Hold onto your hats, folks… this is an actual bellman post.
I know its been sometime since I’ve regaled you with tales of travellers run amok, but I’ve been busy. Even now, I should be working on Book Two of The Bellman Chronicles, but the world’s revolutions tend to outrace my ability to maintain a steady trajectory.
So what’s been happening in my world, you ask?
The hotel’s biggest convention of the year wrapped up Thursday morning. A sense of professional honor and discretion prevents me going into details (damn it), but I can tell you that this gathering involved the retail industry that operates at border crossings and despite the sedate nature of their business, these folks know how to get down. There were hundreds of vendors, owners and yes, even hookers in attendance. One particularly feisty owner used this opportunity to live out a childhood fantasy. Do these lyrics stir up some sugary sweet memories in your consciousness, boys and girls?
Here’s a story,
Of a lovely lady,
Who was bringing up three very lovely girls.
All of them had hair of gold,
Like their mother —
The youngest one in curls.
Yes, this going exactly where you fear it is: while rolling my “brass cart of death” – a term first coined by an inebriated frat boy who “accidentally”found himself on the receiving end of my luggage cart after he knocked over three toddlers while stumbling through my hotel in a drunken stupor – through the lobby I happened upon three prostitutes of varying ages and sizes, each one an exact replica of Marcia, Jan and Cindy Brady. Their hair, clothing and even attitudes were modeled after the Brady sisters. Fortunately, “Cindy”, although sporting pigtails, was of legal age to allow a stranger to fondle her for money.
(And yes, that is one of the most bizarre sentences I have ever typed.)
Consumed by curiosity, I followed the Brady cos-players to a suite on the fortieth floor where my mind, though already reeling, was officially blown to smithereens when a golden-haired, Amazonian warrior/captain of retail industry who bore more than a passing resemblance to Carol Brady answered the door. Her lips were ruby red and bursting with Botox. Her war paint was thick and hypnotic. She was Carol Brady – if Carol Brady had been the Cathy Lee Crosby version of Wonder Woman.
No words were spoken between them; “Marcia” merely nodded as “Carol” scanned each one from top to bottom. Then, they willingly flung themselves upon the black widow’s web and disappeared from view.
Luckily, my great white ninja skills kept me hidden from view and my jaded spirit allowed my jaw to remain firmly in place despite my amazement/titillation. (Don’t get me wrong, I’m happily married, but that having been said, I’m far from dead below the waist when it comes to male stimulation.)
Needless to say, the remainder of the convention paled by comparison. After all, Carol Brady gettin’ down ‘n dirty with her daughters is a pretty tough act to follow.
Just as the convention was ending its death throes – trust me, the bigger the convention, the bigger the bang when it ends – Fate teamed up with Mother Nature to deliver a smack down worthy of the UFC. One of the two service elevators accessible from the Bell Room opened as it has a million times before- except this time, two inches of H2O followed. As one of my colleagues in the maintenance department put it, “A big-ass pipe burst and all Hell broke loose. The Great Flood just took over the basement in no time.”
That about sums it up, folks. A major pipe gave up the ghost, as they say, and water soon filled every nook and cranny. The basement – including my service elevators – was underwater in minutes, and our middle tower was enveloped by darkness in the middle of the day. Naturally, it fell to the bellman to move out the few guests residing in that particular corner of the hotel – using the stairs to “hand bomb” their suitcases and various odds and ends.
I have to say, stairs are now the Joker to my Batman…
Truthfully, from the lobby it sounded as though the hotel had been built over-top the Falls themselves. Something just occurred to me: the hotel could try a new marketing tactic….
“We Don’t Just Give You a Spectacular View, We Bring The Falls to You!”
Lest I forget, there’s this little event happening over the next few days….
What can I say? I love being a father/husband/writer/bellman, but I revel in my role as a lifelong Whovian. For those of you who have been living under ten tonnes of rock for the last fifty years, the premise of the longest-running sc-fi show in history is simple.
- A member of a near-immortal alien race called the Time Lords (no ego problems there), stole a time machine over 900 years ago after becoming bored with a life of academia.
- The Doctor (real name unknown but of vital importance for as-yet-undisclosed reasons), travels the universe with various companions, thwarting the schemes of a host of enemies, including his own people at times.
- When mortally injured – or whenever an actor decides to move on – The Doctor’s body regenerates into a new form, complete with a personality change.
It’s that simple.
You may be giggling or scratching your head at the moment, but Doctor Who has held a special place in my heart since childhood and always will. You’re not going to believe this, but I was a shy, awkward kid who simply didn’t fit in anywhere easily.
However, every weekday at 7:30 pm, I met a friend in my basement who took me on incredible adventures in a little blue box that was bigger on the inside. The novelization of his adventures helped inspire me to become a writer in my own right.
The Doctor faced bullies every day and he repelled them using only his wits and courage. He could literally go anywhere he wanted without answering to anyone.
What child wouldn’t a friend like that?
Now my friend is turning fifty and the whole world – his true friends at least – will be watching.
I for one, will be watching my friend face yet another deadly foe in the company of my own child who has grown up in the blue light of the TARDIS’ glow. That alone is a testament to The Doctor’s incredible legacy, I believe.
And on that note, my friends, I have to be moving on. There are guests to be served, adventures of a sort to be had, and tales to be written.
I don’t have a little blue time machine that’s bigger on the inside, but I do have a snazzy moniker and a mini-legend to live up to. In the meantime, I advise you to scroll the web and seek out the Doctor’s adventures. The early ones are slightly cheesy, but they have more heart than most of the schlock we watch these days.
See you in the time-stream, kids….