So, The Front Desk Clerk Thinks I Look Like a Crook.

The Traveler: 

Okay, so I’ll tell you right off the bat, I was a colossal asshole to this guy, and he didn’t even really diserve it. I’m not gonna make any excuses – I will offer some backstory, to perhaps slightly mitigate my bad behavior.


The Backstory. 
So yesterday, I nearly drove my bike off a mountain. I wasn’t being crazy, or exceeding my limits, or those of the bike or (I thought) road conditions. When the incident happened I was upright, neither accelerating, or breaking, or turning.  


You know how asphalt is sometime surfaced with little black rocks held down by tar?  Well when less than competent road workers apply these as patches, sometimes all of the black rocks don’t stick. 


If enough of them don't stick you get a spot that when you ride over with a car, you don’t notice because nothing bad happens, but if you hit it with a motorcycle, it is like driving on ice coated with ball bearings. 


Everyone got caught up in it a little bit, I got caught up a lot. I lost traction in both wheels, went sideways and started to lowside  --I had to kick off the ground with a foot, dirt bike style to keep the bike upright and give a chance to straighten out. Which I did, and nearly tore my foot off in the process, because 50 miles an hour doesn’t seem fast in a car, but it far exceeds the velocity tolerances of the human foot. 


Anyway, after that I needed to stop riding for the day. But I was three hours at high way speed away from my hotel, AND I had an hour left to go of mountain roads I had no confidence in. 


Needless to say, I was tight as a snare drum by the time I got back to the hotel. A snooty arrogant, five star joint where the people who work there act like they’re better and more refined than the guests. 


One of my riding buddies --an owner of one of the most exclusive and exotic motorcycles on the planet was afraid they wouldn’t seat us in the bar due to our state of dress – the place was that kind of snooty.


But they let us in, and it was great.  We even played Ninja Peekabo  with the bartender, had a fantastic time -- and that is totally a different story. 


Of course, my stress relief drinking coupled with the fact that I had basically quit drinking several months ago, meant I woke with the kind of hangover that sticks with you all day, and gets WORSE.


So by the time I got down to check out, I was good and miserable. I had also paid fifty bucks for a late check out that anywhere else would be complementary, and had been interrupted four times by housekeeping come to check on me, when I was on the toilette, when I was changing, when I was talking with the Brunettutan Twice. Just pestering the shit out of me to get their room back. 


SO EVERYTHING IS FINE UNTIL HE HANDS ME BACK MY CREDIT CARD.


Which I go to put away. But as I do, the smarmy little fucker says to me, “I need you to leave that out sir, so I can check your signature.”


“You can just check my ID if you’re concerned about who I am,” I say. 


“No, “ he insists now, like strongly. “I need to check your signature.”


“My fucking signature is different most of the time because I scribble it.” I said. 


Now granted, that is not a particularly reasonable response from me to what is a perfectly reasonable request from a hotel clerk, but I has just about enough from these arrogant shit gibbons, and I was nursing a nuclear hangover. Again, not an excuse, but a mitigation. 


“We do not tolerate, being cursed at, sir.” He snorted.


“Oh, -- is that the royal we, or you got a mouse in your pocket. I’m just trying to fucking pay you.  And I don’t appreciate your insinuating that I’m a thief.”


“I said no such a thing!” he spat.


“Then why do you want to verify my signature?” 


“To prevent fraud.” He said.


“QED, you’re suggesting I might be a thief – but not an ordinary thief. OH NO. Because the name on my passport, room reservation, and credit card all match, I much be a master criminal but you were able to see through all that and trip me up with your clever 'signature test' which even an accomplished passport forger like me is unable to overcome.  You got me dude. You should be a fucking detective.”


I hand over the card, he flips it over to check the signature and goes white.


On the back of the card there is no signature, instead in large block letters written in sharpie marker are the words ”Check ID”.