Hegira

That it exists at all is the point.

No-one ever finds it twice. And none of those who find it ever are looking for it. It makes sure of that.

Sometimes it waits on a corner, patiently, for days. The windows beckon with just the right assortment to tempt just the one person, and when that one person comes along, it is usually with head bowed, lost in thought. A random glance up, a quick decision the feet make without consulting the head, and ... caught. Just that quickly, the pattern of a life gets radically altered -- none of them walk away unchanged.

Some go mad. Not from fright, no, but from longing. Some spend the rest of their lifetimes searching -- and by searching, ensure that they will never be successful. Some allow the loss to twist them, to sour them, and they trudge their ways to the guaranteed inheritance that comes at the end of every mortal life.

Ahh, but some... some catch the spark, and hold it, and blaze brightly.

It never judges. It never looks forward to see what happens to the ones it catches. The only moment in time that belongs to it is the moment that they are caught -- once they walk out of its doors, they belong, whether they believe it or not, to themselves and to themselves only.

That is what it offers, though if it could speak, that is not what it would say. It severs the bonds between that soul and every other, makes it free of encumberments, sets it loose. And some soar, and some plummet, and some simply forge heavier chains. And it has no investment in which path they choose, any of them.

You see, it too is unbound.

Free.

Funny how some things hit harder than you think they will.

Every weekday afternoon from the time I was old enough to know how to tell time, I spent a couple of pleasant hours in front of the television with my afternoon snack in hand. Homework waited, and everything else faded into the background. Sesame Street. Reading Rainbow. Mr Rogers' Neighborhood. They were imports from the awesome USA, touched with splendour, and I made my science teacher explain more than once how it was possible that we in our tiny island could be watching the same thing at the same time as who-knew-how-many boys and girls so far away.

When we emigrated, I was twelve, and really too old for those shows. But America's almost-but-not-quite sameness left me feeling as if I'd stepped into some skewed mirror world, and I searched the Tampa stations until I found a familiar voice. And I watched every weekday afternoon until I was steadier and found other things to take up my time and pull me into my new world and my new home.

When he retired, I was sad because my children wouldn't get to experience his warmth and solidarity except in reruns. But now he's gone, and I really thought we'd have him around longer than this.

G'bye, Mr Rogers. I'll miss you. I hope you knew what a difference you made.

One of the things you don't know about me has been a bone of contention between me and my parents for ten years.

I was really quite bright as a child. Really bright. Kids in Trinidad start school early, and we outright compete from the very start for good class rankings. Except for one single term where I was third in my class, I was first, every school, every term, through all the years we were there. At age nine, I was the top student in my division of the country, St George East. I think I was second overall. At age ten, I became the first student in the history of the division to pass the Common Entrance exam for St Joseph's Convent. I think there've been two other girls to follow my lead since then.

And then when I was twelve we emigrated. And things changed. I felt that the successes I had, and there were some, weren't fairly earned, in some ways. I had a different background, had started earlier, it wasn't that I was any smarter than the older kids, I'd just seen the material before. So any good grades I got didn't really count.

Then, my sophomore year, the year after Kelly, I don't remember much of at all. I remember crying a lot, but no tests, no papers, no classwork -- I went through school on autopilot for a year, and my GPA slipped badly. I never quite made it up; I graduated with honours, but wasn't valedictorian or even close, and I was okay with that because it proved that I really had been right all along. I wasn't really any smarter once I was on more equal footing. I received the Presidential Award for Academic Fitness my senior year and shrugged it off; I got it despite my slightly-low GPA, and again it didn't count. Besides, everybody knows lots of kids who start out brilliant burn out along the way. I went on to college, and into the prerequisite courses for the Nursing Program. Indian River Community College has one of the best RN programs in the country, and the exam is stiff. Many, many people take three tries to get in, and many more never make it at all. I'm good at standardized tests, but I worried. I took the test, and my parents informed me that I'd passed. Then there was a bit of a battle; I was sixteen, and the Board didn't want to accept me because of my age. Still, my mother wanted me in badly, and she's nothing if not determined. Nursing was her dream, I wanted to be a veterinarian and wasn't sure I had any aptitude for nursing at all. I went along because once she'd blocked my own dream, I might as well go along with her and make one of us happy. But I felt like a fraud.

