Sunday, June 2, 2013

Suzy the Twat: The Ugliest American - Part III

Click here for PART ONE 

Click here for PART TWO

Doorman - "That's so fucking stupid. How could I possibly be in on something like that? It doesn't even make sense. What, am I going to call the cabbie after she gets in his car and say, 'yo, this white lady is gonna leave her purse in the car by accident, if she calls me, I won't say shit. Then we'll split everything evenly, along with Leroy the decoy on the street.' You know?"

Raul just ran his fingers through his fu manchu and looked at his watch. 3:00pm. Quitting time.

Raul - "Coño, I'm going home. Don't let that little bitch get to you."

We shook hands and he left. The night guy, a towering monster with triceps the size of car mufflers who I call "Bane", arrived. I didn't fill him in on what happened, because it was festering in my head.

Was Raul fucking with me? She sounded very serious on the phone. The more I thought about it and replayed the tone in her voice over and over in my head, the more it made sense. Her questions were all accusatory. "I need my purse back." "Oh, I get it." "Oh, you remember? Interesting."

Bane distracted me by showing me a picture of his newborn son. He had a thick head of black hair and looked just like his dad, minus the professional wrestler-like frame. We talked about his becoming a father for a bit, and I was able to temporarily put Suzy the Twat out of my head.

About an hour later, she arrived.

It was slow, so Bane and I were just standing there, talking. I saw her walking from down the block, and I felt my body getting tight. I started to grind my teeth. As she got closer and closer, I prepared my defense, and was going to give her a piece of my mind for even insinuating that I was thief.

But she walked right up to Bane.

Suzy - "Are you the man who gets taxis?"

Bane - "Excuse me?"

Scoff.

Suzy - "Are you the man who got me the taxi to Bloomingdales?"

I've been helping for two weeks, courteously taking her shit and controlling every instinct to tell her to go fuck herself. I got her the taxi to Bloomingdales. After two weeks of interactions, she couldn't tell me, an ordinary-looking 5'10 guy, apart from a 50-year-old man who looks like a Puerto Rican Mike Piazza, and a 6'5 mountain of a man. All she saw was the fucking hat and uniform.

Doorman - "That was me, ma'am."

I felt my face get flush and my hands get shaky, the same thing that happens to me right before a fistfight.

She turns to me, still cold as ice.

Suzy - "I'm the lady you spoke to on the phone."

Doorman - "I know, did you find your purse?"

Then she gave me that look. It was the same look I gave to the kid who helped steal my bike in the project building I lived in when I was little. It was the same look your parents give you when they know you're lying about something. It was the same look you give to a used car salesman when he pulls a bait-and-switch. Without saying anything, I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was completely convinced that I was, in fact, somehow responsible for her purse going missing.

Suzy - "No."

She takes a good look at my name tag, then turns to walk into the hotel. Bane opens the door for her. She doesn't say thank you.

Bane - "What was that about?"

Doorman - "I'll be right back."

I ran like a bastard down the steps to the locker room and pulled out my keycard.

My hand shakes uncontrollably...

As I sat on the locker room floor, with Marty looking over me, I couldn't help but think of one thing:

My parents happen to live around a lot of older, widowed women. My Old Man, my brothers, and myself have been shoveling snow for the entire block for twenty years. Now that we're out of the house, my Old Man, who is pushing sixty, has now taken on that responsibility on his own. He spends an hour shoveling his own property, then the next five on the rest of the neighborhood.

If Suzy the Twat moved onto the block, he would shovel her snow without question. And he would expect nothing in return. That's what my family does - we shovel snow for old ladies. We take the time out of our day to walk a 92-year-old woman to her taxi. And we expect nothing in return.

That's the way I was raised.

I could go on about the money I make and how I've never stolen anything in my life, but that's irrelevant. What Suzy did was lump me into this category that she has in her head, this inferior form of human being, this servant, this lowlife, who helped steal her purse. She attacked my character. She reduced me to some petty thief. This completely broke me.

Marty grabbed my bloody hand and helped me up.

Marty - "Oh, terrific."

I let him wash his hands first, then I cleaned up my knuckles.

We both sat down. Neither of us said much. My hand was still bleeding, so I wrapped it up with some paper towels.

Doorman - "Don't tell anyone about my little meltdown."

Marty - "Of course. I just wish I could have seen it. The smashing sounded fantastic."

I'm not sure if I can properly illustrate the relationship men have with smashing things, so I won't.

The locker room door opened, and the Bell Captain - a handsome, clean-cut, older black man - walked in and surveyed the mess.

Bell Captain - "The fuck happened to my locker?"

He looked at me, red face and bloody paper towel wrapped around my hand.

Doorman - "I have no idea."


I didn't see Suzy the Twat after that, but there's a post-script to this story: 

She left the next morning. The Bell Captain had personally gone up to her room, brought her now three monster suitcases full of shopping down to the lobby, arranged a car service, stored her bags while she got breakfast, retrieved her bags, then brought them out to her car that he arranged, and loaded the trunk.

She took out her brand-new Louis Vuitton purse, removed the brand-new Louis Vuitton wallet, and shuffled through her money as the Bell Captain waited for his tip. She pulled out a ten, then put it back. She pulled out a five, then put it back. She pulled out a dollar bill, looked at it, then handed it over. It was the only tip she gave anyone during her two-week stay. She got into the black town car and left, hopefully to never be seen by any of us again.

The reason she was being personally helped by the Bell Captain was because she had made a formal complaint to management that morning. She complained that in her efforts to find her lost purse, the "Doorman" (she called me by my real name) was very unhelpful and indifferent. She also believed that he may have "withheld information" about the whereabouts of her purse.

Management spoke to me about it, and I told them everything. As you may have picked up while reading the story, her argument was fucking absurd, and it was dismissed immediately.

I kept an eye out on Trip Advisor for a few days. Sure enough, her two-out-of-five-star review came in hot off the presses. She slammed the hotel's lack of recycling bins, ugly bedsheets, and, most importantly, incompetent staff. Suzy the Twat closed her triumphant tale with the Doorman and the missing purse scandal.

The more I read her bullshit, the more sorry I feel for her. I really mean that. I actually feel bad for her. When you see someone traveling alone, acting like that, and just being a completely miserable sack of shit, you can't help but wonder what has brought her to that point. I just hope that whatever it is, it never happens to me.

I also hope that she doesn't have the privilege of living near a family like mine, and that she has to shovel her own fucking snow every winter.

3 comments:

  1. Excellent ending to a great story!

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  2. I have encountered far too many people like her. Fuck her.

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  3. Amazing! What a beautiful story about a terrible example of humanity you've documented. Well done, Doorman!

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