Motel Hell

When we (my wife and I and two of our friends) were in Georgia, north of Atlanta for one of my best friend’s wedding, we stayed at two Super 8 motels. The first two nights we were in Georgia we stayed at a Super 8 motel in Dawsonville. For my wife and I this stay was actually not too bad. However, the friends who were with us had a room that was fairly dirty.

The morning after our first night at this Super 8, our friends told us about their room. They said there was hair all over the bathroom floor, and dirt and candy in certain corners of their room. Well, I’m not sure if the hotel cleaning crew actually cleaned up the hair and the candy (my guess is they did not), but the story only gets worse from here.

Immediately following the wedding, which was at Frogtown Cellars in the northern mountains of Georgia, we drove back into Atlanta to stay at another Super 8. The drive itself took about two hours, and we began this trek at around 10 pm or a little later. So, by the time we reached the second hotel in Atlanta it was quite late. Wanting to simply get checked into our rooms, we got registered at the hotel’s registration desk, got our keys, unloaded the rental car and headed to our rooms.

When my wife and I entered our room, the only thing we noticed was there were no towels in the bathroom. We knew right away that we needed towels. However, when we began to get situated in the room, I pulled the sheets back on the bed and there “IT” was. On the bed spread was a large semen stain mixed with blood. Apparently someone had done their “fun stuff” on the bed and left all their “fun stuff remains”; which also meant that the cleaning service for the hotel had not changed the sheets, they merely remade the bed. Needless to say, we were both quite upset. Soooooo . . . I immediately got on the phone and called the front desk. I explained to the person at the front desk that our bed had this lovely “artwork” on it, and our room had no towels and we were not happy. The clerk at the front desk told me I needed to come down to the front desk and get another key to a different room. So I make the trek downstairs.

Upon arriving downstairs there was this tall man holding a sheet up in the air. My initial thought was, ‘I hope they do not think that I’m going to take that sheet and replace it with the messy one.’ As I approached this man, I asked him, “That’s not my sheet is it?” He looked at me rather strangely and said, “No, this was the sheet in my room and it is covered in blood.” Good lord, I thought, what kind of hotel is this? I went round the corner to the front desk and the clerk hands a new key to a new room down the hall gtom our old room.

By this time it is about 1 am and I am very tired. I go back upstairs to our room, tell my wife they gave us a new room, and we packed all our things up and walked down the hall to our new room. As soon as we enter the room I notice a nasty odor. The room smells like sweaty people. My wife looks at me and says, “I don’t know if I can stay in this room.” At this point I turn on the air conditioner in hopes that will remove some of the smell. I then immediately go to the bed and pull the sheets back. No blood stains, but as I am examining the sheets there is a huge (yes, huge) urine stain and under the bed is someone’s underwear. By this time, I am pissed. I grab the phone and call the front desk at the same time my wife says (in her angel like sweet fashion) “Be nice!” I’m thinking in my mind, ‘Be nice, my ass!’

I explained the situation to the guy (in a nice tone I might add, at the request of my sweet wife), and he offers me two suggestions, switch rooms, or switch hotels. Well, it was way too late to switch hotels (we had to get up to catch a plane the next morning), and what would be the point of changing rooms if they are all this filthy? So I piped up and asked him if someone could come up here and change the sheets real quick. The clerk told me he was the only one there and if I wanted new sheets I had to come down there and get them and change the bed myself. He actually said that to me.

By this time, everything Christian about me is being put to the test simultaneously. I hang up the phone and I am so angry I can hardly breathe. My wife notices this and tries to calm me down, which by the way never works, the more she tries the angrier I become. Moreover, I am trying my hardest to hold my tongue because when I am usually this angry I tend to let my anger out by cursing, something my wife really hates me doing; so I make the trek back down the stairs to the clerk’s office. (To be continued . . .)