Should Have Called It A Night

(I’m 14, working in the kitchen of a local pub/inn. I arrive at work one day and go to sign in, behind the reception desk in the front hall. A customer comes in and assumes I’m working on the front desk.)

Customer: “Hey! How much are rooms?”

Me: “Depending on which rooms are available, anywhere from £35-65 a night—”

Customer: “No, how much for an hour?”

(He winks at me. Being 14, I don’t understand what he’s getting at.)

Me: “Pardon? The rooms are priced for a night—”

Customer: “Yeah, but how much for you and a room for an hour?”

(I am beyond confused at this point when the manager, a stocky guy with a shaved head, tattooed arms and a strong Glaswegian accent appears from the dining room, right behind the guy.)

Manager: “CAN I HELP YOU!?”

(The customer jumped about a foot in the air, saw my manager, and bolted out the door. My manager refused to tell me what the guy was talking about (and I didn’t realise for another couple of years), just told me to run and get him or the chef if I saw the guy again.)