Entangled With Ivy - contd.
In my first post, we talked about fire alarms and Jacuzzis. It’s time we met Ivy.
Rock Hill, South Carolina was one of the places I frequently visited. The hotel where I stayed was actually located in the parking lot of the Carowinds theme park. As you can imagine, being that close to a vacation spot was hard on the hotel. Back in those days, the lobby was shabby, the rooms had a hard lived in look, and the elevators smelled like mildewing children. I’m sure it’s better now. Or worse.
Our admin assistant, being a conscientious young lady and being sick and tired of my whining, decided to find me a new hotel. Keep in mind this was a large chain hotel. All I knew was the name, the street it was on, and that it was off Carowinds Blvd. I drove up Carowinds, down Carowinds, up, down, until finally, I had to call. The young lady informed me that the street was a whopping hundred yards long and didn’t actually intersect with Carowinds Blvd.
After following the directions, I walked through the front door and young Ivy greeted me from behind the front desk. She was pretty with brown hair, green eyes, and a body that still had the layer of baby fat most girls lose when they’re fourteen.
I slid my corporate credit card across the counter, and she backed away from it like it contained the plague. They didn’t take American Express.
“You guaranteed my room with American Express. How can you guarantee my room with a card you can’t take for payment?”
Her little face scrunched up, her eyes narrowed, and she reached for the phone. When she hung up she explained that they didn’t actually have to charge anything to guarantee the room. But to put me in a bed for the night, they would need a relationship with American Express, and they didn’t have one.
The phone’s suggestion, and Ivy seemed to think it was reasonable, was that at 7:00 on this Sunday night, I should call the corporate office and see if they had another brand of card I could use. Personally, I think they were pretty foolish to trust me with one card. Even if it had been 10:00 on Monday morning, I don’t think I would ask them for another one.
About that time, John came cruising in. He was about five-feet seven-inches tall. He had on one of those stripped service shirts that was pressed and clean enough to suggest he hadn’t serviced anyone in a while. And he had the hair. You know the hair, not exactly oily, but not fluffy either. It sort of waved from the top of his face to the back of his head. He leaned on the front desk and inquired about Ivy’s day. Apparently, he was pretty. When he spoke, Ivy’s eyes filled and her mind emptied.
I captured her attention long enough to give her my personal credit card. She punched a bunch of numbers into her computer, ran my card through her machine, slid me a receipt to sign, and turned back to John. It read one thousand forty eight dollars.
“Ivy, you know I’m only staying four nights don’t you?”
“Yes sir, Mister Lewis.”
“But this bill is over a thousand dollars.”
“That’s right.”
“It’s over two-hundred-fifty dollars a night. Although I’m sure you run a fine establishment, I can’t pay two-hundred-fifty dollars a night. This can’t be right.”
“But you have the king bed.”
I did have a king bed, but I wouldn’t pay two fifty a night.
Next time, in Entangled With Ivy - coned again, we’ll straighten out the bill, but it won’t be easy, and the trip gets worse before it gets better.
Tune in again. In the mean time, leave me a story. We’ve heard some good ones so far. We want to hear yours.