HateBoss.com Member's Stories - "Pardon My Faux Pas" By Chris Powers
Denver-April
20, 2002 6:00 p.m.
CHECKIN
Here
I am at the Executive Tower Hotel at 1405 Curtis Street in the heart of
Denver’s theater district. I arrive at approximately 6:00 p.m. and am checked
in by the duo, Kara and Luke, each wearing nametags and clad in khakis and
denim shirts. The young man whose
nametag reads “Luke” is, he tells me, actually named Zack, but he has lost his
own nametag. I assure him if I have any
complaints, I will assign all blame to Luke.
And it goes without saying that any compliments will be heaped upon
Zack, or the lovely, wholesome looking Kara.
She is tall and lithe with a confident stride, athletic, but not in the
least unfeminine. She’s the type who
needs no makeup to enhance her natural good looks-in fact makeup of any sort
would be a distraction. She wears her
shoulder length reddish auburn hair loose, but not unkempt. Her eyes are blue and she has a genuine
smile that exudes a warmth and charm.
She’s not in the least the phony customer service type.
Kara
takes a few extra minutes to photocopy several sheets describing the events
currently being performed in the nearby theaters. She gives me the room keys, along with a complimentary half liter
bottle of El Dorado spring water, and I head for the elevator.
The
elevator in any hotel is a dead giveaway of the quality of the
establishment. Although the lobby and
front desk appear bright and cozy, and
the wood paneling adds a homey charm to the place, the inside of the elevator is seedy, its thin carpet a frayed,
dull blue-black untextured fabric with abstract designs that remind me of a
starry night on a background of faded asphalt.
With myself and one tall gentleman who exudes alcohol from his pores,
already in the elevator, a young father cradling a baby girl approaches to
board the elevator just as the door is closing. The tall man manages to force the quickly closing door open just
in time to keep the baby’s head from being crushed in it.
The
baby stares at me and Mr. Tall with a blank expression, oblivious to the danger
just narrowly missed, but the father seems a bit rattled, and views both me and
the tall man as if we are accomplices in a con game or drunken caper. He actually tries to get out on the 4th
floor, despite having selected “8”, but I and my commrade save him just in
time.
I
get out on the 6th floor and walk the narrow dimly lit corridor to
my room “625”. I try the key gently,
since I’m not sure I have the correct room number. I have a vague recollection of Kara having said “629”, but the
key turns easily and the door opens onto one of the shabbiest little rooms I
have ever had the misfortune to occupy in my adult life. I knew this client liked to do things on the
cheap, since he nickled and dimed about the airfare, and haggled over the room
rates of the hotels in the area that I came up with, insisting he book for
me. Still, I am not prepared for the
closed feeling of the place. It seems
to have been very recently occupied by either a cleaning person or a guest,
judging by the lingering aroma of sweat still detectable by my discriminating
nose. The draperies hang only slightly
askew from a valence. They are black or
navy blue (it’s hard to tell in the rapidly fading daylight), with an oversize
pastel floral pattern that resembles a cross between chrysanthemums and
gardenias, unlike any species of flower I’ve ever seen. The background color is reminiscent of the
carpet that graces the corridor, in fact it’s the same as the starry asphalt
carpet in the elevator.
ROOM 625
Room
625 has all the charm of a church rummage sale. The carpet is a stiff textured brown, the color of the bristles
on a scrub brush. It’s been recently
installed, judging by the subtle scent of carpet glue.
I
walk over to the window and behold the view of the gravel rooftops of adjacent
buildings against the backdrop of the ass end of downtown Denver. It is still daylight, due to the almost
entirely national craze we in the USA have for changing the clocks ahead one
hour. Up until now, I find very little
to like about daylight savings time, but gazing upon what is to be my home for
the next 5 grueling days of training this cheapskate customer in the use of the
software he purchased (the scaled down version), I am almost grateful for the
artificial extension of daylight hours, though still begrudging the lost hour
of sleep from 2 weeks ago. I would not
have wanted to behold these accommodations in the total dark (nor could I for
that matter).
