The slovenly manager fondled my Rolex between his greasy fingertips.
“It’s real,” I assured this obvious connoisseur of vintage timepieces.
He grunted, unconvinced.
That’s when I should’ve reached across the desk and throttled him, but I was in an impossible position. My soon-to-be-unemployed assistant booked the wrong place: the Seasons Four Motel. And it was convention week. Other options didn’t exist.
Worse, my room at this supposedly full pigsty was infested which was why I was here at 2am scratching my skin raw and demanding different accommodations.
“Room 147,” he said, sliding over a slab of plastic.
Worst trade ever.
The Weekday One Hundred 