As I wrote earlier, when people are in hotels some kind of mystical transformation takes place. All inhibitions go out the window, and they perform acts that they would never do at home. At least I truly hope that they don't do these things at home!
The stories you are about to hear are true. These stories are also full of crap, and are not for the faint of heart or for those who have just finished a nice dinner or breakfast. Two different hotels, two different states, but the same old crap. I will just issue one warning. Please don't try this at home.
Salem,Oregon, a beautiful city centrally located in the heart of the Willamette Valley, and of course, the capital of the enchanting state of Oregon. As I posted earlier, this was my first real hotel. Real meaning I didn't count the skid-road hotel that I worked in while gong to college in Seattle, nor did I count the small residence hotel I had previously worked in in Salem several years earlier.
This was a nice hotel, and this was where I got my first general manger position. Back in those days one didn't just start out in management, even with a college education. You had to learn the ropes from the ground up, and the shortest route to management was to become the auditor. This is how I started, and then worked up to Front Desk Manager, and then the big time, General Manager. But, when this story happened, I was the night auditor.
I loved working nights. The lounge was open until 2 AM, and I could sit at the desk and listen to the live bands. Remember when they actually had live music? Ah, for the good old days. However, after the lounge closed for the night and the waitstaff and bartender had gone home, it could get real boring. You almost looked forward to the unexpected. Well, I wasn't let down in that aspect, for Salem was not only the home of the lawmakers of Oregon, it was also home to the State Mental Hospital. Do you remember "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's' Nest", it was filmed at that same fine institution. As a matter of fact, the crew from that movie stayed at my hotel, and one of Hollywood's leading men, I won't name names, was kicked out of our lounge. But I digress from my story.
About four in the morning I got a call from one of the rooms and a highly irritated voice informed me that on the third floor right in front of Suite 313/315 was what appeared to be to be a pile of poop. I, of course, figured that somehow a dog had gotten in the building, this was a no pet's allowed hotel, and that it had done it's business on the third floor. "Thank you, I will be right up to clean it up," I informed the guest.
Oh boy, just what I wanted to do in the middle of the night, clean up dog poop. So, I gathered up some supplies and headed for the third floor. Might as well get this over with. I arrived on the third floor and headed down the hallway. As I got near the suite I caught the aroma of my conquest. Then, I saw it, and there was something wrong about this whole thing. Now, I was right on top of it, and I knew something was wrong. No, it couldn't be what I thought ! But, wait a minute, was it? There on the carpet right in front of the suite was a pile of poop all right, but this was no ordinary dog poop. Nope, this was a pile of human poop! Yes, you heard me right, human poop!
Now, I ask you, what kind of person poops in the middle of the hallway of a classy hotel? Disgusting! Trying not to throw up, I dutifully did my best to clean up this mess. The only thing that I could think of was that some street person had wondered up to the third floor and decided that this was as good a place as any to do his or her big business. I figured that this was a one time thing, and it was almost kind of funny.
Another week went by, and I had forgotten about this little episode, when I received a call from another third floor guest that there was a some dog poop in the hallway. Well, I knew better, and with grim determination I ascended once again to the third floor. Sure enough, right in front of Suite 313/315 was another pile of human poop. I told my manager about it the next day, and we decided that we would try to catch this guy. The story soon got around the hotel, and the perpetrator was soon labeled "The third floor crapper". Yes, we set up a watch to see if we could trap him, but to no avail. Somehow, we always missed him, and every so often there would be a "fresh" pile of poop, always in the exact same spot. I decided that it must be an inside job. By the way, did I mention that Suite 313/315 was where the General Manager resided? You don't suppose?????
Next-"The Holy Crapper"