Checking In At
The Waldoria Hotel
by William Kitcher
The clerk,
whose name was Ermintrude, a name so long that I
can’t be bothered to type it out each time
so I will refer to her as just “the clerk”,
stood behind the counter.
Dan Victor, a young man of seventy with white
hair, glasses, and a limp developed from years of
slicing golf balls, approached the counter.
“How much would it cost me to re-upholster a
1967 Mustang with something that looks like
leather, but doesn't have any animal content
whatsoever?”
The clerk replied, “This is a story about a
hotel.”
“Oh. Sorry,” said Victor, and exited,
pursued by an alpaca.
Gabe admired the surroundings of the sumptuous
hotel lobby before ambling up to the counter.
“Hello.”
“Hello,” said the clerk. “May I
help you?”
“Do you have a room?”
“Of course we do. This is a hotel.”
“What I mean is, may I have a room?”
“Well, no. All the rooms stay right here in
the hotel.”
“I understand that. What I mean is, I want a
room for the night.”
“You have a filthy mind. And what are you
going to do with this room for the night?”
“I'm not going to do anything with the
room. I'm going to be in it
all night.”
“You disgust me.”
“Will you give me a room?” said Gabe,
becoming more impatient and outpatient by the
minute.
“Not if you're going to treat it like some
tart.”
“Look, I'd like a room!”
“Wouldn't we all, sir?”
“Listen to me, you idiot, do you have any
empty rooms?”
“No, sir. They all have furniture in them.”
“This is ridiculous. Goodbye.” Gabe
turned on his heel, did a 360-degree turn, and
began to leave.
The clerk spoke up. “A single room, sir?”
Gabe stopped in his tracks, which may also have
been rabbit tracks. “Pardon?”
“A single room?”
Gabe was wary of this but responded anyway.
“A single room will be fine, thank you.”
“Do you mind if it's really single,
or is it OK if it's divorced, separated, or
widowed?”
“Why do you take things so literally?”
“I don't take anything that doesn't belong
to me.”
“Look, is there some way I can get you to
understand what I want?”
“I doubt it very much.”
Gabe spoke methodically. “I. Want. To. Rent.
A. Room. For. One. Night.”
The clerk parroted back. “You. Want. To.
Rent. A. Room. For. One. Night.”
“That's right.”
“Oh, I see! You must be Sir Lancelot.”
“Pardon?”
“You want a room for one knight.”
Gabe cried to the skies (or in this case, to the
ceiling). “Aaaaauuuuuugggggghhhhhh!!”
Harriet Thorplegonger, a young woman on her lunch
break arranging a tete-a-tete with her boss,
approached the clerk. “Scrambled eggs for
dyslexic farmers at 3 o'clock.”
The clerk handed her a key. “Room 27. Up the
stairs. First door on the left.”
“Thank you,” said Harriet, disappearing
up the stairs.
Gabe watched her go, then turned back to the
clerk. With some trepidation, he said, “Scrambled
eggs for dyslexic farmers at 3 o'clock?”
The clerk looked at Gabe, very disappointed.
“Well, why didn't you say so in the first
place? I just gave our last room to Harriet
Thorplegonger.”
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