Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Suzy the Twat: The Ugliest American

My hand shakes uncontrollably as I attempt to slide my keycard into the locker room door. The white corner edge rattles against the entry, causing the lock to make a clicking noise as the light turned red.

Doorman - "FUCK!!!!"

I fight the urge to punch the door with everything I've got.

No, save it. Save it for when you get inside. A housekeeper may be roaming in the hallway. 

I take a deep breath and hold it as I manage to slip the keycard through the slot, just long enough for the green light to flash and validate my entry. I swing the door open and chug toward the first inanimate object I see.

Chair. 

I take three gallops toward the shitty, old, discarded chair that was, many years ago, designated for a guest room and eventually passed down to us for our lunch breaks, pick it up, and heave it across the room. It sails through the thankfully empty locker room and explodes against the wall.

More. 

I turn to my left and quickly scan the lockers for a fresh spot, one that hasn't been dented by an angry bell staff worker yet. I spot one, sitting pretty above a faded Obama/Biden '08 bumper sticker. I throw a haymaker and make an impressive dent without damaging my hand.

More breaking noises. 


My eyes scan the room like a berserk terminator, looking for more property to damage. I spot an old radio, one that no one uses anymore since we upgraded a few months ago. Five lightening quick, giant leaps forward, and the radio is held over my head. I scream a violent scream from the bowels of my stomach, and smash it onto the pile of the broken chair debris. Tiny black pieces of plastic and metal shoot from the floor like a $40 firework.

Scream. 

I scream with everything I've got. My voice goes cracks midway through, like Leonardo DiCaprio's always seems to do when he has that obligatory screaming fit he does in every film. My right foot involuntarily goes into motion, making another cavernous dent into the Obama/Biden locker.

Satisfied. 

A couple of steps backward and my back hits another locker. I let it catch me, slide to the floor, and clutch at my hair as my ass hits the filthy carpet.

Breathe. Don't cry. Don't be a cunt. 


I've had meltdowns at work, but this is the worst. Now exhausted, I muster the strength to look up and survey the damage: Broken chair, broken radio, two fresh dents in the locker, and a bleeding hand that I initially thought was okay.

Then I hear the toilet flush from the locker room bathroom.

Fuck. 


I pray that it's not one of the morning guys, or, even worse, the bell captain. The door opens, and thankfully, it's Marty. He has a Polish newspaper tucked between his elbow and hip as he adjusts his belt. Always the goofball and ball buster, I've never seen him this genuinely concerned.

He just listened to me destroy the room, and now I was panting on the disgusting floor with a bloody fist and a red face.

Marty - "Dude…"

That's all he really had to say. He's one of my best friends at work, my solid drinking buddy, and we've gotten to know each other pretty well over the past year and a half. So I told him what happened:

A woman checked in about two weeks ago. She traveled alone, and used the term "I'm baaack!!!" as I helped her out of the taxi. I didn't recognize her, nor did I really give a fuck, but I was having a decent enough day where I could act the part and humor her. Most people don't realize that if you don't shower the hotel staff with generous globs of cash during your stay, they will forget you the second you walk out the door.

There really isn't any way for me to describe her that would make her stand out from any other middle-aged white woman from the Midwest.  "Suzy" essentially looked like everyone's mom, only with an icy demeanor in her eyes that you only see in Russian hitmen and James Spader characters. She was here for two weeks, as she made it abundantly clear with her 82 lb. bag (those are marked with a label and an orange man lifting correctly with his legs.)

I brought her to the front, where there were a few people already waiting. After carefully placing her monster suitcase next to the purple velvet rope that leads to the front desk, I made the obligatory pause and eye contact that suggests I be paid for my services. Being that there were people ahead of her, she couldn't escape this by scurrying to the front desk agents, as most assholes will do.

She locked eyes with me. Now, there are usually two causes for people to not thank me when I bring them inside: One is that they're so frantic about getting their papers in order, new to the city, and completely overwhelmed that they simply forget. The other is that they don't deem the luggage mule worthy of their gratitude. She was a gray, wrinkly embodiment of the latter. She stared at me and said nothing, efficiently communicating "that'll do, pig" by batting her eyes twice. I muttered a disingenuous "enjoy your stay" and slumped off.