The
lamps are the 3-way bulb type, but unfortunately, the bulbs are the one way
type. This irks me no end. I am beginning to wonder if the tightwad
customer is in cahoots with the hotel owner here or perhaps he is the same
person.
The
bathroom consists of a toilet and tub in one tiny closet-sized space directly
behind the small sink, which stands just outside the combination toilet-bathing
area. No amenities such as in-room
coffee or a hair dryer are anywhere in sight.
As I stand at the sink to wash my hands, I notice that the closet where
I am to hang my clothes for the week is in fact not a closet, but an open area
behind me with an ironing board and iron affixed to their respective holders, a
shelf and some wooden hangers on a rack.
There’s one of those metal, folding contraptions that are supposed to be
for resting one’s open suitcase while hanging one’s clothes on the
hangers. Everywhere I try to rest my
eyes I find another offensive display of shoddiness. The sink has permanent stains, (at least I think they are
permanent), gray blotchy ones, and rust color flecks that are obviously not
supposed to be part of the faux marble pattern. I resist the urge to wet a wash cloth and see if I can with the
slightest effort remove any of the stains.
At
this point I am not yet frantic, but am becoming more than peeved. My usual good-natured ability to put up with
circumstances that don’t live up to my expectations is fast dimming. I flop down on the faded frumpy loveseat and
look over at the king size bed with its dark bedspread, similar to the drapes,
but homelier. Crossing the room, I fling
back the bedspread and see that the blanket, one of those goldenrod polyester
blankets from the 1970’s is so beaded and worn, it looks like something the
Salvation Army would reject. The sheets
are a drab grayish white, looking somewhat wrinkled. It occurs to me that perhaps they might not have been changed
since the recent occupant vacated. I
try to convince myself that the faint lingering smell I can still detect with
an almost warmth is not the smell of body odor, but to no avail. My nose always
knows what my mind won’t accept. It’s
impossible to imagine myself reclining on the bed for a restful night’s sleep
tonight or even a 15 minute nap, let alone for the next 5 nights.
I
ring the front desk and Kara answers, “This is Kara, how can I help you?” In the most sincere tone I’ve ever heard
from a hotel desk clerk. What Executive
Tower lacks in décor and charm it sure makes up for in staff. They better hang on to Kara. She’s
definitely the best I’ve seen of this place.
“Well,
frankly Kara, I’m wondering if all the rooms are like this or if you might have
something a little better available”.
After
not more than 15 seconds of consulting with her associate she tells me “No
problem, I can put you in one of our remodeled rooms on the 16th
floor.”
“That’s great”, I say, trying not to get my hopes up.
“Someone will be right up with the keys.”
I
flop down on the dismal excuse for a love seat and sit for about 1 minute, then
I get up and gather the few things I’ve put on the table, a pack of gum,
tic-tacs, glasses, cell phone, and begin turning off the lights. I stand with my suitcase, briefcase, and the
room key in hand, waiting for the knock.
In
about 5 minutes the knock comes. It’s
Kara herself. She doesn’t take it
personally about my wanting the room upgrade, but confidently escorts me to the
elevator which we ride to the 16th floor. I explain that I need something a little more comfortable since
it will be my home for the next 5 days.
Without saying much she explains that this is an old hotel and it’s
being gradually remodeled. She comments
on the management’s pathetic efforts at remodeling saying she’s told them,
“C’mon you guys” but they seem “clueless about priorities”. I find myself wondering how they scored an
attractive savvy front desk clerk like Kara, who looks all of 23 but knows
what’s lacking here and communicates that to me without going into
details. We commiserate briefly.
ROOM 1624
We
arrive on the 16th floor and the elevator door opens. At once I notice that the hallway smells clean,
a clean hotel/hospital smell, but nonetheless, clean. The carpets in the corridor, though faded, are a higher quality
than the ones on the 6th floor.
