I’m sitting in the lobby of a hotel. Due to an agreement with work, I can’t really specify where I am and who for. I have a tendency to speak my mind about a variety of subjects that I might or might not know much about. From a corporate standpoint, it’s fine, I guess–if your vocabulary includes Political Correctness or Diversity.
You know exactly how I feel about such things.
So I need my laundry cleaned. It’s usually once a hitch where I can’t hold out any longer and I need to have it done. I usually find a laundromat or a local place to do it myself. It’s a nice practice to type while your clothing gathers suds.
Not so much where I am. Let me say that I am a city guy. I don’t really like to club or to have all the citystink that goes with urban areas. But what I have issues with is one-hotel towns in the patch that feel they are entitled to my silver.
I don’t appreciate shitty food at high prices. I don’t like local trollops that want to have my warm spray in their hoo-hoo for the sake of future paternity suits. I don’t like Chamber’s of Commerce which want to jack the prices up on travelers needs.
Let me just state that I do like 24 hour laundromats. I do like police that don’t overstep their bounds and invalidate their oaths. I do like having services being available. I’m not even asking for Romanian hookers.
But when we don’t have the most basic of needs, because the hotel coin laundry has been busted since your second born was walking, it makes you upset. I was here last year, and they didn’t have coin laundry.
What they do have, is an exclusive (excessive) service. For twenty dollars a load, you can have them clean and fold it for you (I always laugh when I hear someone try to impress me with folding services). Thanks to the new uniforms of my work, it’s usually three onesies and you add your soap. So I hand in my sea bag, estimating three loads of laundry.
I am pissed to be out more than forty for laundry. This is bollocks. This one-horse town pisses me off because no cellular service is better than one or two bars of reception. The community laundromat is across town and we aren’t allowed to drive the van ourselves to do store visits or get basic necessities or do laundry runs. Plus it doesn’t open until later, cutting into valuable sleep time.
As I’m contemplating this, furious at how incapable I am at doing simple things on my schedule. I’m also pissed at the level of give-a-shit the clerk has. He has no salesmanship. He has no courtesy. He’s a pimply, skinny, liberal, and his contempt for those that need his assistance is noteworthy here. And on the corporate line.
The clerk is counting change while I’m waiting to be helped. He isn’t acknowledging me. He isn’t asking me to be patient. The counter bell is two inches from my hand, and I’m fighting an aneurysm to not snatch it and beat it until the dinger rings against his medulla oblongata with a fountain of blood only Dexter could love.
Such violent thoughts.
So as I avert my eyes and avoid confrontation. Three more days and I’m down to one outfit. I can’t skimp. I need to get these washed. I give him my name and room number and sulk.
Until I changed out my Samsung for my new Apple product, I had a number of a woman who was not romantically interested in me, but wanted to friendzone me. She lived here in this one-horse town. Our last conversation being one that made me happy to be in the friend-zone.
And I guess I could interchange one for another or another. Anytime I’m south of I-37 my geographic snobbery kicks it up a notch. It doens’t matter if I’m in Laredo or Encinal or Three Rivers or Jourdanton. South of the I-37 border and you see me reaching for ear buds to down out the tejano.
I think about calling FZ-lady and seeing if she’d like to earn forty dollars. Then I think about it again. The possibility of sex is really low, the overhanging cloud of her moodiness is a constant. Sounds like this hotel earns my sixty dollars by default.