Ep. 7
I’ve been the Night Manager of The Hotel for a long time. My father was the Night Manager before me. I grew up in The Town, just like most of the full-time residents that keep Things running.
It isn’t a bad job, though some of the requirements are a little more demanding than your average job in an average hotel. I have a room to live in, free food from the Gilded Unicorn, and a level of autonomy rarely found in such a large establishment.
The trade off is that I’m always on duty. Like, always. I sleep when I can, but the minute someone is about to enter the lobby, I find myself at the desk. I never feel tired, so I guess it isn’t too bad.
Like my dad before me, I had to sign a contract with The Board for non-disclosure of anything. I grew up with my dad not being able to speak, and I figured it was an injury or something he was born with. He never discussed it. After signing, I tried to say goodbye to him, I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Not even a squeak. Like I mentioned, The Hotel has its quirks, but I didn’t know how deep those quirks ran.
I get to read a lot. The Hotel library has an ever-changing supply of new, rare, and utterly unheard-of books. The third book in the trilogy by Homer was a nice addition. I read the Iliad and the Odyssey when I first started, but his third, The Respite, was a well-crafted story about what happens when heroes return and stop being heroic.
The extra duties are where I feel a sense of purpose. Anyone can sit at a desk and point to the signs I had printed to answer the more commonly asked questions. But the files of other, more unique, resources that I, and the Night Managers before me, compiled are the repertoire of the Night Manager that gives The Hotel its notoriety. There is no advertising, no mention in the AAA guidebooks, Fodor’s has never heard of us, and a Michelin reviewer did stay here, but was afraid to send in the 3-key review of The Hotel and Its offerings. There was not even a billboard near the highway. The Hotel has a word of mouth for those with a certain need, and an ability to be there for those that are lost, even when they think they know where they are going.
Those little bits of information come with a price for those who ask. I don’t decide the price, but I know it is enough when it is offered. For the small things, a few bucks are enough, for others, like finding rare items, the occasional improper service, or a reservation at the Gilded Unicorn, the price is higher. The rarer the item, the rarer the price. Thanks to those, I have a new bookmark for every book I start.
The one thing that comes for free is privacy. There are several safeguards in place to achieve that. The lack of phones in the regular rooms, or cell service inside the building has been around since before the technology existed. I have a contact that helps me find the unique or the questionable things that I or a client need. Through him, I got the ledger and accounting system. It is easier than the thousands of slips I had to maintain until they were no longer needed and had to be incinerated. It was too wasteful. I was proud of that idea. It was expensive to get it created, but these are the things those tips pay for.
A private contractor installed the elevator before my dad’s time. That was a huge undertaking, but once it was completed, it also expanded the room count nearly infinitely. I don’t know how they did it, but there were many sacrifices made by the Board and a few benefactors from the Town.
They walled the stairwells off and only used them for specific emergencies and the Staff. The Staff, however, are a topic for another day…
Today, however, was just a normal day. I was reading Needful Things by Stephen King for the third time. I still never understood why a person would ruin a good business model by destroying the town, but Evil and Good have a way of being unreasonable in their extremes.
I was thinking about ordering lunch from the All-Nite Chineze Buffet down the hill, when an alarm sounded from the security system outside. Aimed towards the trees, the cameras watched the direction that people from the Next Town Over arrived from. There are few things that are truly a problem for The Hotel or its clients, but most of those problems seem to come from that direction. I checked the camera to see a man come out from the gated path that led from the parking lot beyond the trees. That he made it past the gate let me know The Hotel was expecting him, but the alarm told me that trouble was brewing. I assumed he left his car beyond, as he did not look tired enough to have walked from the Next Town Over. Visitors from the Next Town Over are not all bad, but they never seem to visit without some turmoil. I think it’s in their genes.
As he walked across the parking lot, I examined the shape on the screen. He looked like a normal businessman, dark gray suit, shoes, and a tie that was loosened, allowing him to unbutton the collar of his faded maroon shirt. The glint of the diamond and pearl cufflinks that I expect to see when he gets to the lobby set my jaw. N. Oname, I think to myself. Fucking prick. He knows I can’t give his name out, and I sure as hell can’t say it. Yet this cocky kid uses an alias, nonetheless. Every time he had come from the Next Town Over, he never caused a scene in The Hotel, but his actions brought questions that I have to find a way to legally not answer. Every. Damn. Time.
I roll my eye and give the two entities in the lobby a Look to tell them to find a better place to be. I don’t know what Oname wants, but I’m not giving him anything extra with which to find an interest. Approaching the lobby doors, I note the single piece of luggage and his shoulder bag. It was more of a beaten leather backpack, scarred, black, and stained with something that I professionally will not ask about. I have never seen him without that bag. It had settled onto his shoulder like a pet Capuchin, ready to do its master’s bidding.