They’re a lighter shade of blue, in a pattern similar to the god’s eyes
that were popular in the late 60’s and early 70’s. I am heartened by this.
We arrive at #1624. She turns the key and shows me into a swankier
version of room 625, which by this time looks to me like a suite at the Ritz
Carlton and I tell Kara,
“This
is fine. I can already see that this will be adequate.”
In
spite of the “popcorn” ceilings with the brown water stains and the same style
of carpet that was in 625 (brown bristle texture with sculpted diamond shapes
and an inch or so of debossed area forming a little moat around each diamond),
the room is clean, and the view is the better side of downtown Denver against a
gun metal gray evening sky. There’s a
mahogany desk with brass handles and an almost elegant little table.
The
lamps are attractive except for the pleated white shades, and the stuffed blue
chair looks hardly worn. The love seat
is a muted pink that shares no common hue with the bristly brown carpet. The drapes, hanging evenly from the valence,
are another strange floral pattern on an olive drab-khaki grayish background
with generous daubs of red and pink in the flowers. The bed spread which does not match the drapes, is only a
fraction less ugly than the one in 625, with alternating wide vertical bands of
red, gold, tan, and green and various fleur de lis designs.
As
soon as Kara leaves, I fling back the bedspread to inspect. The sheets and bedding are clean, the
linens are fresh and the synthetic blue hotel blanket is not beaded or
threadbare. It’s the shiny downy smooth
type of blanket made of a space age fire resistant material, neatly tucked in
at the corners. I’m familiar with these
from my stays at the chain hotels like Mariott and Holiday Inn. The pillowcases look crisp; in fact they are
crisp. They are starched as heavily as
Elizabethan collars, which I’m not sure were really starched, but they sure are
crisp looking. I wonder if I’ll have
scratches on my face in the morning.
This is definitely an improvement.
The TV is smaller than the one in 625, but it has a built-in radio as
well as a few local channels. I notice
that the desk will also serve as a dresser.
There are 3 dresser drawers on the left and one desk drawer on the
right. There is hotel stationery in the
desk drawer. There’s an open space
under the desk where the chair fits neatly.
The wallpaper is eggshell white with a textured pattern of vertical
raised lines that remind me of corduroys.
There are tiny flecks of pastel pink and blue in it, but no stains and
just a few smudges. Overall, things are
looking up.
I
am still not quite over my first impression of room 625 and am finding it
difficult to leave that experience behind, since the bathroom and closet in
1624 are the same type of setup as room 625. Soaps and washcloths are in the
bathing area in a little basket on the back of the toilet. Towels are hung from a rack just above the
toilet. In the combination closet and
sink room, there’s a towel hanging from a towel rack next to the sink, but no
soap. On either side of the hot and
cold faucets there are 2 blotches where tiny bars of soap have nestled over the
years and left little gray tattoos in the indentations, but the place is
definitely cleaner than 625. There’s
the same white rubber mat I recall having seen in the bathtub in 625, which on
closer inspection proves to be a thin gritty sheet actually glued to the tub to
prevent guests from slipping on the highly polished enamel and having their
brains bashed out. The tile is gleaming
white and the bathtub looks clean despite another gray blotch where the white
mat faces the drain. There’s also a
gray ring around the drain. The bathtub faucet and fixtures look like tarnished
silver.
This is the remodeled room.
I make a few calls on my cell phone, then proceed to dinner.
DINNER
What
possesses me to take my evening meal in Jenny’s, the hotel dining
establishment, I cannot say with any conviction. Perhaps it’s the siren’s call of the piano being played softly
next door in Herby’s bar, or the twinkly, bright white lights adorning the
lifesize paper machet oak tree that make it seem warm and alluring. The dining room is almost entirely filled
with patrons who seem to be enjoying their meals and each other’s company in
the pleasant, if tacky setting. I wait
while the host attends to 5 or 6 people ahead of me. I hear one of the young hostesses say to 2 men “sorry about
that’” as they leave.
