The Politics of Hospitality

The receptionist enjoyed working at the hotel.  She liked the quick movement of people in and out, the smiles, and the excuse to no longer work at her mother’s craft store.  The hotel paid better and had benefits.

Everything about the hotel might be old, but she liked its charms.  Its stability.  It was flanked by two stone lions, as if mimicking the New York Public Library, but these lions were smaller and one was missing its ears, the other its nose, like a miniature malformed sphinx.  Inside, lanterns adorned the walls, which were made of gray stones, rough to the touch.  The floors were made of particularly knotty trees.  The smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the halls.  It was hand-made each morning by the hotel’s pastry chef.  The hotel’s pride and joy was the marble three tiered fountain in the center of the lobby, elaborately carved with flowers and vines, and the bottom tier held up by four carved Pegasus statues.

The receptionist was worried though, about the hotel, which was becoming a stranger to her.  She was worried about keeping her job, which she desperately needed.  And it was all because of a damn cat.

Leo, the owner’s tabby, had saved the hotel.  He had even been given an honorary badge by the chief of police for his bravery.  The receptionist had not been impressed. Leo was a rather condescending cat.  He allowed no one but the owner to pet him, napped all day in his royal purple bed on her desk, and shed orange fur everywhere.  She kept a brush under her desk to sweep up the hairs a few times each day –not a duty assigned to her in her contract.  But the owner was a peculiar man, and she wanted to stay on his good side.  She was determined to get a promotion.  At least, that was the plan before Leo’s stupid heroism.

That day a man had come in, asking for a room.  Leo lay on the receptionist’s desk, waking from a nap, his teeth glinting in the light of the lamps on the wall.  Upon seeing the cat, the man had stumbled backwards, claiming he was allergic.  He began to sneeze violently, and as his face reddened and filled with tears, he reached out to the desk for support; instead, he smacked Leo’s bed onto the floor.  Leo responded by attacking the man’s legs with his claws and teeth.  The receptionist didn’t think herself a particularly dramatic person, but she swore, when retelling the story to the reporters, that she saw blood streaming down his legs.

The man had shouted and threw Leo off his pants leg, the fabric ripping.  Leo skidded across the floor, hissing and spitting.  The owner ran into the lobby and demanded that the receptionist call the police to report animal abuse.  The man fled the hotel, cursing.

The hotel later found out through the local paper that the man had been a notorious con artist.  He scammed hotels in the New England area, running up an egregious bill, using stolen credit cards and fake IDs, and stealing small but valuable items, including the jewelry and credit card information of other guests.

The owner proclaimed the cat their savior and protector.  Like the Egyptian cats of old who guarded the underworld, Leo guarded their hotel.  The receptionist had always known that the owner was quirky.  He came from a family with a lot of money, the kind of family who traces their ancestry back to the Mayflower and revolutionary war and collects relics like a chair Paul Revere had allegedly once sat in or a fork used by Ben Franklin, never washed.  When first meeting him, the receptionist had been given a lecture on both items.  She nodded pleasantly, preferring his ancestral history to her own personal one.  He had been the owner of several moderately successful sushi restaurants in Boston before moving to their small town to retire by opening his hotel.  He didn’t have much else, no family, no friends.  The receptionist thought he opened the hotel to not be alone.  She could understand that.  But she would not forgive him for his ridiculous decision.

He walked into the lobby the day after the incident with a large smile.  “I’ve made a decision,” he said.  The receptionist looked up from her Sudoku.  She covered the pad with her hand, so he didn’t see that she was cheating.

“What is it this time?” she asked.  He often took to fancies, like repainting rooms with polka dots or re-organizing the hotel key cards by number, then by color, then by smoothness.

He plopped Leo down on his bed, giving him a pat.  Leo yawned.

“I have underestimated Leo and his aptitude for the hospitality business.”

“I really don’t think so.  We got lucky, that’s all,” the receptionist said.  She didn’t believe in fate or chance.  Practicality was her motto.  And a cat didn’t have business acumen.

“No, not luck, instinct.  Leo has been living and breathing the hotel business for years.  He has a nose for these things.  For people, he knows people.  And we could use someone like him on our frontlines.  Hospitality is an ever-changing entity.  We need to keep up with the times.  Keep innovating, growing!  It’s getting stale here,” the owner said.  He paced in front of the reception desk.  “I am bringing him in, as a part-time employee.  He will be our new Official Manager of Hospitality Services.”

The receptionist felt the sting of rejection.  The cat had taken her promotion.

“Shouldn’t that job go to someone else?  Someone who has worked here loyally for three years?  Who is human?” she asked.

“Nonsense, this is the best idea I’ve had in ages.  If my father could see me now.  You know he never liked my sushi restaurants.  Refused to eat at any of them.  He said fish was the food of pussies.  Well, a pussy is running this hotel.  What do you think of that?”  He turned toward the ceiling.

