I worked in hospitality in my teens and twenties. I dealt with some right a**eholes in that time. In some cases, management were supportive, but mostly it was just, “Suck it up, buttercup. Don’t like it, you can leave.”

Just prior to Christmas, I was checking into a small motel in the middle of nowhere on my way to a job site. I had arrived a couple of hours before check-in time, and the room wasn’t ready. I gave the front desk person my card and did all the admin things I needed to do so that I could go straight into the room when it WAS ready, and then I said I’d go get some lunch and come back at check-in time.

Now, it was the middle of the day in the Australian outback, and it was well over 40C (104F). The lady took pity on me and said that I was welcome to bring my lunch back and eat it in their activities room if I wanted, because the only places doing food had no air conditioning. I was grateful, so I brought back a lemonade Icy Pole (lollipop) for her. She was super excited. (And thus began the Treat War, but that’s a story for another time.)

As I was eating my lunch and enjoying the luxurious air conditioning, I heard raised voices from the front desk area. I wandered out to see if everything was okay and saw a middle-aged man in a suit yelling at my new friend. When I went closer, I saw that his suit had the logo of a well-known real estate agency. He was carrying on about how his status entitled him to an early check-in, while my new friend was trying to explain to him that this was an independent motel, they didn’t have any sort of reward program, and none of the rooms were ready yet because it was still an hour until check-in time. He was having none of that and continued to yell, swear, and stamp around.

I felt this was unacceptable, so I looked up the number for the head office of the real estate company and called them. I explained what was happening and held the phone up for them to hear how he was carrying on. His name was also on his suit jacket — just his first name, but it was enough.

The head office thanked me for bringing this to their attention and told me they would deal with it immediately. I hung up.

The man’s phone rang. He declined the first call, but the phone rang again. He answered in a very grumpy voice.

I got to watch as he deflated. His tone turned from angry, to worried, to pleading, and his body language changed from “I’m the boss; do what I say” to “I’m a subservient serf waiting to be kicked by the king.” While still on the phone with the caller, he apologised profusely to the front desk lady, packed up his stuff, and kind of drooped all the way back to his car. (To his credit, it was a proper apology. He owned his behaviour and didn’t make excuses.)

I could say everybody clapped, but it was only me and the front desk lady. I mean, there should have been an audience to witness this, but given the population of the town is less than 200, even having two people in one spot was pretty miraculous. I was pretty happy with how things turned out.

It seems that my new friend was happy, too, because I got upgraded to the only room with a bathtub, and the rate for my next booking was significantly lower than I had paid before.

So typical Saturday night for me. It’s busy, we have people showing up every few minutes trying to get rooms for a few hours or the night, depending on how drunk they are, or sometimes for other non-sleeping activities. Now rolls in a woman:

Customer: “How much is it for the night?”

Me: “It’s [rate].”

She looks shocked.

Customer: “A motel can charge such a rate?”

Me: “Those are our rates, and they have been for the last eight years.”

Funny enough, as far as I am aware, we are charging the standard rate that everyone charges, if not lower, for the type of rooms we have and the area we are located in.

Customer: “Fine.”

I ask her for her ID, I do the usual stuff of getting her information in, and I ask how many people will be in the room.

Me: “How many people will be in the room?”

Customer: “It’s only me for now.”

Me: “How many people do you intend to have in this room?”

She gasps as if I am asking her to lift a thousand lbs, and finally says:

Customer: “My boyfriend will be showing up later tonight.”

Finally, I ask her:

Me: “Will you be paying cash or card, ma’am?”

She looks at me, confused.

Customer: “I am not paying either of those. I will be giving you a check.”

I look at her, and she can tell that I am confused.

Me: “Ma’am, we do not take checks as a payment method. We even have that written on the board to your left that states our hotel’s policies.”

She is turning bright red with anger already and is reading the board of rules out loud while being mad. Then she tells me:

Customer: “It’s illegal for you to ask me to pay another way. Whenever I go and stay at any hotel, they always accept my checks as payment. As a matter of fact, I am close friends with the mayor of our city and know a lot of lawyers. If you do not take my checks as payment, I will be calling them right now to get this hotel shut down, and I am going to sue you as well.”

She goes on and on about the law and why I have to take her checks. And because I am brown-skinned and she is white, she says:

Customer: “It is racist that you do not want to accept my check as payment.”

At this point, I was already way past my tolerance level with her, but the minute she brought race into it, I knew that I had to get her off my property.

Me: “You can call the mayor and all these lawyers you know, and while you do that, I am calling 911, and they can take you off my property. You have read the policy there; I have repeated my policy to you, I am done arguing with you, and do not wish for you to be on my property any longer. So, either you can leave yourself or let the police come and handle that for you.

I’ve never seen someone run as fast as her once I told her I was calling 911. She must have some kind of outstanding warrant or something because she sped off so fast! It actually made me laugh. This was the first time a situation like this has de-escalated so quickly. But yeah, that was the start of my Saturday shift.

I worked the night shift at a motel for a few months in college. The state fair came to town, and a couple of the guests would stop by in the evenings to chat with me. They told me they were carnies and were with the company doing the midway rides. They would use the washer/dryer and ask for mail. One of the guys was waiting for a prescription to come in the mail for a terminal illness. After seeing them six nights a week for better than two weeks, we got to be on pretty good terms.

The man who needed his prescription noticed that I wore a ring on my left ring finger and asked me if I was married. I told him no, but that it was a promise ring from my boyfriend. He would chat, make friendly conversation, and pay me an occasional compliment — but he was always respectful. He told me that if I made it to the fair to make sure I stopped to say hello and that he’d like to meet my boyfriend, too.

When we finally got our chance to go, we did just that. It was next to the last night of the fair, we had some passes from my boyfriend’s work, and the friends I’d made at the motel made sure we didn’t have to pay for any of the rides that night.

The next night, my carnie friends let me know that they’d be checking out in the morning. The guy who had asked about my ring hung back for a moment.

Carnie: “So that was your boyfriend, huh?”

To my complete surprise, after I had confirmed, he said:

Carnie: “I think you could do better… like right here! I’ll marry you and let you run away with me!”

Me: *Politely* “Um… Thank you, but no.”

Carnie: “I had to try!”

Then, he thanked me for being kind to him during his stay, and he left.

One time, I had to deliver one pizza to a motel. On the way there, someone cut me off, and I had to stand on the brakes. The pizza bag flew off the seat, hit the dash, and half-fell to the floorboard. That pizza was ruined, I was sure.

But I was almost to the motel, so I decided to finish the run and let the customer call and get a new pie.

There were four people in the room, and the guy at the door was way wasted. I handed off the pizza, and before I could explain what had happened, the guy half-turned and frisbeed the pizza onto the bed behind him.

A girl opens the box and started complaining that the drunk guy had just ruined the pizza.

I took my three-buck tip and escaped.

I went on a long motorcycle trip to Montreal to see the Grand Prix race and had a great time. On the way back, I realised I had a bunch of Canadian cash. I was hungry, so I stopped at a motel, but they had no cafe. The staff insisted they spoke no English. This was at the border in Plattsburgh, New York.

I started riding around and followed signs for a Fort “Something”, thinking there would be a food place there. It was a very pleasant ride through the countryside, and then I arrived at a marina with a restaurant across the street.

I walked up and a young kid sweeping the veranda said something in French. “Oh, boy,” I thought. “Here we go again.”

The boy could speak some English and said he was glad to have the opportunity to practice it.

I ordered a very fine meal and ate while looking at the yachts across the street. When I finished, I gave the boy all the leftover money I had, which constituted a huge tip. He made up for the rude people back at the border.