The host, a gay man in his mid 30’s asks, “May I help you?”
“Are you still seating for dinner?”
“How many?”
“Just myself.”
He
quickly asseses the available seating and tells me “Right this way. Isaac’s your waiter. He’ll be right with
you.”
A
young black man, late 20’s, tall and thin with the body of a dancer and dyed
blond hair, cut so short it looks pasted on, brings water, butter and rolls.
I
break open one of the rolls and smear the butter across it. Mmm, tastes almost like butter. Could this be margarine? I’m too embarrassed to ask, but at this
point I’ve resigned myself to the menu which is an exact replica of the one in
the hotel room for room service, except it’s in one of those thick burgundy
padded imitation leather covers, designed to convey the nobility of the
establishment.
The
roll is on the stale side. I chew it
mechanically. After about 10 minutes,
another tall, handsome black man with perfectly straight teeth and very short closely
cropped hair comes to take my order. I
can tell by his name tag that he’s Isaac.
He makes occasional sniffing sounds, but takes my order efficiently and
disappears quickly. After a short while
he returns with the salad and bleu cheese dressing on the side as I
requested. He doesn’t ask what I’d like
to drink, which is fine. I’m not in the
mood for coffee, tea, or soda. Despite
the vow I’ve made swearing off red meat, I’ve ordered filet mignon cooked
medium rare. The dinner includes the
salad, all for the low low price of $15.95.
I
set to work on my salad. It’s a typical
small dinner salad-greens, 3 tiny pear shaped cherry tomatoes, and a few shreds
of jicama, julienne cut. It’s obvious that the greens were prepared
well ahead of time, perhaps as long ago as a week. I eat carefully, picking out the wilted liquified pieces. Two of the tomatoes are edible. The third
has a gash in it revealing its mushy overripe pulp. I pick it out daintily, placing it on the empty bread plate
alongside the growing collection of soggy greens and a piece of jicama with
dark splotches. After a couple more
bites, I’ve had enough salad.
While
waiting for the main course, I observe the other patrons. They are most likely here for one of the
nearby shows and a cheap dinner. No one
is over dressed. Just working class
folks out for a night on the town. A
few of the couples are of retirement age.
There are families with children who are most likely going to the
musical production of the Lion King. I
would not call anyone a high roller.
That includes me.
Most
of the people in the room are dressed in clothes that have been worn frequently
over the years, and looking at my own wardrobe, I do not feel out of
place. My blazer, though of good
quality when I purchased it several years ago, has a loose thread dangling from
the back and it’s a bit tight in front, so I wear it unbuttoned. It never recovered from a trip last summer
when I rolled it up and propped it under my head to use as a pillow while
waiting several hours for a flight to Cleveland. The dry cleaners missed a stain on the cuff and the wrinkles are
still visible in the shoulders and back, despite the fact that I had it dry
cleaned just before this trip. There’s
only so much that dry cleaning can do for a garment after a certain number of
wearings. I make a note to retire the
blazer to the goodwill collection box.
Isaac
finally arrives with the main course.
I’ve ordered the rice instead of mashed potatoes or French fries, to
atone for my beef predilection. There
are sauteed vegetables as well. I can
identify pieces of red bell pepper, onions, yellow summer squash and eggplant,
all cooked to a soggy consistency. I
take one bite and plough the vegetables to one side of the plate. I cut into the beef. It’s tender and definitely on the rare side
of medium rare, but I prefer that to the overcooked pink “medium-well” that I
usually get. Somehow people can’t
believe that a person would eat a piece of beef that looks practically
raw. To my surprise, the meat tastes
good and the rice, though dry, is satisfying.
