(In)hospitality

By Hamish Beamish

A workplace accident in a mid sized hotel sees Victor Roswell, the in-house handyman, suffer traumatic life changes. He acquires savant state abilities. That mixed with meeting a sex whisperer and an old work colleague just out of jail, what could possibly go wrong? Its about hotels, sex, states of mind and the heart, but not much about newspapers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hilltop Publishing
• Release date: Sep 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9780645517781

Book preview

australia

Chapter One

A large full moon was almost touching the silhouetted roof lines of the old industrial buildings at the bottom of Fortitude Valley on the northern edges of the central business district of Brisbane, on Australia’s east coast. It was where the American troops would rest and recuperate as the second world war ran its course. But it had grown up since then. Grown rich and dirty like most of the other cities that war bought prosperity to. But there was still some growing to do. Dilapidated printing houses reincarnated as boutique breweries brimming with hipsters, tattoo art and craft beers as far as the eye could see. Auto repair shops that now housed artworks and designer clothes and furniture in the narrow lanes and backstreets drenched in the glow of the predawn moonlight and streetlights. Jake worked on the front counter of a trendy boutique hotel in one such lane amongst luxury car yards, inner-city apartment blocks, bars, and coffee houses. He worked the night shifts because he was a gamer, and his main competitors were in the northern hemisphere, and he was a night owl and time zones and all of that stuff. And he was basically anti-social. Not a great asset for hospitality. But he was there every night at the start of his shift. Done. One night, well after midnight, a couple staggered into reception and asked for a room. They only had cash and for whatever reason Jake let them pay with cash. Room deposit and all. As he flicked his asymmetrically cut hair out of his eyes, a furtive glance observed the couple all over each other. He completed the check-in for Mr and Mrs. Black from a ratty old student card, handed over the room key, offered some brief instructions on the room’s direction and promptly went back to reading his computer mags. He would be reading a police report about the Blacks the following day and signing off on it.

Lewis and Claire had met at a gay bar a few blocks away that same evening and after a few drinks and the swapping of stories and smiles, and at his request for a quiet drink and a spa bath, they would leave for Jake’s hotel. How could a girl say no? The Wonderland Bar ran Drag Queen nights mid-week for the locals. Minky L’ Monde had just finished her act and, after a costume change had tottered out to the bar for refreshments and to meet and greet her fans and regulars. The music pumped and the crowd was good for a Wednesday. Claire had worked on the edges of the sex industry for a while now. It started in the table dancing clubs in and around The Valley last year after she returned from visiting friends in Toronto. Things got progressively more debauched and more lucrative at the same time from there on in, and with the downturn in hospitality, she decided to throw in her job as travel consultant and go into the other side of being hospitable. She knew Minky from his real gig at the Crest Hotel uptown. He was on reception in the foyer of that dishevelled establishment. A three-star hotel masquerading as a five star. She would see him as she checked in to ‘consult’ with a client occasionally at the Crest. They hit it off and would run into each other around the traps of BrisVegas, or Brisbane if you prefer. Not the one near San Francisco. The one that was an American base in the second world war on the eastern seaboard of Australia.

In the true spirit of Bianca Del Rio and Adore Delano, Minky and Claire would swap make-up secrets and couture tips for the fiscally challenged. That Wednesday night proved to be a pivotal point in the life of Claire Thompson, a name she used for all the legal paperwork in the industry whenever and wherever it was called for. Minky L’Monde was the pseudonym and stage name of Justin Delaney. The boy from Tamworth who came to the big smoke for a life full of colour and sex and dancing and fun and to get away from the farm and small-town small talk. He found full time employment in hospitality with lashings of food and alcohol and the odd dirty night here and there, and a Jack Russel rescue dog he named Barney.

Lewis Black worked in the mining industry. Fly In Fly Out allowed for lots of spending money and that’s exactly what he did when he wasn’t earning it. He was spending it. On meth and hookers and weed and shot glasses full of whatever was going. Dropped into a schooner of beer preferably. When his eyes fell on the slender figure of Claire at the bar talking to the overweight queen in between sets, he went in for the kill. She saw him coming as they say. Cocky and cashed up, he was throwing money around like a footballer. He stood close to six foot in the old money and with his tight jeans and Patagonian trail boots and a tidy understated jacket over a tight black T shirt, he was edible in her eyes. The hours passed, drinks were drunk and Minky went back onstage for the final show of the night. A true lip-sync specialist just reeking of glamour that had the crowd eating out of his G string before the bells chimed and everyone turned back into pumpkins. They made their exit toward the boutique hotel she knew of just around the corner from Wonderland. The year was drawing to a close and they wanted to send it off with a bang so to speak.