The receptionist was unsure that the owner was talking to her anymore.  She wanted to shout how unfair it was that the cat’s title sounded much more important than hers.

“What exactly will he do?” the receptionist asked.  She glared at the cat, who was asleep.

“He will protect us.  He will man the front desk with you.  And if anyone comes in that Leo doesn’t like, if he hisses or spits, if they treat him poorly, then you refuse service.”

“I’m not sure if that is legal,” the receptionist said.

“Nonsense, I have every right to refuse service.  We are putting our trust in Leo.”

The receptionist was skeptical of the cat’s abilities, but the owner told her to follow the cat’s wishes exactly, no exceptions.  He would be watching.  She hoped that if he saw her following his orders, maybe he would change his mind about the promotion.  Maybe when they started losing guests because Leo was cranky, he would see how crazy he was being and turn to the one sane person in this place, her.

After all, she couldn’t leave. This was a better gig than her mother’s store.  She was so frugal she paid her own daughter less than minimum wage, no promotion after five years of service.

She had quit the day she asked for a raise.

“You haven’t earned it yet,” her mother had said.  “You aren’t moving the yarn fast enough, and we have twelve cases of glitter glue because someone thought we were low.”

“No one could move that stringy mess.  And you told me to order those boxes,” she said.  “You’re just pissed because dad sent me that check.”

“You always thought you were too good for this job.  You get that pride from your father.  He always was pretentious with his damn boat.  You give no thought to your poor mother who slaved to raise you alone,” her mother said.  “You’re ungrateful.”

Her mother had shouted not to bother coming back when she left.  She didn’t.

The hotel saw an upsurge in visitors as Leo’s story spread.  Even the mayor had come for a visit and a picture with Leo.  A few days after the mayor’s visit, the owner gathered all the employees into the lobby.  The receptionist stayed behind her desk.  Leo was nowhere to be found.  The receptionist saw that his water bowl was empty, as it was last night.

“I have an announcement,” he said.  “We are receiving a special guest next week.  Drumroll please.”

No one moved.  The owner looked at the receptionist, and she tapped on her desk, as if knocking on a door.

“The governor is coming in two weeks.  So, I need this hotel spotless.  And Chef, we need a magnificent feast.  Everyone get to work.  So little time!”

The owner came up to the receptionist’s desk.  She was still rolling her fist on it, liking how the wood felt hard and solid against her knuckles.

“I like this guy,” the owner said.  “He seems like a stand-up fellow.  Said he couldn’t believe the popularity of Leo.  Said the spike in the mayor’s polling after his photo with Leo in the paper was overwhelming.  Asked if he could get in on the action.”

“Where is Leo?” the receptionist asked.  She wanted the owner to see that Leo had abandoned his post.

“Resting.  He has a big day coming up,” the owner said.  He hurried off after a maid who was bringing a vase of roses into the dining room instead of the front entrance.

The hotel had more visitors than it could accommodate that week, which helped hide the fact that the receptionist had to reject a third of all guests because of Leo.  One older woman came in on Leo’s bath day.  He took a nap after the bath, and the receptionist prayed he stayed asleep.  The woman hobbled up to the desk, asking for one room, please.

“Oh, is this that sweet cat I read about in the paper?” she asked.

“Yes, this is Leo,” the receptionist said.  The cat shifted upon hearing his name, and the receptionist rushed to get the woman’s credit card information.  She could see the owner out of the corner of her eye entering the lobby.

“Here’s your room key.  You’re all set,” the receptionist said.

Leo stretched and kneaded claw marks into the desk.  The receptionist thrust the key at the older lady, but she didn’t take it; the lady reached to pet Leo.  He hissed, batting her hand away with his paw.

The receptionist sighed.  “Actually ma’am there is a problem with the room.  It looks like we don’t have any space available.”

“But isn’t that my key?” the lady asked.  The receptionist pulled her hand back.

“No, no sorry.  We are all full.  Nothing left.”

“That’s a shame.  I love this place, been coming here for years.”  The older lady frowned.

“Me too,” the receptionist said.

The owner gave her a thumbs up.  He stared suspiciously at the old lady as she left.

“You couldn’t just stay asleep?  You damn cat,” she whispered.

Leo began licking himself.

“You must hate me.  Or this hotel.  But I will not let you ruin me.”

Leo looked up at her and meowed to be fed.

The same thing happened with the young man who smelled of dog and the family with kids who pulled Leo’s tail.  The receptionist felt like a fool saying they couldn’t stay because the cat didn’t like them, and instead blamed it on their new popularity.  They were full, always full.  She became used to guests yelling at her about their lost rooms. She was prepared to be called inconsiderate, a fool, a bitch, and the words hit her like bubbles, a cold tap before disappearing.