That was confirmed the first day of the program, when my teacher pulled me aside to say that she didn't think I belonged there, that I was taking up a space someone else should have had. It didn't get any better from there. Ms Spooner made it her business to make me miserable. For the first time in my life, I hated school. Worse, she was my mentor as well as my teacher. I would have had to explain to her why I wanted out of her classes and have gotten her permission to switch teachers. Going above her head never occurred to me at all. I was only in the program on sufferance, and what would they think of me if I made trouble? Every other classroom, I'd been in my own territory, on solid ground. I'd gotten bad teachers fired before, but that was on the strength of the fact that I was a good student. Her classroom was hostile territory, and I was a failure. Worse, I was a waste of a valuable slot. I got in on the strength of threats and my mother's determination.

And then this morning, my father and I rehashed the old, old argument. Why did you quit? You could have been great! And when I protested, he told me something nobody told me before.

That hard exam, with the material I hadn't seen before the prerequisite programs? The one so many people fail? I had the top score in the state of Florida. I scored fifth in the country.

If you can't understand why I'm crying my eyes out right now, try to imagine having someone tell you you didn't deserve something, try to imagine letting yourself be pushed out -- because I did -- and then finding out you probably had a better right to it than anyone else who shared it with you. That you earned it, and more than earned it, fairly. That you let someone who disliked you shape a very significant part of your life. I don't have a degree. I don't have a career, I have a job, and there have been so many damned unpleasant things in my life I could have avoided had I finished that program, I can't begin to reckon them up. It's not even her fault. It's my own for not being stronger, for not believing in myself. My children would be so much better off today had I finished that program, it's almost too much to wrap my mind around. It's my fault. But I still hope she gets to go through at least half of what I have. She was both mentor and teacher, and she, if no-one else, would have had to know my scores were good. Better than just good. Two days ago, I hated no-one. Right now, I can't see an end to hating her.

I was looking forward to a quiet, enjoyable shift tonight. We're at 40% occupancy, almost all of which is airline crews. I was on the schedule alone.

Then M. came in and shot that all to hell.

Pet peeve of mine: new employees who think that they know everything so cannot be bothered to ask before they fuck something up royally.

Pet peeve next: new employees who believe they know more than anyone else how the shift "should be" even when they haven't bothered to learn it the way it is.

Pet peeve next: stupid people who can be shown the same thing again and again, do it every time they come in, and still do it wrong when they see it again.

He screwed up checking out the master account for the airline phone calls -- which I told him I would do! -- necessitating getting a manager to fix it.

He's not supposed to be here in the first place, but S. told him he could help. Except he is not helping, he is complicating my shift and I'm spending more time cleaning up his messes than I would have done just going through my daily routine!

I swear, if he touches anything else, I'm going to strangle him with my bare hands. No jury in the land would convict me.

For the record, I love our Southwest crews.

Pilot: checking out of room 906. *flips card onto counter.*
C: yes, sir. you're all set, have a safe flight.
Pilot: (surprised) thanks. when does your shift end?
C: seven. couple of hours to go yet.
Pilot: gonna go home to the husband, cook him a big Sunday breakfast?
C: *chuckle* not likely. you have a good day, hmm?

I walked back into the back to fix some paperwork, he turned away. then I heard "oh, little girl... little girl, I've got some candy for you." He was standing with his crew at the desk, and he did, indeed, have a bag of candy in his hand. I laughed. "I don't think my Mommy would like that." The female co-pilot grinned. "oh, it's all right. you can trust him." He gave candy to everyone in the lobby, with the woman joking that her Mommy didn't train her right as she accepted hers. (There's a TasteTations chocolate mint candy on my dresser right now.) ;) I don't usually wonder where the guests are going when they leave us. Sometimes I'm even just glad to see them on their way. But with the Southwest crews, more than anyone else, it seems, they take some of the sunshine with them when they go. I like my job: they genuinely seem to love theirs. And it's not every airline crew. Continental and America West crews are often sullen. Northwest aren't, but they don't match the sheer joy and fun I see so often in the Southwest crews. I'm remembering all the times when Southwest have come in and stood around talking at the counter long after they've signed in, when other crews sign in and walk away, often not bothering to find out where their other crewmembers are staying before they go to their rooms. Southwest seem like family. Squabbles and all. And the ones who don't, don't come back many times.

I hope they had a safe flight.

Quick update to yesterday -- after the bar closed, at about three AM, a phone call. Mother of one of the brides.

