You know when you are at a party, and there is always ‘that guy.’ His name is Matt, or Brian, or Zak with a K. His tie is dedicated to his favorite college sports team, and most likely a clip on. His face is red and sweaty from all the alcohol pumping through his cheeseburger clogged veins. He talks so loudly and so close to your ear that your eardrums buzz afterwards like you just attend a KISS concert. And, the most defining characteristic is that you are 96% sure that at any moment is about to upchuck the 24 bud lights he has downed in the past 2 hours.
This guy, was invited to tonight’s event.
It was a wedding, of course. Weddings are about the only time where ex-college frat boys show up at the hotel, and, with the help of the open bar, create complete chaos. For example, at the very top of the hotel sits two tall towers, that are visible from miles away. Upon one sits an American flag, the other a flag with the hotel’s crest on it. One fine, drunken evening one of these out of control party boys literally scaled up the tower and stole the hotels flag. The hotel was not too happy about this, however I was internally cheering him on the whole time. You get that flag, oh drunk man, you get it. Hang that in your one bedroom apartment in Ohio, yes, hang it. You make me proud.
Anyway, so Matt Brian Zak with a K was at this party, in all his glory. Early in the reception I noticed him, as he kept perusing past my tables to the open bar, each trip his steps became more stumbled, his voice became louder and more slurred. The light reflected off of his overly gelled hair, and his face was red as a tomato in his boozy happiness.
Somewhere between the 14th and 15th trip back to the bar, Matt Brian Zak with a K heard a tune that struck his fancy, and he meandered his way to the dance floor and whipped out the ultimate dance move of all time – you guessed it- the worm. Oh the worm, how I loath you. Perhaps at the 7th grade dance when we were first introduced, I enjoyed your silliness and felt slightly impressed by your complicated movements. But now, 49 parties later, it is far past the time of your retirement. Now, when ‘that guy’ decides to flop back and forth on the dance floor atop of his round beer filled belly, I cringe in the awkwardness of the situation. Oh worm dance, please, please go away … forever.
But the guy did the worm, proud and strong. At one point he tipped a little too far forward, and smacked his face on the granite floor, but nay, this did not stop his epic dance moment. He flopped around like a dead fish for a solid two minutes, until finally the DJ changed the track and the worming stopped. The entire ballroom breathed a sigh of relief.
As ‘that guy’ brushed off the floor dust off of his navy blue suit coat, he made his way back to the bar for another barley pop, which he promptly chugged. Apparently all that awkward dancing really builds up a thirst.
7 beers later, after all the courses have been served and coffee was being passed, ‘that guy’ meanders his way out of the ballroom, and down the hallway. Perhaps he was about to ‘break the seal’, a party term my New Jersey friends taught me. Oh New Jersey, I can always count on you for the proper party lingo.
15 minutes go buy, and the party boy is nowhere to be found. Perhaps he fell asleep in the elevator, or fell off the sea wall into the ocean? I hope not the latter.
Most of my guests had dispersed at this time, so I mosey back into the kitchen with a tray of dirty dishes, and a need for a diet coke. The kitchen was empty, except for a cluster of dirty glasses that needed to be taken down to the basement. I was about to enter into the cooler to satisfy my craving for artificial sweeteners and caffeine, when I heard a rustle from the small back corner room where we store the coffee pots. Perhaps it was the ghost of Palm Beach past? As an avid watcher of Ghost Hunters on the SyFy channel, I have always been disappointed by the lack of supernatural activity that goes on in this massive, extremely old hotel. I mean come on people, not even one ghost story to be told? I guess all the spirits are as freaked out by the socialites as I am.
Putting on my bravery tuxedo, I head back into the room to investigate the mystery noise. Was it a fellow server indulging in a left over dinner? Was it a massive jungle rat who made his way inside through the air vent? Nay, nay it was neither. There, surrounded by the shelves of coffee pots, sat ‘that guy.’
The worm dancing drunk ex frat boy had passed out in our back room, a beer glass still resting in his hand. Oh my, how awkward.
“Ah, sir?” I call out gently to him. No response.
“Sir?” I say again as I begin to shake his shoulder. He awakens, looks around confused, and then eventually focuses on my face.
“Hey (burp, gargle gargle) baby,” he mutters out, his breath reeking of cigarette smoke. I shudder in disgust.
