Tales from Minimum Wage

I was thinking last night about the worst jobs I’ve ever had. It’s a long list but helps when I get frustrated with the new job. As Bobby, Tim and Jiff know, I have my share tales from minimum wage. This might work its way into being a once a month column. I know you’re supposed to save the best for last, but since I don’t know where this will go I’ll start off with the best I’ve got. This post has been rated MA for language and personally awkward situations.


As I’ve stated before, I worked the overnight desk at the smallest Best Western in world. Apparently, it’s now a Regency Inn. I worked there my junior and first senior year of undergrad. My job consisted of coming in at six and working the desk till midnight, when I could go down to “the den” and sleep. I did all the normal crap from wake-up calls to laundry. There’s nothing like washing sheets that strangers have slept in.

One night I was called in on my night off to cover for my roommate because he wanted to spend time with his girl. To greet me was the racist 65 yr old afternoon desk clerk, and the manager named Snookie. Yes, Snookie. They left with a warning that the church was paying for a homeless couple to stay in one of the rooms. I think it was room nine. If they caused any problems, I should call the church and Snookie.

The night was rather slow the first few hours. Then someone rang from room number nine. I answered it. Mistake #1. The first words uttered were, “Do you know why Montana went to Kansas City?” Imagine an 80 year lady who smoked since she was six with the drunk slur going, and you get a good idea of what she sounded like. She answered my “No,” with the fact that Montana was apparently a drug fiend and signed with Kansas City to get more money for drugs. Then she hung up.

Fifteen minutes later, she called up again asking if she could bring her puppy into the room. Sticking to my guns, I said she couldn’t because dogs aren’t allowed. She proceeded to give detail information of her life as a prostitute, about the guy in the room that beats her, and how she was proud of her daughter, who wanted nothing to do with her. She followed that up by asking again if she could bring the puppy into her room. What do you say after a story like that? We’ll just call it mistake #2.

I quickly followed that up with mistake #3, when I agreed to her pleads to meet me. She wanted to thank me for being such a kind person. I waited for half an hour. She called back, saying she couldn’t find the office. Now the hotel is in the shape of a rectangle, and she was on the bottom floor. The office was on the corner, literally fifteen feet from her room. I gave her directions and she still couldn’t find it. After giving her directions for the third time, I waited. Another guest of the hotel came in and was getting some ice from the bucket. Of course that’s when she comes in, barefoot, stumbling, and wearing a tie-dyed New Kids on the Block T-shirt. Thinking the guest was me, she gave the poor guy a big hug. By tomorrow morning, I was sure I would be fired or dead. Apologizing deeply, I got her off him, and was then given my own drunken bear hug. For those who don’t know, I’m not what you would consider a “touchy feely” person…at all. The smell of booze and a damp ashtray didn’t help.

She hung out with me for about thirty minutes telling me more of her life, her daughter and how she got from Kansas City to Ohio. Halfway through our chat, the man she was staying with rang. He wanted know if she was still there. This conversation then followed:

Man: “Has the bitch sucked your c*ck yet?”
Me: (Gag reflex) “No!”
Man: “What are you waiting for?”
Me: Unintelligible mumbling

After hanging up, she went into full detail about this hulk of man who was a complete asshole, and beat her repeatedly. It was at that moment I realized that for the sake of my life and job, it was time for her to leave. Trying to get her out of the office, she latched onto a necklace I was wearing. As stars stared popping in my vision from lack of oxygen, I asked if she wanted it. She said no, and pointed to the flannel shirt I was wearing. I gurgled no. She then pointed to my Huey Lewis and the News T-shirt. (Remember, I didn’t know better at the time). I asked if she wanted the T-shirt. Mistake #4. She responded by whipping off her New Kids on the Block T-shirt and handing it to me. At this point you might be asking yourself a question. Let me answer it by saying that she in fact was not wearing a bra. Is it sad that these would be the first real live breasts I would see in person?

When faced with a topless 50+ year old drunk woman handing you her T-shirt at your place of employment, you have two choices. Argue with the topless woman till she finally puts her shirt back on, or trade shirts. I made my choice with one factor in mind. What’s the quickest way I could get this woman’s breasts covered? Yes, I ended up with a tie-dyed NKOTB t-shirt that night. She got a Huey Lewis T-shirt. There were no winners.

I then risked life and limb, and ushered her back to her room. Mistake #5. I was certain I was going to be pummeled when this behemoth answered the door. Luckily he was out cold. The smell of booze, smoke, urine, and my own fear kept me at the doorway. She hugged me and I finally went to sleep, thinking this was the end of the ordeal.

My roommate woke me up the next morning and asked me what happened last night. I knew I was fired. I told my tale. He said the lady was picked up by Police when she kept jumping into people’s cars at the grocery store next door. Apparently, as they hauled her away, she yelled that the nice boy Brad deserved a raise. I never got the raise, but I also didn’t get fired. So it was a wash. And that’s it. They tales won’t get better than that. They will get shorter