I’m moving, so I only have two days left at my old job. And I can’t believe the evening I just had.
It was about an hour before I was scheduled to leave. All was calm and peaceful in the hotel. I sat behind the counter reading a very good book ( *The Third Chimpanzee * by Jered Diamond) when I heard a scream. Thinkng it was just some kids fucking around, I paid it little attention. Then I heard the woman scream again.
I ran up the stairs and around the corner in time to see a woman trying to leave her room, and a man pulling her back in by her hair and hitting her. The lunged away, and the man slammed the door. Shaking and crying, she just stood there, in her bare feet staring at the door. I led her downstairs to the front desk, and locked the door behind us. A male co-worker came down after he had heard the noise, and went back up with her when she asked to go get her shoes.
I stood at the top of the stairs, hearing him scream at her, swearing at her and calling her names. Suddenly, I heard her cry “Don’t you hit me again!” and instinct sort of took over at that point. The door wasn’t completely latched, so I *kicked * it open. The man stood above the woman who cowered back on the bed. And what was so amazing was that I, a 5’4" 115 pound girl stared him down. He backed off and said sullenly, “You didn’t see me hit her. You didn’t!” I said nothing, just stared at him. Finally, I turned to my co-worker, and said “Call the police.”
I continued to stand there for a while while he gathered up his belongings, finally, he stomped towards the door, and I backed slightly into the hall. “Well, are you coming, bitch, or aren’t you? You ain’t leavin’ me, bitch!” The woman just sobbed, so he snapped that that was fine, she could collect her things from the driveway, and slammed the door behind him. He started walking down the hall towards me, but stopped, pivoted, and shoved the door open again. “Well, are you commin’? Your little friend here is probably gonna call the cops if we don’t get out of here.”
As if on cue, I peered over the balcony railing, and saw the police cruiser pull up. I ran down the stairs, and out the door. I ran up to the officer and told them to hurry before he got away.
I went back to my desk, shaking, my heart pounding. I just couldn’t belive it. I heard shouting, and after a while, down the officers came, leading the man in handcuffs down the stairs.
I had to fill out a police report, and may even have to testify, since, evidently, the guy has a prior conviction, and he’s facing a felony if they can make it stick.
The woman came down after the police left, and apologized profusely, sobbing that he wasn’t really a bad guy, that he just got this way when he drank.
I thanked whatever gods may be in that moment that I had training in counseling battered women from when I used to volunteer
at the local shelter.
I wanted to talk to her more, but at that moment, the fire alarm went off. My co-worker and I stared at each other for a long, dumb moment, and them broke into a run for the office. It was a Code 13, the sprinkler system.
“Sprinkler system?” We both said. “But there’s not a *fire * alarm to go with it.”
At that moment, we heard it. A tremendous boom and then a sound reminisecnt of my honeymoon in Niagra falls.
We ran to the pool room, and saw water rushing from the ceiling like that glass dome scene in *Titanic *. My co-worker and I did the only thing we could: laughed long and hard.
The alarm was full blown at this point, shrieking and flashing in the hallways. Sleepy guests were stumbling out of their rooms, and the phone was going wild. My replacement came in then, and wanted to know what the hell was going on. So did a milling group of pajamed guests. I ran to answer the phone, shouting reassurances as I ran ofver the deafening roar of the water, the phone, the guests and the alarm. The alarm company was the first call I picked up. They of course, wanted to know if they should send help. “Yes,” I said stupidly, “the roof just caved in.”
I shut off the alarm quickly, and sent the guests back to their rooms. My female co-worker, who has to be the dumbest homo sapien that ever lived stood there, and gaped, drop-jawed at the water pouring into the loby.
“For crissakes get a broom!” I screamed at her, and ran back into the pool room to open a door, hoping the water would pour out. Our pool floor, I discovered, is uneven, and the door was a bit “upstream.” Ann was swiping frantically at the water with an old, almost threadbare broom that she had found in the utility room, shoving it toward the pool. She didn’t seem to notice that the water was just pooling back around her ankles.
It was a losing battle. While my co-worker tore apart the hotel looking for the shut-off valve, we managed to find a low spot, and shove the water into the pool about half as quickly as it was pouring in. Ceiling tiles and insulation bobbed along on the current, and a piece of pvc pipe about a foot long lay on the concrete, shattered like glass.
About twenty minutes later, it was all over but the shoutin’, as my grandmother would say. The valve was found, the torrent ceased, and we managed to shove most of the water into the pool.
My arms ache, my head aches and I still can’t believe it, but that was my day.
Now, it’s Miller time.