“Sir, you are in our coffee pot room, you can’t be in here,” I tell him.
He begins laughing at me as if I was just told the best joke of all time.
“Haha funny, but seriously, you need to get out of here before my supervisor finds you and calls security.”
That seemed to sober him up on fraction of a percent, just enough for him to work his way up to his feet. I guided him to the elevator, asked him what floor and pressed 3 like he instructed, and wished him a good night as the elevator doors closed. God speed oh drunken mess, I hope you at least make it out of the elevator before passing out again.
I returned back into the kitchen, downed that diet coke, and went back into the ballroom to finish cleaning up before Gary let us all go home again.
I went right home straight to bed, exhausted from my shift and not looking forward to the next one which started in approximately 8 hours. I was working breakfast, always an easy shift, except for the ungodly hour you have to wake up to get there.
The next morning, I woke to Florida sunshine, and parrots screeching outside my bedroom window. Yes, we actually do have a flock of parrots that fly around the West Palm Beach and Palm Beach area. They are small, green, and extremely loud, but still cute. They actually have created a nest back at the hotel, and every night around sunset make their way back to the ocean lawn where they roost, screeching at the top of their little bird lungs. Conveniently, their nest is perched right next to where the outdoor wedding ceremonies are held. The parrots always manage to arrive just as couples are saying their vows against a sunset filled sky. Their squawking is extremely distracting, and to me, extremely hilarious. When planning your wedding, you don’t often think of it being crashed by a flock of parrots, but hey, at least it makes a good story.
Anways, Kyle and I put our Toyota into the employee parking lot, our Tuxedo’s still smelling funky from last night’s event.
We run into Gary just as we were clocking in.
“You two! Wake up you happy couple, and go upstairs and get the coffee ready,” he ordered, his demanding loud voice reminding me of the flock of parrots.
We trudge upstairs to the kitchen, and back into the coffee pot room where Mr. Drunk Face had passed out the night before. The pots were still festively disheveled from where he had passed out. Kyle and I straightened them out a bit, and picked up a couple pots to take over to the coffee station to be filed.
“Hey,” Kyle said, his face quizzical as he was scrambling to hold all of his coffee pots with one arm. “This pot still has coffee in it I think. I hate when people don’t empty them ..” he grumbled.
We walked over the the coffee station and set the pots down. He takes the one with the liquid in it over the sink to rinse it out, as I begin filling up a pot.
“Oh, oh my gosh… SICK” I hear Kyle yell out, and I heard a clang as he dropped the pot into the stainless steel sink.
“What! Moldy coffee?” I ask, half not caring.
“Get over here, this is sick, oh man I am going to puke,” He said.
I am now intrigued.
I walk over, and open the lid to the coffee pot which had landed upright.
Instead of black, cold coffee, the pot is half filled with a dark yellow, salty smelling liquid.
You guessed it, PEE.
I gagged and drew my hand back dramatically, knocking over the pot. The sticky liquid of death spill out everywhere, a bit splashed up onto my jacket.
“That freaking drunk guy!” I yelled out. Kyle looked confused.
“I found him in there last night, he must have peed in that pot before passing out. This is unbelievable.”
Kyle, being the brave, amazing husband he is (he is the one that always kills renegade cockroaches in our apartment) wrapped his hand in paper towels like cotton candy, and picked up the heavy, silver pot.
Listen, I don’t care if that pot was made out of solid diamonds, it must NEVER be used again. We chucked it into the recycling, and covered it up with the towels so nobody spots it and thinks it got thrown out as a mistake.
Then Kyle and I washed our hands 50 times, with the same precision I have learned from watching Grey’s Anatomy. (Best show ever.) I then doused on so much anti bacterial gel that my hands stung.
The remainder of my shift I felt disgusting, I felt dirty. Although I scrubbed and scrubbed the tiny fleck of urine that made it onto my jacket, I still felt like every time I walked fast a wave of pee smell made it to my nose. SICK.
I didn’t see the drunk guy that morning. I am sure he was either sleeping off a huge hangover, or had already checked out of the hotel. If I would have saw him, I would have offered him a cup of coffee, and asked if he would like cream sugar, or pee with it. But, judging from his inebriation, I am sure he would not even recognize me, nor remember peeing in a coffee pot smack in the heart of one of the most classy hotels in the world. But, I would have loved to remind him.