Sometime
later without asking if I’d like dessert, Isaac returns with my check. I put the meal on my room tab, leaving him
the customary 20% tip. I realize he
never asked the usual “How is everything?”
or any variation of that. He probably
gets plenty of people who volunteer that information, though looking around I
don’t notice anyone who seems to be as picky as I am. At least no one has shoved piles of vegetables to one side of
their dinner plates or collected salad remains on their bread plates.
COFFEE AND DESSERT
After
dinner I walk to the corner and explore the performing arts center. It’s a brisk cool evening, with possible
snow showers in the forecast. I recall
the shuttle driver saying that last year the latest snowfall occurred May 20th. It’s April 20th so we’re still in
the snow season.
My
wardrobe, as limited as it is, has some flexibility. I’ve brought ensembles that will work for spring or fall, but
nothing to bear winter weather. The
blazer is the only jacket I have with me.
For once, I’ve packed exactly what I need, not even bringing a bathrobe,
undershirt, or t-shirt to wear after work.
I am wearing jeans and a long sleeved v-necked coral jersey. Fortunately, the material is thick like a
sweat shirt. It’s windy as I enter the
plaza. One of the door attendants asks
if I need help finding anything.
“Coffee
and dessert” I tell her.
She
thinks for a few seconds and comes up with “Well there’s coffee in the Helen
Bonfils Center”, as she points the way several yards to my right.
She
offers me the remaining seat for the Lion King at $69.00 assuring me that “it’s
well worth it”. I respectfully decline,
going in search of my coffee and dessert.
The
Helen Bonfils Center is open and airy, with a glass covering letting in a great
deal of light during the day. By now
it’s dark. There are attendants ready
to direct me to whatever show I choose.
The one that’s currently popular is “Almost Heaven”, a tribute to the
life and works of John Denver. In fact,
he seems to be something of a demigod.
There’s a huge oil portrait of him playing his guitar, with the Rocky
Mountains in the background. There’s
also an unusually large 12 string guitar and a hand made leather guitar case
that belonged to him, both of which are enshrined in a glass case. Colorado thinks of John Denver as their
adopted son. That phrase was used to
describe him in some of the tourist literature. I wonder if the tragedy of his death spurred the “Almost Heaven”
musical. Interestingly enough, the John
Denver song of that title is about West Virginia and the Smoky Mountains. Maybe they should have called it “Rocky
Mountain High”, which is his song about Colorado.
I
purchase a latte and a frosted oatmeal cookie from a burly middle aged fellow
who at first is a bit brusque. He’s
ensconced behind a coffee bar. To his
left are several racks of coats. It occurs
to me that they may be for sale. I am
about to ask if I may browse through the racks and possibly purchase one of the
coats when I realize that they are the coats that have been checked by patrons
of the performances.
He
directs me up the steps to an open area with a few tables where I can hear the
music and watch the monitor displaying the live performance of “Almost Heaven”
while I sip my latte and savor the frosted oatmeal cookie. The latte is not Starbucks quality, but it
will do. The oatmeal cookie is very
tasty, with plump raisins and a chewy texture, but too huge to eat in one
sitting after my sumptuous repast at Jenny’s in the Executive Tower Hotel.
Seated
at a table a few feet to my left are a serious group of folks, men and women,
dressed in black pants and white shirts.
They are solemnly counting and fanning what appear to be stacks of cards
and money. I am amazed that they are
conducting a card game, counting bills, actually gambling right out in the
open. This really is the wild
west, I think. I resist the temptation to stare, wondering
if carrying concealed weapons is legal in Colorado. I avoid eye contact, so as not to piss off potential gun toting
gamblers. Later when I glance over at
them I realize they are ushers counting ticket stubs. My second almost faux pas of the evening. I would make a lousy detective.
I
finish my coffee and half of the cookie.
I wrap the remaining half in the plastic wrapping and stuff it into the
pocket of my blazer. It crosses my mind
that the Courtyard Mariott is just half a block from where I’m staying.
