlessly sliced through the card, raining shards of plastic on the desk like red metallic snowflakes.
“Hey!” the drunk shouted. “What’d you do that for?”
I tried to look away, eager just to finish my transaction and get out of the office. Because as amusing as it was to see Drunky Drunkerson’s credit card snipped, I just wanted to get some sleep.
“Oh, wait,” the drunk mumbled. “Never mind.”
I glanced over and saw an unfamiliar Visa card on the counter. The bits of plastic on the counter, however, were a familiar color.
“Can I have my card back now?” the drunk asked, just as I demanded, “Where’s my card?”
“Oh, shit,” the clerk said, looking stricken.
“You destroyed my card!” I cried.
“I-I must have switched them.”
“No!” I yelled as the drunk with the useless, but intact, card ambled away. “No, no, no, no!”
“Now, look, I’m sorry, but don’t overreact.”
“Overreact?” I yelled, grabbing the stapler from the ledge of his desk. “This isn’t overreacting! Stapling your collar to the desk, that would be overreacting.”
“Put down my stapler. I don’t want to have to call the cops.”
“Call them. It will be justifiable homicide!” I snapped.