She wanted to shove Leo’s stupid pillow off her desk.  But a fear gnawed at her, that if Leo rejected her, she would have to leave the hotel as well.  She started bringing in treats for Leo, stashing a bag of them under her desk.  She made a show of feeding him a treat when the owner walked by, so he could see how well she and Leo got along.  He would purr and lick her fingers, and the owner would give her a thumbs up as he walked by her desk.  They smelled terrible, but she was convinced that it would be over soon.  This popularity would fall, and the owner would come to his senses.  She would be cat free.  It was just a matter of time.

The owner claimed the governor’s visit was the perfect opportunity for re-branding his hotel.  The week of the visit he redecorated the lobby with art donated by local artists wanting to get their work Leo approved.  All of the art were portraits of Leo, his face staring at the receptionist from every inch of the hotel.  He talked about starting Cat hotels across the state, each one protected by a cat just like Leo.  The owner repeated over and over how everything needed to go perfectly with the governor; he was announcing his plans for a new hotel at the governor’s dinner, hoping for a large donation from the governor himself.  He met with architects, he met with investors, he met with pet stores, and he sold autographed pictures of Leo on eBay.  His pawprints were in high demand.  Leo was invited to a local Waffle House opening where he bit the red ribbon with his teeth.  The receptionist realized that the Waffle House opening was the first time she had seen the owner hold Leo in a while.  He had been so busy.

The owner celebrated their success and substantial cash flow by buying two new black marble stone lions for the outside of the hotel.  He asked the receptionist to help him polish them.

They stood outside, where the sun was shining but a crisp wind caused the rags in their hands to waver and the hair on their arms to stand.  The owner took the lion on the left, the receptionist the lion on the right.  She had to stand on the hotel steps to reach the top of the lion’s head.

“Do you think these look regal enough?” the owner asked her as they wiped at the already smooth faces.

“I liked the other ones.  They had character,” she said.  His purchase reminded her of when her mother redecorated their home after her father left when she was ten.  She hadn’t wanted a pink bed, but her mother insisted.  They couldn’t have anything in the house that he had ever touched or seen.  That was a lot of things.  Part of her thought she was included in that list too.

“I know you did,” he said.  “I like how you like this hotel.  But we have to move forward, to change.  Some people called the hotel old-fashioned you know.”

“I’ve never heard that,” she said.

“Well, my father did.  An old-fashioned dump, is what he called it.”

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said.  “My mom called me a dump once.”

“If he was here now, I think he would be impressed.”  The owner waved his rag around splashing black polish on his shirt and balding head.  “I have a psychic cat.  How is that old-fashioned?  How is that irrelevant?  It definitely beats his dirty old fork.”  He went back to polishing the stone lion’s tale.  “Definitely,” he muttered.

The receptionist kept polishing the lion’s chest, so that it was uneven and blacker than the rest.

“I will name this lion after him,” the owner said.  He swatted the lion on the nose with the rag.  “You can name yours after your mother if you want.”

The receptionist stepped back.  “If she were here now, I would tell her, see how much I don’t need you?”

“Atta girl,” the owner said.  He walked to her lion.  “Finish polishing it.  I don’t want Leo’s hotel looking splotchy.”

The old stone lions were put into storage in the basement.  The receptionist sometimes went down there.  She would sit with the stone lions, relishing the silence, comforted by their familiar crumbling presence. One day she noticed that Leo had followed her.  She scooted to the corner of the room, her back against the lions.  The stone crumbled onto her dress.  Leo crept forward, his paws leaving prints on the dusty floor, and nudged her hand with his wet nose, looking for treats.  She withdrew her hand to her chest, afraid he would bite.  He sat back, looking at her with large eyes.  His hair was falling out.  He looked thin.  He looked lost.

She reached out a hand and scratched his head.  His eyes closed and he pressed his head into her palm.

“This hotel feels like the craft store,” she said.  “You don’t know my mother, but you probably wouldn’t let her into the hotel.  Maybe you don’t have terrible taste.”

She stopped scratching his head.  “I’m not sure where to go.  Or if I should go.” She looked down at Leo.  “Any ideas?”

Leo meowed, bumping his head against her hand for more scratches.

“Didn’t think so.”

Leo napped less, weighed less, and rejected more and more guests.  The receptionist began putting out fresh water for him.  She filled his blue bowl at the sink in the kitchen surrounded by dirty pots and pans and strainers and ladles and knives from the chef’s preparations.  They needed Leo to be healthy and on his best behavior for the governor, she told herself.  When she set the water in front of him next to her desk, he would give a small purr.  She stroked his head twice.  He was soft.

The day before the governor’s arrival, the owner said again how they had to impress the governor.  “He has a mustache,” the owner said.  “Like my father, how great is that?”  His employees spent the day on their hands and knees scrubbing the floors, power washing the stone lions outside, and reaching up with long dusters to clean the ceiling.