Jake was probably out back having a cup of tea and texting friends somewhere around the planet by the time Lewis had stripped Claire bare and was sniffing powder off her firm little tummy. They fucked on the bed, and they did it again in the spa bath. He set out some more lines as she poured them a few drinks from the mini bar. They got wasted together and it all went downhill from there. There was no way of stopping it as he had let out the demons. They got at it one more time on the floor while the television flickered and flashed on mute above them. He started choking her slowly as he continued to pump her, and then her eyes began to roll back in her head. That caught him for a moment, but he continued to hurt her, and she started to scratch him and laugh and then cry. Then, in an instant he was back up at the kitchenette and was spilling the drinks he had just poured them after raiding the mini bar. He snorted the last line of crystals when, as she looked up at him from the bed, she noticed those eyes had gone blank. Like no one was behind them. A ghost or whatever but it scared the bejesus out of her as he came at her again. It was violent this time. More so than the last time. He lifted her and began strangling her against the wall. Her feet dangled a foot or so above the deep ultra-blue carpet of their hotel room. She was struggling. She was choking and turning blue. Jake had his headphones on out back of the reception area and didn’t hear any of this shit going down. Some guests must have heard something but mid-week this little hotel was half full at best.

When she finally passed out, he just lost it and began to smash up the hotel room. It had happened again. He threw bottles at the TV and punched out the mirror above the vanity in the bathroom which lacerated his artery and knuckles all in one go. He thought he had killed her and collapsed weeping on the sofa that was covered in glass and powder, clothes and bourbon and beer, and now blood. Claire began to come around and started moaning and coughing. He was so grateful and relieved. He began kissing and cuddling her up in his arms like that puppy he had killed when he was almost ten. But this time they had been spared. She wrapped his hand in a pillowcase and fell asleep in the debris and woke somewhere around five am. Claire gathered her clothes quickly, showered and headed out onto the street. Shaken and bewildered, she didn’t look back. Lewis must have left shortly thereafter. This time Jake saw the young man with one hand in a bandage leaving before people started arriving for the morning check-in. He was headed for the train station up on Brunswick Street by the looks of things. Warm morning sunshine blazed into the foyer of the little hotel as the day unfolded, and it would be a while before anything of last night’s debauchery was uncovered.

That’s what I walked into shortly after finishing my daily rounds as a maintenance officer at the small hotel that day. Housekeeping had called down just before lunch to report the condition of the room. It was a total write off. Not one thing remained intact in the entire suite. Broken glass, trashed bed linen and curtains down. Smashed TV and mirror. Broken glasses and bottles strewn about the room and strange white powder everywhere. The police were called. Fingerprints taken. Reports written up. The Television and the mirror replaced. The room cleaned and let out a few nights later. The whole thing disappeared into the week before, and the week before that. Gone into the past like nothing happened.

What had happened in the interim was Lewis returned to the western plains of Queensland to dry out and gather more resources for the next outing by working on the gas fields of the Bowen basin. Claire thought to herself that her little fling was pushing the boundaries a touch too much. That morning she returned to her apartment near Highgate Hill and slept it off as he stepped onto a train to Chinchilla. She awoke to the ringtone of her mobile singing Ray Charles’ ‘Hit the Road Jack. Banging it out loud and clear in that four-four beat. Before she could even wake up the voice on the other end was asking about her advertisement regarding a ‘Canadian Maple Syrup sugar mamma’. She jumped straight into the role and the sexy sultry tone rolled out of her mouth once again. Like it came up out of her guts and took over the conversation. ‘Do you do group stuff?’ he enquired. ‘How much for an hour?’ A barrage of questions from another middle-aged wanker who probably couldn’t go five minutes. Or maybe his wife understands him and sends him out on these escapades to get a bit of peace and quiet. Anyway, it went nowhere as most of her enquiries seem to do. Nervous little men with too much money and not enough balls to do anything with it.  She turned off the phone and went back to sleep.

The work in that small boutique hotel was demanding and I was the one who had to repair the taps, toilets, paint the damaged walls from drunk or clumsy guests, change every bulb in the place and all the rest of it, and when I saw a gig uptown, I grabbed the chance to maybe get an easier stint. Not long after I started at the Crest Hotel uptown near the river. Same job, different venue, slightly better pay and benefits. That was the theory anyway.