She was an absolute nightmare for the next two weeks.

And she wasn't a nightmare in the sense where she was just not tipping, that's easy to deal with. No, no, Suzy was a nightmare in the sense that she made all of our lives a living hell, and seemed to take joy in doing so. Most people go on vacation to escape whatever reality or stress they live in, to see some sights, relax a bit, get drunk, go out to restaurants, see a show, etc. Though there's a rare breed of people, that come once in a blue, who go on vacation to simply raise hell amongst everyone they come into contact with. Maybe it's because they spend their days getting stepped on at home and want to pass that frustration onto the help. Maybe it's some sexual fetish that I know nothing about.  Maybe it's because it just makes them happy.

Whatever the case, she strutted around the lobby with her chest puffed, nose in the air, with her eyes locked forward, as if she were visualizing adonis-like, shirtless men throwing rose pedals at her feet. It was sickening. She complained about everything. She had something to say about everything. 


"I'm not crazy about the floral design on my pillows. I'd like to have them changed by the time I come back." 

"What do you mean you don't know what year the East Wing of the hotel was built? Isn't that something you learn on day one?!?!" 

"What do you mean you don't know of a good vegetarian Indonesian restaurant in the immediate area?!?! Isn't it your job to know these things?!?!" 

She would call the doorman phone from the room and demand a taxi be waiting there to take her 3 blocks. When I told her that a cabbie wouldn't wait to go anywhere but the airport, and that I'd be happy to hail her one when she comes down, she called me incompetent and hung up. 

By day four, her mere presence in the lobby would create pigeon-like a scatter amongst the bellmen and front desk agents. Since I'm the schmuck that can't leave his post, almost all of this bullshit would come down on me. 


At one point, she came downstairs with a large bag of bottles and cans, asking why there aren't separate bins for recycling in the rooms. I explained that housekeeping does the separating themselves and that she had nothing to worry about. 

Suzy - "That's not going to be good enough for me."

She drops the bag at my feet. And turns to leave. 

Suzy - "Make sure housekeeping gets this." 

This is what we were dealing with.

I left it there, determined to have it waiting there for her when she gets back. Though just a few minutes later, a homeless can-collector walked by and asked for it. As much as I wanted to find out what room Suzy occupied and decorate it with this fucking recycling bag, I couldn't deny this man the couple of bucks worth of empty Canada Dry seltzer cans. 


You're probably thinking "But, Doorman- what happened to the guy who likes to exact revenge and doesn't let people get away with bullshit like that? What happened to your balls?" I'll tell you what- 

Trip Advisor. 

Working in hotels for a few years has trained me to spot the type of personality that relishes writing lengthy, name-specific reviews on the internet. While I do and say a lot of bad things, I pick my battles, and I know who I can and can't fuck with. Is my hotel going to translate a Brazilian travel company's website from Portuguese to English to find a review saying "the doorman berated me for not giving him a tip and then I found gum on my $500 Louis Vuitton bag?" No. She looked at everyone's name tag that she came into contact with. She asked the right follow-up questions when she complained. She "travels frequently." All it takes is one little slip of the attitude and I become the subject of her wrath in her little online review. And while I hate my job, I'm not making any money writing at the moment, so I can't afford to get suspended because this cunt didn't care for the way I facetiously said "you're welcome" as I slammed a taxi door in her face. 

So I was stuck. I was going to have to eat whatever shit she threw my way. And like it. 

All of that was surprisingly okay. A person like that gets off on breaking you, and seeing that whatever they're doing has affected you in a negative way. I refused to give her the satisfaction, and I was (barely) winning the battle. 

It wasn't till the following afternoon that she would break me. 

Click here for Part Two of Suzy the Twat: The Ugliest American!!!!


1 comment:

  1. I actually read part 2 before this. Man this lady is a real tool. I still to this day cannot understand how people can legitimately treat another human being this way and actually be ok with themselves.

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