This Kind Of Work Is Not In Her Jeans

, , , , | | Working | May 21, 2018

(I am working the night audit shift at a hotel when a young woman comes in. She is dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. It is about two in the morning.)

Girl: “Hey! Are you guys taking applications right now?”

Me: “I don’t know, honestly, but I can give you the web address where we take applications.”

Girl: “There isn’t a manager I can speak to?”

(Again, it is two in the morning.)

Me: “Um… I’m the de facto manager on duty right now, but I have no control over our hiring practices. You’ll have to go online, or wait until morning when someone is in.”

Girl: “Aw, shoot. I just wanted to get some kind of job; you know, something easy, like your job!”

Me: *glancing at the mountain of accounting paperwork I’m currently trying to get through while attempting not to look insulted* “Yes, well, like I said, I don’t know if we’re hiring, but I know we don’t need any more night auditors right now.”

Girl: “Sure, sure. Oh! And do you have to wear anything in particular for this job?”

Me: *looks down at the pinstripe suit and matching blouse that no young woman would possibly wear unless they had to* “Yes… This.”

Girl: “What? You mean I can’t just wear like, a t-shirt and jeans?”

Me: “No.”

Girl: “Huh! Well, never mind, then!”

(She left. Not only have I never seen ANY hotel of ANY stripe that allowed its employees to wear t-shirts and jeans to work, but we are a higher-end, full-service brand!)

Your Race Card Is Not Accepted At This Establishment

, , , , | | Right | May 18, 2018

(I work in a hotel, and we have a Do Not Rent list. A man and woman walk in. They are checking in with the woman’s info. As I put her name in, the DNR flag pops up.)

Me: “I’m so sorry, but I’m unable to check you in because you are on our Do Not Rent list.”

Woman: “What? Why?”

Me: “It looks like on your last stay we saw six people in the room, and the room was trashed.”

Woman: *to the man* “Call [Friend] so he can get the room!”

Me: *I look up the name as I tell her* “I’m sorry. That won’t work; I can not use his info knowing it’s for you.” *at this point I see that the whole family is on the list for about the same reasons* “…and it looks like the whole [Hispanic-sounding last name] family is on the list as well.”

Man: “What the f*** is that?! You are a f****** racist!”

Me: *shocked and trying not to laugh* “Sir, please look at me. I am mixed-race Middle Eastern and Hispanic, with brown skin and black hair. That is not the case! It is your actions, not your race, that got you on the list.”

Man: “THAT’S BULLS***! I’M GOING TO SUE THE HOTEL AND YOUR RACIST A**!”

Me: “At this point, there is nothing more I can do. So, since you are not a guest here, you need to go.”

(He yells all the way out the door.)

Coworker: *turns to me* “Out of the people here, he thinks the little brown lesbian with a half-black child would discriminate?”

Me: “Yep, sounds about right. Welcome to the [Hotel], where we hate ourselves and get sued for doing so!”

Unfiltered Story #110930

, , , | | Unfiltered | May 18, 2018

(I check in a guy, and within five minutes of him being in the room he calls the front desk.)

Me: “Front desk this is—”

Guest: “There is no television.”

Me: “There is no TV, sir?

Guest: “No.”

Me: “Would you like me to move you to another room?”

Guest: “Well, I’m already here. The TV is black.”

Me: “So there is a TV?”

Guest: “Yes… it’s just black.”

Me: “Let me help you with that.”

Guest: (hang up after being help.)

Me: ummm okay.

That’s One Expensive Cigarette

, , , , , | Right | May 16, 2018

Me: *answering phone* “Thank you for calling [Hotel]. This is [My Name]. How may I help you?”

Guest: “Yes, my name is [Guest], and I’m seeing a charge on my credit card from my recent stay?”

Me: *pulls up reservation in the system* “Yes, ma’am, it looks like you were charged $500.”

Guest: “What? But it was my friend! We didn’t know we couldn’t smoke!”