The receptionist received a frantic phone call from her mother.  Sales were down and the least her daughter could do was bring the hero cat to the craft store.  They could really push the yarn.  The receptionist didn’t respond.  She hung up.

She went looking for Leo to escape the desk in case her mother tried calling again. She found him in the basement.  He was curled up between the stone lions.  He looked up at her, then placed his head on his paws, tired.

“I won’t tell,” she said.  She left the hotel early that day.

When the governor arrived, he brought too many reporters with him.  He had been told that more than one or two cameras and Leo would get spooked.  The owner had to put Leo in his pet carrier after he tried escaping to the basement earlier that morning when the crowd started showing up.  The lobby was full of reporters, the governor’s entourage, employees, and townspeople who wanted to see the hero cat receive the highest honor.  Everyone had to awkwardly dance around the clunky fountain.

The governor paused at the door for some photos and shook hands with the owner, wiping his hand on his starched pants after.  Together they walked to the front desk, where Leo’s cage was waiting.  The receptionist waited behind the desk, smiling as she had been instructed.  She didn’t like the governor.

The owner opened the cage, but Leo huddled in the back, eyes dilated from the flashing lights.  The receptionist felt claustrophobic for him.

The governor held out his hand to the cat, smiling at the cameras.

“We can’t see him,” a reporter shouted.  “Picture’s no good without the cat.”

The receptionist heard the governor swear under his breath.  He reached for the cat, but Leo batted at his hand.

The reporters laughed, and the governor laughed with them to cover his embarrassment.

“I think he knows I took home some shampoo bottles at my last hotel,” the governor joked.  He shot a smile at the reporters and a glare at the owner, who approached the counter.

“I am sure he is just tired.  He’s had a long day,” the owner said.  The owner reached out, but Leo hissed at him.

The reporters started shouting questions.  “Does this mean the owner of the hotel has a dark secret?  What about the governor?  What are you hiding?”

The receptionist thought the governor smelled like old salami and his laugh sounded fake.  Through the holes of the carrier, she could see Leo’s body quivering.  She felt sick at the sight of him in the cage.  His pillow, still on her desk, looked empty.  She slipped behind the carrier and grasped the metal clasps at the back.  She lifted them up, so that the back of the carrier tipped upwards, and Leo came sliding out the front, right towards the governor.

Cameras began flashing, the governor lunged for Leo.

With a yowl the cat twisted in his arms and dug his claws in the governor’s suit.  The governor backpedaled, reporters leaping out of the way while still taking photos.

The governor’s security ran forward, but he had reached the center of the lobby and reporters had formed a tight cluster around him.  The receptionist lost sight of the struggling pair and climbed on top of the reception desk just in time to see the governor trip backwards over a Pegasus into the fountain.  They both went under.  Leo took his rage out on the governor’s face, scratching it up with his claws.  The governor’s security pushed through the reporters and pulled the governor out of the water.  Someone produced a towel for him.

“I want that cat gone,” the governor yelled, hair askew, mustache shredded, and blood and water mixing in little rivers around his face.  The cat crept out of the fountain, and as a security man reached for him, darted through his hands and out the opened doors of the hotel.

The receptionist smiled.  Run, she thought.

The owner stood in the center of the hotel, lights from cameras flashing around him. They had made so much food, including those twenty screaming lobsters, which would now go to waste.  His new hotel was doomed.  His father was probably laughing.

The receptionist left the hotel after the reporters cleared out.  She called for Leo up and down the street but was unable to find him after an hour of searching.  She was relieved.  He was better off away from here.  And what would she do if she found him?  Couldn’t return him to his owner, and she certainly wasn’t going to take him in.  He wanted what she did, freedom.

The papers have a field day, after a well-priced bribe, demonizing the mad cat who attacked the noble and generous governor.

The governor wins the next election, somewhat due to the fact voters felt pity for his scarred face and mangled mustache.  But he will soon be caught in a doping scandal.  He will be the vice president one day.

The owner sells the hotel to some young doctors who will turn it into a historic clinic, where guests can undergo historically accurate medical procedures, like leeching.  It is closed within a month.  But it does last a month.  The fountain is never replaced.  No one knows what happened to either set of stone lions.

He spends his days writing letters to the editors of national newspapers, reminding them of what used to be his hotel and of Leo’s heroism.  His legend.  He has not bought another cat.

Leo remains on the run.

The receptionist leaves the hotel and visits her mother one more time, forgiving her for the pink room but not the craft store, before getting a job at another hotel.  A Marriott this time, in another state.  She does not vote for the governor before she leaves.  She buys a fish.  He dies after a few days.  She did not name him Leo.

A few states away someone’s pet goat saves a kid from drowning in a lake.  He is given the local medal of honor and a chair on the city council.