A Tribute to the staff of the Marriott of Pueblo, Colorado, and Paco
Monday, December 6, 2010 at 01:56PM My wife and I have become those people. She is now "that woman" and I am "that guy." Or, you know, that person who does that thing that gets you all ripe with indignation and asking, "What was 'that guy' thinking?" We're those people. We don't like it. We're not that good at it.
You would have called to complain about us too.
(There used to be an amazing audio file here of two hotel employees being as nice as possible whilst losing their collective shiz but I think the file sharing site DivShare died.)
Justin and Dustin do some bustin. You can also call that number to make a reservation at a fine hotel.
We take Paco everywhere. As a matter of fact, when we do a road trip in our little Toyota Corolla, Paco sits up front on his patented Paco Pad, and Sarah squeezes between the two car seats in the back. And Sarah thinks I had the windows tinted to keep the sun off of the boys. I've asked Sarah, "Am I that guy, you know the one who's a chauvenist pig who makes his wife sit in the back so his dog has more room up front?" She says, "No, not all. I like it back here!"
But then again she doesn't want to be that girl.
Together, however, we stole the show at the Marriott, winning the best duo award for the idiots who left their dog alone when everyone knows you're not supposed to leave an animal unattended in a hotel room.
But once you're that guy or girl there's no explaining that you know anything. You're just the person who kept the floors surrounding room 627 awake and/or on edge because of the crazy Cujo pup shattering the carpeted serenity of Pueblo's nicest hotel.
Paco is usually happy for us to leave and let him sleep. In a hotel his room to hide from the boys shrinks to about 300 square feet, so we thought he'd be thrilled to get us out of his fur.
"At least it wasn't late at night," added Sarah, comforting herself from our moment in the sun. The scrutinizing one.
Dustin, the night manager, and his head of security, found us in the pool. We were splashing and playing motorboat games and about as vulnerable as the accused could be. Usually swim trunks pass as acceptable public attire. When you have to run through the lobby and past the desk of clerks calming angry tenants, swim trunks are as good as whipped cream. You look like you've done something wrong. You're stripped down to the very essence of "that guy". That guy who was toying around in the jacuzzi while his dog shared his suffering with everyone trying to get the most out of their recession-era 150 dollars a night.
He was loud. I wasn't even out of the elevator and I could hear him. It wasn't a yip-yip, or even the sometimes endearing howl, but like someone had sprinkled Angel Dust on his kibbles. He was running his barks together in a kind of rapid-fire war cry. When I got to the door, with matted back hair and wet short pants doing nothing for modesty or credibilty, I struggled to get my key card to work. One person opened their door, saw me, and then slammed it. Now not only could they hear Paco barking, but me saying some awful stuff about the person who invented the key card thing. I was as bad as they imagined that guy could be.
I got in the room and calmed Paco down. No word as to what set him off (although I had a quick paranoid image of a "Dumbo" scenario where some anti-dog person taunted him so that dogs would never again be allowed in hotels.)
But back to being "those people." Sarah and I suck at it. I have friends, one in particular, who can be that guy and completely skate away from it. As a sucky "that guy" I make things worse. People just want to distance themselves from me and I'm chasing them around trying to apologize. I even got cash to tip the incredible Marriott staff for being so patient. And get this...instead of booting all of us out of the hotel, they said Paco could spend time with us at the pool. As long as he didn't jump in. Thankfully in 2006 I was "that guy" when I thought it would be useful to throw the little puppy Paco in a lake to help him get over his fear of water.
Thank you Marriott Pueblo. However, tribute needs to be paid to our dog. Our first born. He's done nothing but be loyal, and we've done everything to punish him for it: the baby, the cat, and then another baby. Paco, we can only hope to one day repay you. It would be helpful if you didn't forget trips the park as soon as we got home, but we'll keep trying.
Paco, you're on call and warning us of even the most mundane activities.
And while we bipeds have forgotten how to dream, everyday you tackle the impossible...over and over.
No matter what indignities you suffer. Thank you Mr. P. You're the greatest. Feel free to take my entire side of the bed tonight.
Reader Comments (4)