Chapter Two

The Next Chapter!

Day In, Day Out, Day In, Day Out...

After wheeling her trolley along the carpeted corridor to the guest’s door, she would knock and announce Housekeeping. After another repeat or two of her morning ‘trill’, depending on her workload and mood, she would swipe the door card, enter and place the door stop under the door to begin the same routine she had done for the last fourteen and a half years. Open the curtains, strip the bed, empty the bins, collect the towels and on and on. After reporting a running toilet or a blown bulb and letting the Food and Beverage girls into the mini bar, she would become immersed in the ritual of the cleaning and reflect on her life. With a pillow tucked under her chin, as she slipped on the clean new case, she would think about her family back in Fiji or Manila or somewhere in Mumbai. The throwing of the sheets was an art form. The making of a bed like a cake of Manchester, tucked and smoothed by a quick deft hand. Pillows and chocolates placed like ornaments on the icing of the bedspread. A welcome note for the next arrival and a final check to see there is no stray hair on the vanity, the air conditioner was set and running or that the toilet paper roll was fully folded and ready for the curtain to go upon the next act. All was in readiness for the actors to arrive on set. Then with a final adjustment of the lighting, she would remove the stop, close the door and mark the room as ready to sell. Then move along the carpeted corridor to the next door and repeat the process once again......Welcome to Accomodationland.

You did the interview and somehow beat the other candidates and secured the position! You’re hired when everyone else is on holidays for God’s sake! Who gets a job around Christmas? And in hospitality? Nothing happens, and the town is empty. Working for the man wasn't getting any easier as the years went on and you’re thinking ‘Not a chance to get this job’. But it falls in your lap.  So, what’s the deal? What’s wrong with this picture?

To be honest most people would rather be at the beach or somewhere else you’d think because it’s the silly season. To be really honest, starting this part of the story in the second person was a bit of a silly idea in the first place. And there is silly being used twice in the one paragraph. Honest was too, now that I think of it. However, before repetition fully sets in; on your inaugural day you’re shown the ropes. The stairwells and layout of the old building. All that had to be done was to follow a team member around and observe. So, day after day, stairwell after fire stairs, the 'new maintenance officer' followed one of the handymen around and watched as hotel staff went through their daily routines. It really was a shamble. Dilapidated, but you are getting paid to tour a working hotel. You don't realise what a mess the old place was in on that first day of work in the four hundred and fifty room business hotel. It was a brand-new beginning and so down the rabbit hole you jump!

There must be a catch. Right? Life in the Crest Hotel seemed to be everything a person could hope for. Amiable work colleagues, regular wage and a nice clean air-conditioned environment and holiday pay. It was almost too good to be true. Almost. It was an old building, built in the mid-70’s and rapidly heading towards its use by date (if it hadn’t already passed it). It took a while to get to know the lay of the land in this central business district hotel and all the co-workers. All two hundred or so of them. You walk the dusty corridors, ride the lifts. Climb stairwells, saunter around car parks, map out entrances to the rooftop air-conditioning plant room, lift motor rooms, fire stairs. Accustom yourself to the door swipes and a full set of keys from the Engineering Department; the list went on and seemed endless. Memorise the maintenance route for the morning and for the evening. Make notes on gas and electricity usage, water consumption, profiles on air-conditioning plant, refrigeration, boilers, lighting reports and the like. Most people stay for a night or so in an inner-city hotel and think little of what's behind the scenes, because that’s what you pay for! Just a quick check in (hopefully) and then get settled into your room and checkout the next day. But as an employee in a hotel, you begin to see the whole arc of the visit in a brand-new light. Welcome to; Accommodationland .

Hotels are where people end up when they have an event. You watch cars and buses roll up in an endless line as Concierge assist the guests to reception and then return to park the cars. The check-in routine and Concierge helping with the baggage to their rooms.  Which has already been cleaned and re-stocked by the housekeepers that morning in a hell-for-leather scramble of scrubbing and dusting, linen changes, minibar filling and vacuum cleaning. Christmas had just passed and the hotel lulls into its quiet period. Anyone who has worked in this crazy industry knows. Everywhere one hears left over Xmas carols oozing out of unseen speakers and garlands of holly and baubles hanging above city streets in the hot Australian summer air and everyone is at the beach or Christ knows where else, but they ain’t here in town. So, I try to adjust to the new regime. Do as little as you can and get paid while the company pretends you matter. Towards the end of January, the working year begins to grind along in earnest, and things start