Where's my hoodie?

This story happened years ago, before my wife and I had even started dating.  I was working the night shift, midnight to 8:00 in the morning.  Most times, this shift was a dream at this particular motel, which is the same one I'm working in now.  (This is my third time working here.  This story happened during the first time I worked here.)  It's the smallest of the four I've worked in, and the least busy.  This happened on a weekend in the summer, though, which brings the weirdos and a-holes out of the woodwork.

Around 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning, things had settled down, and I was hanging out with my cousin and roommate Noah.  A guy in his earlier 20s walked in and asked me to call his dad for him.  He wasn't a guest or anything; he just wandered in off the street.  He was obviously drunk, and he had cuts and bruises on his face that looked like they were from a recent fist fight.  I didn't want to make the call for him, so I handed him the portable phone from the office so he could call his dad himself.

"Dial 9 for an outside line," I told him.  He took the phone outside to the front step, where he sat down to use the phone.  Keeping on eye on him to make sure he didn't leave with the phone, I resumed my conversation with Noah.

A few minutes later, the guy came back in, threw my phone on the floor, and told me that it doesn't work.

"Did you dial 9 for an outside line?" I asked as I checked to see if the phone still works.  He answered with a blank stare, which means no.  When he asked for the phone back to try again, I told him in very colourful terminology that he couldn't because I didn't want him throwing my phone around, and that I wanted him to leave.

"Well, give me my hoodie back," he said.

"What hoodie?" I asked.

"My hoodie.  I gave you my hoodie when you came in."

"No you didn't."

"Yes I did.  Give me my hoodie!"

"Why would I steal your hoodie?"

We went back and forth like that for a little while, and I actually took him into the back office to show him that there was no hoodie stashed away in there for me to sell on the black market, but he still didn't believe that I didn't have the hoodie that he wasn't even wearing when he first walked in the door.  It was probably at the bar that his ass had been kicked in, but he wouldn't accept that I didn't steal his stupid hoodie.  I'm pissed off at him right now simply for making me type the word hoodie so much in this one short blog entry.  I finally started yelling and cursing at him, and he decided to leave.  I hope he never found his hoodie.

Racist Guests

I never know what to do with racist guests.  In any other situation, if someone started telling me the difference between prairie n*****s, sand n*****s, and regular n*****s, I would call him (I find it's always a dude, for some reason) an asshole and walk away.  But when I'm in a customer service role, I can't really start calling my guests assholes.  I usually end up laughing nervously and waiting for him to go to his room.  The worst offender - the one with the N-word classifications - was a regular a few years back.  He was planning on moving to Lethbridge, and he asked me to help him move.  I was terrified of this man, so I said yes.  Thankfully, before the day came for him to move, I moved instead.  (This was when I took the brief time-out for working at motels to unsuccessfully pursue a real career.)