No, this isn’t the trailer for my long-awaited and much demanded pornographic film debut, so don’t get too excited.
This one is brief, intense and hits the spot almost immediately.
(Come to think if it, this one does sort of sound like my long-awaited and much demanded pornographic film debut, doesn’t it?)
But it isn’t, I swear. This one is about the obstacles I face as a bellman, specifically, the barrier that appears when certain guests open their mouth-holes. As difficult as it is to believe, the language barrier has rarely been an issue during my seventeen-plus years as a bellman in the great city of Niagara Falls.
I’ve dealt with drunks who don’t even understand themselves, frat boys with their own version of the Bro Code, hyperactive teenie boppers and even the French. And I’ve been able to navigate my way through my dealings with them without incident. But today I was completely stonewalled by our friends from the Emerald Isle.
The Irish family in question consisted of ten members of varying ages and temperaments and at the head of the clan was a father who I can only assume mainlined a case of Red Bull fifteen seconds before I arrived at his room. He was spouting sentences faster than the Flash on crack and between his brogue and the velocity at which it was traveling, I was lost beyond hope.
THE HOOK: I can only assume you’d like me to load your bags and meet you downstairs, sir?
His family just chuckled at the obvious disconnect which enraged him even more.
“That’s what I just said, lad!”
THE HOOK: I have no idea what the hell you’ve been saying, sir! I’m doing my best to keep up but I’m lost at sea here!
Naturally, his rage boiled over and the real fun began…
“Oh, you’re a wee cheeky bastard, aren’t you? It’s the back ‘o my hand you’ll be gettin’, boy!”
Yes, the stereotypes were flying fast and furious. Once things calmed down, however, the bags began to make their way to my cart and the waters appeared to calm.
Though not for long.
The elder statesman of Clan MacWhatthehell, Grandpa Shamus, loaded a single bag and suddenly he was the Irish God’s gift to the hospitality industry.
“This is easy! I could do this for a living!”
THE HOOK: You could do it, all right, sir, but good luck making a living at it!
Well, that slayed them all and brought the situation back under my control.
For a few glorious moments at least.
In the end, I was compensated for my efforts in Canadian currency and blog fodder, so the scales remained tipped in my favor.
One last thought: Why can’t the Irish I meet can’t look like this…
Instead of this?
That was a rhetorical question, of course. Mistress Fate loves to make me her bitch and I’m happy to oblige. Providing the encounters she steers me towards provide ample blog fodder, that is.
See you in the lobby, kids…