Written on Sunday
From my computer, I can look straight ahead out the window towards Twin Peaks. Right now, the fog is rolling in, from over the hills like an avalanche. It's thick and white and massive, obscuring everything in it's way. I can't see the top of the hill, I can't see the slope of the hill that leads into the Castro. It's almost surreal, like somebody took a shot of hill, then super-imposed a whole other background behind it. As I stare at it, I wonder when it'll come flowing towards me, enveloping me in the fog. It never comes.

I worked at the spa again today, further continuing along my lifelong ambition of picking up people's towels. What can I say? It's money. And, as a friend pointed out, a great place to meet 40 year old divorcee's looking for a young or not so young buck to be their kept man. I can do that.

Sometime during the morning, two women who were eating called me over to them. One of them told me that while it looked like they were done, they still wanted to finish up, or at least finish off their coffee. They were both going to run to the bathroom but wanted to make sure that room service didn't take their food away. It being a five-star hotel and a first-rate spa, I am, of course, their service bitch. I told them it would be no problem and that I'd guard their coffee with my life.

They both take off and I start to wonder just what it is that I should do to make sure their tray wasn't taken. Normally the room service guy just randomly appears out of nowhere for no rhyme or reason and as a result, we, the spa attendants, have to put it away. Still, I knew it would be just my luck that I'd leave the tray there and it would get taken away. So I stood around it, thinking the whole time that I was going way, way, over and above the call of duty. Did I really need to stand there, guarding the tray like a bodyguard? I'm supposed to keep moving, keep picking things up. How would I explain my just standing there, watching over a half-finished tray of breakfast?

I started to clean up the stuff around the area, making sure the tray was always in my sight. Noticing the water needed to be refilled, I grabbed a pitcher, opened the door into the labyrinth of hallways that made up the belly of the hotel where an ice chest stood, only to stumble upon the room service guy. He was on his way in. Here was my chance.

I told him what was up with the tray, even followed him to the table where the tray was, explaining to him that the women weren't finished yet and that they were in the bathroom. If he wanted to, I told him, he could take the food but had to absolutely positively leave the coffee. He nodded his head in acknowledgement and thinking my job was done, I headed off for my break. I did what I said I'd do, I told him what to do and he had heard me. I could stand over him to make sure he did the right thing, but that would be dicky and I didn't want to be dicky. How could he not do what I told him?

Fifteen minutes later I got back from my break and was doing rounds by the pool and was called over yet again by one of the woman. In a polite, yet pissed off tone of voice, she told me that when she and her friend got back from the bathroom, everything was gone. The food, the coffee, even the table. I apologized, told her I did everything I could. She said it was no big deal, but in that way that let me know it wasn't really alright.

I'm doing a service job. Which means my main goal is to provide service (ie- pamper their rich, spoiled massaged asses, and yes, I'm jealous much). This woman basically gave me one little request, one simple little thing, and I did it. Except for the fact that the pimply faced teenage kid playing waiter fucked it all up. I followed him out the door, told him exactly what to do, and yet he didn't do it. Any of it. And I'm the one who has to get bitched at. While it's no big deal and it's not like I got in trouble or it's not even like I care that much if I got in trouble, it's the principal of the matter.

One more thing about today, it was Birthday day at the spa and the place was full of twenty-something women, all celebrating someone's birthday, girl's day out style. Out on the patio, there was a gaggle of them, all blonde and overly-skinny, drinking champagne. Mid-way through the raised champagne glass, "Happy Birthday" toast, I poked my head into the patio to make my patio round. I thus ensured that said birthday toast was completely ruined when every single one of the women turned their heads to see who had just poked their head through the door. I then proceeded to drag my ego down further notches than it's already down when, as part of my job, 36 year old unemployed me asked about seven blonde woman in bikini's if there was anything they needed me to pick up for them.