Under the Influence ✔

4.

What I like the most about working the night shift at the dingy motel is that I get to see all different types of people, living all sorts of lives in the middle of the night. They come in as one version of themselves and leave as another - as if the night brings out the real them, and the sunrise paints a mask on their faces the same way it paints the sky with color. 

I've seen men slinking up the stairs with women that aren't their wives, I've seen women in pearls and designer dresses creep out of rooms belonging to men that don't have more than twenty dollars to their name. I've seen broken people, lost people, people with nowhere to go and no one to care about them. I've seen families, I've seen loners, gypsies and stoners. 

Every time the door opens and the bell chimes, it's a new person looking for a place to rest their head for the night, needing somewhere to get their fix and forget. This isn't the type of motel where there's free WiFi and a complimentary breakfast in the morning. We don't have a five star Yelp review - or any stars and reviews that I'm aware of. 

No, this is a place for misfits and outcasts, this is a home for the homeless and the lost. 

While some people are nervous to work here, I'm not. I feel like I can relate to our guests in some ways, and so far none of them have bothered me or given me a reason to feel as if I can't work here. For the most part, they check in and then I don't see them again unless they're in the small lobby getting coffee or getting change for the vending machine on the second floor. 

Randy, the security guard has a small office in the back of the building, but I've never felt the need to call him. Randy and I have an agreement - he lets me watch Netflix while I'm on my shift without ratting me out to my manager, Gloria, and I let him and his girlfriend use a room for a couple of hours free of charge. 

Most nights are slow, with only a few guests trickling in at random hours of the night. Tonight is one of those nights, I haven't had a single guest in the three hours that I've been here and I'm halfway through my third episode of the new show I just started on Netflix. 

Most nights I don't wear the uniform that I'm supposed to wear, and Gloria doesn't seem to mind, so with my ripped jeans and Converse resting on top of the desk, I don't look the part of desk clerk. Which is probably why the man who just entered the lobby and approached me asks, "Uh, do you work here?" 

Pausing the show on my phone, I remove my feet from the counter and look up towards the voice, flashing him a friendly smile. "Yes, how can I help you?"

He looks at me for a moment and then finally decides to speak, "I need two rooms, two beds in each." 

Nodding, I pull up the available room list on the computer in front of me, my eyes scanning the list until I find two doubles right next to each other. "How long will you need these rooms for?"

The man is older, maybe in his early forties, and he looks exhausted. His balding blonde hair is disheveled and sticking up in random spots, as if he's been running his hands through it periodically. He seems to be thinking over the question I just asked, finely deciding on an answer moments later, "Four nights. It's for a local band, two members per room, but you can charge it to my card."

"Okay. May I see your ID and credit card?" 

The man hands me the two cards and I type in the information on the computer as he stands there, looking as if he's about to fall asleep standing up. Once I've entered all the necessary information, I hand him back his credit card and ID, "Here you are, Mr. Daniels." 

He takes the items from me, mumbling a thank you as I turn to activate the two sets of room keys. His phone begins to ring and I hear him answer it, his tone annoyed and clipped as he talks to the person on the other end. "I'm in the lobby getting your rooms for the week. Meet me in here to get your keys." 

I hear the bell above the door chime seconds later, and a group of laughing boys enter. Mr. Daniels tells them all to shut up and they tone down their laughter, whispering to each other about something I can't make out.

When I turn back around to hand them their keys, my eyes land on one boy in particular. He's standing beside Mr. Daniels, apart from the other three that had just entered the lobby. He's wearing black jeans and a black t shirt, his hair perfectly styled and swept to the side. I can see the same tattoos that my eyes had been drawn to just yesterday, weaving their way up his arms and around his biceps, no doubt continuing out of sight under his shirt sleeve. 

His light brown eyes are staring at me as I stand there, stunned into silence. "Damn, blondie, we meet again."