The door to the lobby opens with the slightest “snick” of the two heavy doors separating at the first push. Oname walks in the entrance, calm and relaxed, like he was returning to a second home. The guttural rumble of the luggage wheels are quiet on the hardwood flooring. Occasionally, as the wheels cross the great rugs in the lobby, the sound became muted. Other than that, the man is silent as he crosses the room to my desk. I am still reading with one eye as this unfolds. Most think that I lost my eye. I have not, I have managed to hone the skill of keeping one eye on my task, and the other scanning the room. Hotel security is good, but I try not to test it.
“Heya, Night. Got a room for me?” He had a smile on his face, like he was enjoying a private joke between the two of us.
I never joke. Especially with this guy. The gall of him to give me a nickname. I am the Night Manager, not ‘Night’, as this waste of a tree’s life’s work insists on thinking. I turn my head slightly to glare at him with one eye. I might be there to secure a room, and some services, but I am not to be messed with.
“Relax mister! I was just being friendly,” the man responded to my glare. “I’ll try not to do that again.” I gave the slightest twitch of my head to acknowledge the apology.
“I was hoping to get a room,” he continued, “preferably my usual, but I am fine with whatever is free.”
I checked the Ledger to confirm there was an opening. It is a matter of tradition. Few of the guests know that there are more rooms than the size of the building suggests. There has only been one time in my history as Night Manager that there were no rooms. It is part of the security system. If you are not supposed to stay here, you don’t get a room.
As expected, his usual room was unoccupied. I slid the ledger across the desk for him to sign. I stared at him, then the empty space, then arched an eyebrow. Write your real name, prick, I dared him silently. I watched him scribble his information on the ledger. N. Oname. We do not ask for an address or contact number. You pay upfront. We aren’t going to need to find you later.
Sighing at his name, I glance at the room rates and back to him.
“Well, here’s the thing,” he started sheepishly. “I don’t know how long I am going to be here. I am here to find somebody-”
I slammed the book shut and jabbed a finger at the sign that read: “Not only do I not want to know your story, I don’t think YOU want me to know it either.”
“Right, sorry bud, I was only trying to explain that I don’t know exactly how long I will be here.”
I pointed to the sign next to the room rates: “If you aren’t sure, take a guess and add two days. At worst, you can check out the indoor golf course with the extra time. (10% off coupon by the lobby doors)”
Oname read the sign and thought for a minute. I could say I thought I saw smoke rising from his ears, but that would sound mean.
“I’ll book for a week. If I think it will be longer, I will let you know. If you need me to move rooms because of reservations, I understand.”
Hmm, I had not thought of that. I may do it just to piss him off, I thought. I tapped on the small tablet in front of me. I had an app developed to handle room reservations and occupancy. Somehow, it can figure out the mechanics of The Hotel’s rooms. A few numbers were printed out on a slip. I handed it to him and waited. Oname glanced at the number and produced a black card.
“Can I get a receipt? I need it for expenses.”
I swiped the card and waited for the transaction to be processed. As it did, I reached down to retrieve the key from the dispenser. I missed the days of having the keys on a hook under the desk. The charge was accepted, and the key spit out onto the shelf. Waiting a few seconds to let it dry and harden, I took the stamp from the drawer and stamped PAID across the slip that I gave him:
$1300/7days:
$9100
Save the Black Squirrel:
$130
Total- $9230
“Thanks Manager, I appreciate it.” He took the room key from the counter once I retrieved it and tossed it across to him. As he reached for the handle of his luggage, he looked back at me. “I need to find directions to the Gilded Unicorn? But I need to get there from where I parked my car, and I can’t get to here from the Next Town Over, as you know.”
That was a tough one, even for me. I can give directions to get someone to the Unicorn from here, but I can’t get him the directions from where he is parked. I looked at him for a few more seconds, letting him know that I was still waiting for payment. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a money clip. Removing a bill from the center, he slid over a tattered piece of paper.
It was a 1928 Five-thousand-dollar bill. The blood stain from the body of the banker who had it in his pocket as he fell from the window of his office was still visible. I hate Death, but The Hotel doesn’t care. In addition, some clients and suppliers only accept these types of payment. Picking up the bill, I knew it was enough for the transaction. I pulled open my book, dropped the previous bookmark in the bin below the desk, and placed the new one instead. Fishing around in the drawer, I found what I was looking for. It was a recipe for the perfect wonton dipping sauce, complete with directions on how to find the ingredients. Slipping it into an envelope, I wrote ANCB on the front and sealed it.
I slid it over to Oname, and pointed to the menu for the All-Nite Chineze Buffet, pointed at the envelope, and finally at him. I waited to see if he understood the directions.
“I bring this to the Buffet, and I get directions from them?”
Nodding, I turned back to my book. N. Oname had paid for the room and the service he requested, and I have delivered. My part in this little chapter of life has concluded.
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