A weary midnight bellman, his mind and body aching from the burn of the midnight oil.
Unbalanced, drunken females, giddy with exhaustion, their words slurred and their minds a cyclone of foggy memories best left unexplored.
An overzealous traveler pacing the lobby, eager for the swimming pool to open.
Eager bus drivers and tour guides pacing in the early morning sun, desperate for the bellman to deliver their charges’ belongings to the front of the building.
Ripped flyers and newspapers, cigarette butts and crushed cans of Red Bull and blue Solo cups (Yes, blue!), strewn about the road and flower beds.
A blood-stained sidewalk.
All before seven a.m.
Such is the lot of yours truly, the first bellman on shift Sunday morning.