C: Thank you for calling the Sheraton Service Promise helpdesk. How may I help you?
M: I just wanted to tell you, in case you don't watch the news, there's been another shooting. (very slurred.)
C: Has there?
M: Yeah. The sniper struck again in Virginia. Isn't that funny?
C: Well, thank you for letting us know. Have a good night.
*she hangs up.*

... so, just how drunk do you have to be to call up the front desk hours before your daughter's wedding to inform them of the latest news break?

so maybe I ought to tell you all now that I'm almost not afraid of jinxing it anymore.

One of the night audit positions at the Sheraton Capital where I work contract security came open this week, since Donna left us on Wednesday. Wednesday night, I was asked/told/ordered to apply for the position, since I already have a good idea of what it entails and fill in occasionally when things are busy. I stayed over on Thursday morning and turned in an app, and thanks to Anne, the hotel supervisor, Michelle, was expecting said application before I'd even agreed to apply. No pressure or anything.

Tonight, it was just Anne and I, so I filled in, as per usual. About two hours ago, this happened.

*ring* *pick up*
"Thank you for calling the Sheraton Capital, this is Cairsten, how may I help you?"
"Cairsten, this is Michelle. Is Anne available?"
"yes, Ma'am, she is. Will you please hold?"
*transfer call to Anne, who's having all sorts of problems keeping a straight face.*
*Anne hangs up.* "if you only answered one call correctly your whole time here, -that- was the call. and you did that just perfectly."

An hour later, this exchange with Michelle.

"thanks for helping out on the phones. are you sure you want this job?"
"yes, Ma'am." (40 hrs/wk, $2/hr more than I'm making now, full benefits after 90 days... she must be joking, right?)
"come on in on Monday and we'll get the paperwork started."

... my app is already filed. but it turns out she needs a background check (not a problem for someone who's just had to go through the checks for the state security license.) I want to give 2 weeks' notice at the current job, but we shall see.

.. and the silly part of all of this is that I still don't see what's so difficult or special about answering the phones correctly. go figure.

Mistress Eleri (6:33:17 PM): *augh.* *dies.*
mauvebovine (6:33:50 PM): Eh?
Mistress Eleri (6:34:29 PM): I just opened the door to a guy with a package in his hand, figuring it was some delivery guy.
Mistress Eleri (6:34:47 PM): I am wearing my oldest clothes, no bra, my hair is a mess.
Mistress Eleri (6:34:56 PM): ... it's the *neighbour.*
Mistress Eleri (6:35:01 PM): *dies.*
Mistress Eleri (6:35:18 PM): this is somebody I'm going to *see* again.
Mistress Eleri (6:35:48 PM): can I move to Toledo now? tonight? and never come back?
mauvebovine (6:36:13 PM): Oops.
mauvebovine (6:36:20 PM): Minor problems. ;-)

They're not just for hookers and johns anymore.

Two weeks ago, we caught one of the debutantes in a closet. The week before, it had been a (male) prostitute servicing a client in there. This week? Someone decided they're roomy enough to take up residence in.

We're changing the locks again. I somehow don't think it will help, though.

He made a malfunction tonight.

I saw one of the officers' lips twitch, and struggled to keep a straight face myself. Sometimes, not laughing is the hardest part of my job. The man in front of us apparently didn't notice. Which, considering the fact that he'd consumed far more alcohol than Paul Bunyan should've been able to put away and still stand up straight, wasn't surprising. It's amazing how quickly one can sober up when confronted with twelve police officers in one's hotel room, I suppose.

Fifteen minutes earlier, it had been a quiet night. Then I had been called down to room 1027, with Anne saying only that it was an "emergency." We'd been talking about deaths in the hotel, and how to handle them, and how none of us had current CPR certifications, so I was more than a little frightened. I stepped off the elevator and rounded the corner at a run, to find Anne and a guest standing outside the closed door. She had her keys in hand, he had personal belongings. I saw no blood, smelled no smoke, heard nothing out of the ordinary, so I slowed down.

"I'm transferring this man to another room," Anne said when I got there. "There are two other guys in there. They were screaming and shouting and breaking things in there a minute ago, and they won't let me in to check the damage, or give me their names." "Wonderful, " I said. "That's not going to be a problem. Do you have a key to the door?" She put her keys in my hand and stepped back. I knocked on the door. "Security." There was scuffling inside, and I heard the bathroom door close, but no-one answered. I knocked again. "Security." Still no answer. I love these kinds of moments. I shrugged at Anne, who looked worried, and then I stepped back just far enough to be in view from the eyehole. "You gentlemen have a choice. You can either open the door now and let me assess the damage, or I can go downstairs, call the police, and let them handle it. Which would you prefer?"

( The door opened. )