Me: *having reviewed emails from my colleague the day earlier, I know how the previous conversation with this guest had gone* “Ma’am, my files here show that we contacted you the moment the smoke was detected and alerted you that you were going to be charged. It is our hotel policy, as we are a 100% no-smoking property, and you did sign our form at check-in agreeing to abide by this policy.”

Guest: “Yes, but I said sorry!”

Me: “I’m sorry. We had to collect the fee in order to clean the room.”

Guest: “But the room had windows! I know I signed the no-smoking form, but when we saw the windows we thought it would be okay to smoke.”

Me: “Again, ma’am, we are a 100% no smoking property.”

Guest: “That’s bullcrap! The room had windows! All you have to do is open them up and let it air out! It doesn’t cost $500 to clean!”

Me: “Well, actually, since several guests complained about the smell of smoke, we had to issue partial refunds to a couple people. Plus, we could not sell the room the following night because it still smelled like smoke. This was quite the financial loss for the hotel, ma’am.”

Guest: “But it was my friend! He didn’t know!”

Me: “As the room was in your name, ma’am, you are responsible for the activity of your guests. I suggest you speak with your friend if you are interested in being reimbursed.”

Guest: “But I said I was sorry as soon as you called about the smoke! I thought because I apologized you weren’t going to charge.”

Me: “Again, it is our policy that we are a no-smoking hotel, which you agreed to at check-in. We have your signature on file as proof.”

Guest: “Wow, this is just bad business! I’ve stayed in millions of hotels and no one has ever charged me a smoking fee.”

Me: “Again, it is our hotel policy.”

Guest: “But I said I was sorry!”

(At this point I was fed up with all the excuses. I transferred the guest to my manager, who I told not to pick up the phone so that it would go to voicemail. I later followed up with my manager and she said the woman left a message, threatening to sue us to get her money back. We’ll see how that holds up in the court of law against a form with her own signature on it!)

Feels Like It Took Eight Hours To Get There

, , , , , | Working | May 14, 2018

(I work in a big-name hotel that’s on one of the lower tiers of the corporation. Lately, we’ve been getting a lot of new employees to prepare for the busy season, including a few new housekeepers. One of them is a middle-aged woman. It is her first day, and she has to do the impossible: clock out.)

Me: “Okay, enter the last four of your SSN into this keypad.”

Coworker: *slowly thumbs in the numbers, then waits*

Me: “Okay, then hit the login button.”

(The button is very large, and it is the only button on the screen that isn’t a number. Finally, she does so. The screen shows the time, her time sheet, and four buttons, two of which are “clock in” and “clock out.”)

Me: “Now hit, ‘clock out.’”

Coworker: “It should say 1645.”

(It is 4:45 pm, and the clock shows this. The screen times out, logging her out.)

Me: “It’s 4:45. You have to log in again.”

Coworker: *slowly does so, then waits*

Me: “Now hit, ‘clock out.’”

Coworker: *turns to me* “But I didn’t clock in this morning.”

Me: *pointing to the time sheet* “Actually, it says you clocked in at 8:30 am.”

Coworker: “No, I didn’t clock in this morning.”

Me: “No, you did.”

(The screen times out. She, again, has to log in. I walk her through it for the third time. Once logged in, she stares at the screen, lost.)

Me: *getting irritated* “Now hit, ‘clock out.’” The one below, ‘clock in.’”

(Finally, miraculously, she hits the button. Far too hard. It doesn’t take. She stares at it. The screen times out. I walk her through this three more times until I finally flick the button for her.)

Me: “There. It says you clocked in at 8:30 and clocked out just now, at 4:49.”

Coworker: “So, how many hours is that?”

(By this time, we’re surrounded by three other employees waiting to use the time clock. I count every hour on my fingers aloud, slowly, directly in front of my coworker’s face.)

Me: “That’s eight hours.”

Coworker: “Oh, awesome!” *lifts her hand for a high five*

Me: *confounded, I oblige, lightly tapping her palm* “Yeah…”

(I’m still not sure why the woman seemed to be amazed to have worked a full shift, as if she was shocked she lasted that long. I very much doubt she has ever worked eight consecutive hours in her life.)

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