The first time Mrs. Geeberg and her husband, Barry, came through, she practically sailed along in her high-heeled boots and fancy jeans, a Juicy purse thrown over her shoulder. Barry wore what I assumed to be his usual: a western-style plaid button-down with jeans. He trudged along behind her, pulling a gargantuan suitcase with a matching beauty bag. His eyes were downcast, brow furrowed, as he followed her across the lobby and into the elevator. After a while, they came back down to my desk.
“Mona, dear, I’m sorry,” she’d said, “but room 412 isn’t what we wanted. The view is of a building, but I wanted a view of the river valley. Any chance we can switch?”
I tried to be polite while I checked the database. Mrs. Geeberg shifted from foot to foot. Barry stood back, staring at the ground. I willed the automatic search to hurry up.
“Here we go,” I said. “Room 1012 faces the same direction but is higher up.”
“Lovely!”
“There’ll be an upgrade fee of twenty dollars.” I didn’t think she’d care, but we’re supposed to ask anyway.
“That’s fine,” she said, grabbing the key from me. “Come, Barry, we have a different room!” They took off toward the elevator again, and I sighed when the doors slid shut.
Something along these lines happens whenever they stay, which is often.
I wrote a story about Mrs. Geeberg in which I tried to assume the voice of a rich person whose biggest problem is the view from her hotel window. I sent it to a magazine which subsequently sent back my first rejection letter. Apparently, my character’s voice was “unrealistic”; the emotions I wanted my readers to feel had been “artificially imposed”. They said I needed to meditate on what Mrs. Geeberg was feeling, and rewrite the story. And they said I was lucky they bothered telling me what was wrong with it.
Mrs. Geeberg isn’t the only guest that ever caught my attention. There are plenty of other memorables, both regulars and one-time wonders.
Once, a family came in having claimed two adults and two children on their reservation. The dad checked in with two kids at his side. They went to their room, and when the mom came through a few minutes later, she had two more kids with her. She went into the elevator and I shrugged it off. It wasn’t my business if they wanted to be stuffed three in a bed. A few minutes later, the dad came back down, went outside, and returned with two more kids! I guess they wanted to save money and didn’t mind being packed like sardines into scrumpy room 203. Come to think of it, each kid’s luggage did look remarkably like a sleeping roll.
Some people come to town “on business”. Mr. Macafee, an insurance agent, stays here every month. He said he comes here for meetings with other insurance salespeople. Or something. He struts around in dark-washed True Religion jeans, black dress shoes, and Ray Bans. Even his computer case is designer. The first time he came in, I noticed he wore a wedding band, but every time since then, he’s had a different woman with him when he strolls back through the lobby after having gone out for “dinner”. He still wears the wedding band.
Tonight, when I get home from work, I pour a glass of wine and sit down at my computer. I’m going to start a blog. I read somewhere that real writers always have blogs. I don’t know the reputability of that source, but I do know that after my rejection letter, I’ll do whatever might help. I sent my “meditation” about what really goes on in Mrs. Geeberg’s head out last week and I could use good news this time.
I stare at the screen. What should I write about?
I type in a few characters. I sip the wine. I delete the characters and start over. I sip wine again. My fingers ache from having typed all day at work. I delete the characters again, slap the computer shut, down the rest of the wine, and go to bed.
The next day, a family of four comes into the lobby around eleven in the morning: a dad, a mom, and two nearly grown-up kids. The daughter carries a pink, sparkly doggy travel bag with Gucci written all over it, a perfectly groomed miniature dog inside. The poor dog is probably going to have a seizure from all those sparkles. It’s practically animal abuse.
“Welcome to Hotel Rivercity,” I say.
“We have a reservation,” the mother says, approaching my desk.
“Last name?”
“Hamilton-Rhodes. Hyphenated.”
Of course it is.
I find the reservation. It claims they have no pets. “Will the dog be staying in the room?” I ask.
“Oh . . . she’s hypoallergenic and house-trained.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “We’ll have to change your reservation to a pet’s room.”
“I suppose the pet’s room is not the penthouse suite I booked,” she said coldly.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then we’re not staying. Cancel my reservation.”
Before I tell her that she can’t be refunded on the check-in date, she’s gone. As they walk toward the door, the designer daughter glares at me. So does the dog.
When I get home, I don’t bother pouring the wine into a glass. There’s only a quarter bottle left anyway. I stare at my blank blog entry for an hour. When the wine is gone and my word count is still zero, I go to bed. I dream I’m being pushed from the balcony of the penthouse suite by a little dog in a pink, sparkly collar.
A family of six stands in the lobby, a tearful good-bye underway. The mother clutches the oldest kid, a girl who is eighteen-ish, while the rest of the family stands around. A teenage brother has his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the ceiling. A younger boy is picking on the youngest sister, who slaps his hands away. They all have red-rimmed eyes, but only the mother and oldest daughter are actively crying. The father keeps touching the mother’s arm, trying to pry her away from the daughter, but the mother ignores him. It would be ridiculous if it weren’t so sad.
I wonder where this girl is going. She’s wearing a backpack, and has a folder in her hands. Maybe she’s going to Bible school in Romania. Or maybe an Ivy-League college in the States on full scholarship.
When the father finally pulls the mother away, the daughter waves and heads toward the airport taxi waiting beyond the revolving doors. The family watches her walk away.
I’m staring, and my eyes might possibly be a little bit teary.
“Hello?”
A tall man in a black trench coat has approached my desk. He has long black hair and a thick silver chain around his neck.
“Sorry,” I say. “Welcome to Hotel Rivercity.”
“I’d like a room.”
His wife is standing a ways off, not facing me. She also wears a black trench coat, her long black hair hanging down her back. Neither of them has luggage.
“For two?” I ask.
He nods.
“I’ll need your wife’s signature here,” I say, pointing to the sheet. The man looks confused.
I gesture to the woman, who turns around and comes toward me. She is actually a he.
“This is my son,” the man says.
Oh, God. I hide my burning cheeks as I answer the phone, which is ringing again. “Hotel Rivercity, Mona speaking.”
“Mona, dear, I need a room, preferably one with a view of the river valley.”
Tonight, I find a letter from the magazine when I arrive home. I tear into it viciously.
Dear Mona Fitzgerald,
We are unable to use your recent submission, “A Room for Mrs. Fleaberg” . . .
I don’t read the rest. I rip it up and cry like I am a twelve-year-old girl whose new puppy has been killed by a UPS van.
When I open my internet browser later, a news article on the homepage catches my attention. Small Town Woman Publishes First Novel. I click the link, and nearly fall from my desk chair when I see Mrs. Geeberg’s face smiling back at me. You’ve got to be kidding me.
I open my blog and begin typing furiously, telling myself I can’t stop for wine until I’ve reached at least a thousand words. I write about Mrs. Geeberg. I write about Mr. Macafee. I write about the man and his wife who is actually his son. I’m going to call my blog “Observations From a Check-In Desk”. My first entry: a meditation on what it’s like to be me. Mona.
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