THE COURTYARD MARIOTT
The
Courtyard Mariott is less than 5 minutes away from the Executive Tower. I inquire about room rates and
availability. The facility is new, the
décor simple and tasteful. The building
is small, 2 stories, but it turns out they have rooms available for $99 per
night. I go back to the Executive Tower
and ask how much my client has prepaid for the room. The total bill, including tax, is $375 ($325 without tax).
They’re saving between $150 and $200 over 5 nights in exchange for my good will
and the usual stellar service I give my other 14 clients. I decide to sleep on it before making a
hasty move that could damage my company’s reputation were I to move to a more
pleasingly appointed facility after my client has so graciously paid in advance
for my accommodations at the Executive Tower.
In the future, I will book my room, airline tickets, and rental car
reservations and send the bill to the clients.
In the meantime, I decide to dine at some of Denver’s better
restaurants. It’s the one thing he
can’t control about the cost of the trip.
THE NEXT MORNING
I
awake at 7:30 Denver time. The sun is
shining brightly. From my hotel window,
there’s a stunning view of the Rockies, dappled with snow. The higher peaks are almost covered in
snow. The day is crystal clear. I decide that the place is tolerable,
especially with the view, which I would not have from the Courtyard Mariott.
Since
there’s no in-room coffee, I call the front desk clerk and inquire about the
location of the nearest Starbucks. I
never thought I’d be such a fan of what I, until this year, called ““corporate
coffee”, but I do find that they consistently make lattes without burning the
milk, which is more than I can say for the smaller independent cafes. I stroll the 2 blocks and order a latte,
which I sit and sip, slowly savoring the creamy froth, lightly sprinkled with
nutmeg.
The
barista gives me a few suggestions for nearby places to get a full
breakfast. After my latte, I walk the
mall, as 16th Street is called.
There are shops, department stores like Ross and TJ Max, restaurants
such as Chiles and Jamba Juice. It’s
almost like being in any other suburban or downtown in any city or mall in
America. Many of the places are not yet
serving breakfast. It’s barely after
9:00 and most don’t open until 10:00 or later.
It’s Sunday in a downtown neighborhood in a metropolitan area, so things
don’t get into full swing until later in the day, around noon.
DOWNTOWN DENVER
Due
to my client’s penny-pinching ways, I do not have a rental car this trip. He’s agreed to pick me up at 9:00 each
morning and drop me at the hotel in the evening. This limits my exploration of the Denver area to whatever is
within walking distance or within easy access of the free shuttle which runs
the length of the 16th Street “mall”. I could run up taxi bills, but it’s difficult to justify that
expense. I think he took offense when I
booked with United and flew in Saturday, thereby staying an extra night in the
deluxe accommodations that he selected for me.
He had wanted me book my flight with Frontier which doesn’t require a
Saturday night stay.
After
a full breakfast in a pretentious little establishment, the name of which
escapes me, I decide to walk along the 16th Street mall.
The
“mall” is approximately 1 to 2 miles long.
It stretches from Union Station to the Civic Center. There are a variety of shops. The less expensive side is toward the Civic
Center. The posh side is closer to Union
Station. In the early afternoon I
browse the “Overland Sheepskin” shop which is about 2 blocks from Union Station. Very expensive, trendy, but well constructed
hats, purses, wallets, and some exquisite leather coats and jackets, are on
display, some with beautiful beadwork and long leather fringe, not to mention
furs (I shudder to think they may actually be real fur).
I
fix my gaze on one deep chocolate brown leather coat, ¾ length, with a tunic
style front and a charcoal grey wool strip along the front where it
buttons. Very elegant looking, like
something Raisa Gorbachev might wear for a state visit. The price tag is $2,995. Well, at least I have good taste.
I
make my way to the exit avoiding eye contact with any of the clerks who seem to
be ignoring me anyway.