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First short story for this blog! This in no way reflects me.
Here we go:


MORNING COFFEE
I've never liked hotels too much. No matter how inviting they get, they always have this "untouched" or "pristine" feel to them, like nobody lives in them or ever has. I just don't like them.
However, absolutely dreadful was the general consensus of our feelings after nine hours in a car and several more to go. So here we are, my wife and I, wearily dragging ourselves into the door of a hotel with two miniature towers (it seems all four upper levels are split).
While neither of us quite wanted to talk to anyone, I was the one that got to buy the room. Lucky me. I hardly was able to memorize the room: Floor 5, Room 17.
Trudging out of the lobby and to the left tower, we go to the elevator to find a yellow notice tacked onto it. "OUT OF ORDER. PLEASE USE STAIRS." You have got to be kidding.
Going over to the stairwell, which thankfully wasn't too steep, we begin the long ascent of stairs. We find ourselves finally at the fifth floor and we walk the long hallway, passing the first fifteen doors. All the way at the end of the hall, we find that it ends at Room 5-16, and our room must be on the other side!
We redo the entire, lengthy hall and stairwell trip (of course, to be fair, when one is tired they find experiences like this to be longer than they actually are). Reaching the lobby again finally, it's now that she notices the sign which would have indicated Room 5-17 was on the other side of the building. This other side thankfully has an elevator, and we gladly take it. The numbers start with 5-17. Feeling a bit of relief, I slide the card, in our minds being the magical key to a utopia of bliss and relief from this irritating night, just beyond this door.
The keycard doesn't work. Of course.
Trekking once again to the lobby, we inform the clerk that our card doesn't work. The tedious work of walking is becoming more and more visibly evident on the face of my wife and on my own. He gives us the new card, apologizes for the inconvenience, and gives us some bag of candy that neither of us really want and doesn't come anywhere near compensation for our feeling of fatigue now.
We finally enter the nice room, dark, quiet, and uninhabited. The air itself is sweeter; it's quite a nice room, and there is a tiny mint on each of the two pillows. The bathroom, visible from the point of entry, contained all the miniature commodities we would need in the morning; even a tiny coffee pot. I flop on the bed, shoes, clothes and all, and within a minute I have drifted into unconsciousness with a mint in my mouth.
* * *
I'm never fully awake and myself until I have had coffee. In fact, I don't differ too much from a neanderthal until I do: very little brain function and basic thinking, speaking without much ability to form words, and grunts.
Awaking, I discover myself next to a sleeping beauty, and it makes the neanderthal that I am smile. Not much else is on my mind but to get my caffeine fix. Oh, and I have to pay the toilet a good-morning visit. Finishing that, I proceed to the other part of the washroom and attempt to get the machine to bring forth sweet morning nectar. It won't. Of course. Another thing about this infernal hotel: their infernal machines don't work! No matter how long I try the thing, I can't seem to get it to do anything. Give me coffee, you tiny demon! Irritated, I give up.
Well, perhaps Sleeping Beauty can help me out of this conundrum. Yes, it's selfish to wake her, but I need a fix! The annoyed woman rises, slowly grunts her way to the bathroom, and flips a switch (happening to be the "on" switch, conveniently located in the back). The machine springs to life, whirring and spewing forth the brown liquid of the gods. Astounded, I can't find myself anything else to say other than "How did you know how to do that?"
My wife calmly responds, "I was smart enough to read the instructions lastnight."

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