Roughly around midnight on a normal weeknight, a frazzled businesswoman checked in. She wanted an upstairs room, but we didn’t have any. Per the Summer norm, we were sold out. There was an air of discontentment about her, but she kept silent. I gave her the keycards, wished her well on her way, and she sauntered off to her room in a tired haze.

 

As I was checking in two other gentlemen, I heard a loud clanking on the back door. Someone was rapping on the glass. I excused myself from the two gents to investigate. It was the woman, appearing even more frazzled, clutching her luggage in white fists of vehemence. When I opened the door, she pushed herself and her rolling suitcase in.

 

“That room stinks,” she snapped. “I need another one.”

 

I informed her that I’d be with her in a moment. The two men still needed their room keys. She waited like a pound of C4 on a short timer. The computer showed no more rooms available.

 

Of course not, I thought.

 

I relayed the bad news, and she demanded that I put her up in another hotel. All the while, she also ranted about how she never ran into this sort of situation before. Like any well-honed desk-monkey, I tuned her out as I went about calling other hotels. Every place I called had no rooms available; save one. The Phoenix Inn.

 

She overheard the words “walking a guest”, and she panicked. “You mean I have to walk to the new hotel?”

 

“No, ma’am,” I said through a very apparent sigh. “That means that we are putting you up at the new location free of charge. As in, you won’t be billed.”

 

“What about my reservation here?” she asked.

 

“You won’t be billed,” I repeated.

 

That seemed to settle her a bit. I returned to my duties - processing the walk letter for the new location and calling her a cab.

 

She chimed in again, “Are you paying for the cab?”

 

“I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t do that,” I said. “But the room is on us.”

 

“So, you’re telling me that I have to pay for a cab ride there because of your screw-up?”

 

I bowed, “I do apologize, ma’am.”

 

“How far is it?” she asked again.

 

“Two blocks to the left,” I added.

 

“Can’t I just walk it?”

 

I stifled my scoff, “At this time a night?”

 

“You mean it’s not safe?” She sounded nervous.

 

“Not that,” I replied. “But do you really want to risk it?”

 

Then she haggled me about the cab again. In the end, I acquiesced and handed her ten-spot from the register. Just to shut her up. A taxi van finally showed a few minutes later. She asked if that was hers. I assumed it was since it was the same cab company. Amidst this, a group of younger guests departed the van. Another cab car showed a few minutes later. I almost told him to leave, thinking their’d been a miscommunication. However, I learned from the van driver that he was only there as a drop-off. The miscommunication was mine.

 

The woman transferred her load of luggage from the van to the arriving cab, all the while yelling, “I’ll never stay at your hotels again!”

 

I shook my head with a laugh, thinking another uptight dumbshit had left. In times past, guests would often make wild accusations about a room’s quality if certain unrealistic demands weren’t met. Example: So-and-so didn’t get an upgraded suit, so they’d complain that the fireplace was dusty. I assumed she complained about the room stench because she couldn’t get an upstairs room, having heard that before.

 

Out of curiosity - or pure shits and giggles - I went down to the room I gave her. Sure enough, it reeked of nicotine and ozone defogger.

 

I’ll be damned, I said to myself. She was right.

 

There are, indeed, times when I’ll admit a complaining guest has a point. This was one of those times. If there was a crow present, I’d devour it heartily. With sauce.