Chapter 2-15: Atom Man vs. Superman

Previously on Thrilling Days of Yesteryear:

Against my better judgment, I told the GM this morning that I could be persuaded—if necessary—to sit in on the first four hours of the audit to make certain these two were up to speed on the changes.  (I had also been asked by the full-time auditor at the La Quinta on 204/I-95 if she could sit in as well.)  Lord knows I did not want to do this, and in fact I was praying that the GM would say “Hell, no” because I’m already swimming in enough overtime to incur the wrath of his boss.  No such luck.  He’s given me the greenlight.

Why do I have a bad feeling about this?

So I arrived at work last night around nine-ish, and I’m making major preparations to finish the pre-audit in time so that Little Miss Weekend Warrior, Dreads and the I-95 auditor can benefit from my aggravations with our new Nite Vision system this past week.  At 9:45 p.m., one of the individuals manning the front desk answers the phone and on the other line is Dreads.  She tells him she will not be in this evening.

What followed was a high-pitched primal scream that broke the sound barrier, emanating from yours truly.  I knew she was planning to dick me over—I should have seen it coming.  Dreads worked for us once before as a front desk clerk before agreeing to move up to the assistant head of housekeeping position and being transferred to the Southside La Quinta.  She was relieved of her duties when she phoned the GM one Sunday morning five minutes before her shift to inform him that she couldn’t come to work that day…a pattern that she had established on several other occasions.

I take the front desk person who spoke to Dreads into my confidence, and instruct him to call the GM, telling him that he needs to let our GM know that there is no way on God’s green earth that I will work out the rest of the audit—that is not what I agreed to, and if necessary I will walk the hell out right now.

Co-worker phones the boss, who chats with him for a minute or two, and then asks to speak to me.  “It’s a good thing you agreed to come in tonight,” he says weakly.

“Listen—I’m serious about this.  If that dame thinks she’s going to get away with this, she’s nuts.  I am not going to…”

He cuts me off and tells me I’m “jumping to conclusions.”  He’ll find someone else to finish out the shift.  (As it so happens, he talks my co-worker into it—my co-worker is a bit of a night-owl anyway—and because I really appreciate him stepping in and taking the bullet, I buy him a bacon cheeseburger and fries from Denny’s later that morning.)  The GM then lets me in on the knowledge that he also feared that Dreads would be a no-show as well.  Apparently Dreads is scheduled to go on a cruise beginning Sunday night, and the GM has the Big Balls in Cowtown to remark that the AGM (assistant general manager) at Southside was concerned about this because that meant the relief auditor would have to work six days straight.

Talk about chutzpah.  “I notice she never displayed that kind of concern when she was working over here and scheduling me for six days in a row,” I remarked through clenched teeth.  He tries to weasel out with an explanation on how the Southside’s relief auditor is on some sort of disability but at this point in the conversation I have ceased to care.

Naturally, the rest of the evening did not go as planned.  Miss Weekend Warrior also failed to show (in fact, I believe they tried to call her to come in for Dreads, with no luck) and the planned midnight audit was stalled when I learned that no one—despite my mentioning it to at least three individuals that morning—had bothered to make sure that the rooms for a group that was in-house would all be routed to the same folio.  (Yes, I ended up having to do this.)  Then I learn from my new best friend at the front desk that we still have three more rooms to rent (the housekeeper who cleans at night failed to bring this to my attention, though in her defense I was sort of busy at the desk selling a bunch of rooms we were stuck with because no one cancelled the 6pm arrivals) and so we were trying frantically to rent those before closing out the day.  At 1:30am, I get a call from the I-95 dame that the reason she missed her midnight appointment was that she drove her car into a ditch (I didn’t ask; apparently her driving skills are legendary as well as atrocious).  I tell her that if she can find a way to the motel she can still witness the audit since I’ve not been able to start it yet.

I ended up clocking out around 3:30am, which is when I sashayed over to Denny’s to buy breakfast for myself and my front desk colleague.  I then secured a cab about an hour later, stumbling into the house about 4:55.  By that time, I wasn’t in the mood to sit down with pen and paper and chronicle the events of Chapter Two of Atom Man vs. Superman (1950)—instead, I just put the DVD on and started to watch the rest of the serial until its completion.  Let’s be honest—I have no idea what the next round of Saturdays are going to be like (I think it’s safe to say Dreads won’t be pulling down any more shifts at either location, and that they’ll find some prized schmuck to fill in on Friday nights…to quote Dick Powell, “Yours truly will likely get a chunk of it”) and while I have made every attempt to emulate the ways of my serials mentor, Laughing Gravy (watching a chapter a week) I’m failing miserably at it.  My craving for instant gratification has necessitated the cancellation of Saturday Morning Serials for the time being, and from now on cliffhangers will be devoured in one full gulp.

There are, however, some loose ends to tie up.  I’ve stated in the past that I’ve thought the first Superman serial was the superior chapter-play…but after re-watching Atom Man, this statement doesn’t hold water.  Atom Man is a better serial, though it’s not without its faults.  To start off, the whole Atom Man character—dictated by the plot to be a decoy persona for arch-nemesis Lex Luthor (Lyle Talbot), who is pretending to go straight—is completely unnecessary.  Talbot spends a great deal of screen time resplendent in black choir robe and a helmet that looks like a cross between a champagne bucket and ornate planter, and he speaks with an accent that sounds like a bad Bela Lugosi impression.  The character comes across as totally embarrassing and ridiculous—if they needed to include Atom Man, they should have used the one from the radio Superman that was played by Mason “With a name like Smuckers’, it’s got to be good” Adams.

The other debit in Atom Man is that its interesting plot peters out much too quickly—though this could be due to Columbia’s infuriating habit of padding out material over fifteen chapters, when twelve would have sufficed.  The major scenario—Luthor invents a device that will scatter Superman’s atoms hither and thither through out outer space—gets underway in Chapter Eight, and concludes around Chapter Ten.  This leaves five more chapters of the same-old, same-old shenanigans: Luthor’s henchmen are able to commit crimes and vanish from the scene thanks to coins with a special alloy in their pocket.  It would have been better to shuffle the series of events so that the Man of Steel’s trip into “the empty doom” was featured in Chapter 13 or 14.

Apart from all this, Atom Man is a fun (good, but not great) serial; one of Columbia’s best, in my humble opinion.  The cliffhangers are better than those in the previous Superman outing, the characters more engaging (though the source material has more to do with that than anything) and there are some nicely nuanced throwaway bits to lighten up the proceedings.  There’s a priceless scene where Clark Kent (Kirk Alyn) helps Lois Lane (Noel Neill) blow out the birthday candles on her cake with his “super breath” and Perry White is featured in a funny running gag in which he pulls out a stogie but can’t find a light.  Atom Man also contains one of my favorite jokes in a cliffhanger: Lois tells Jimmy Olsen (Tommy Bond) that they must return to Metropolis (whose destruction has been threatened by Luthor) to “write the story—even if it’s our last.”  “I’d rather read about it!” is Olsen’s hysterical reply.

My stinkin’ job

If you keep up with the frantic activity on this blog (that’s a joke, son!) you might remember a previous occasion when I went out of my way to do something nice for the hotel that employs me as a night auditor…only to see it turn around and bite me in the ass.  (I’m referring to the time that I suggested that our former doofus of a security guard, “Slappy,” be transferred to Sunday/Monday nights in an effort to protect our declining hotel scores…only to have the rug pulled out from under me when they saddled me with him for both nights, working Monday and Tuesdays.)  I swore to myself that I would not allow this to happen again…but of course, I’m an idiot, and I rarely learn from my mistakes.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning.  This past week, the La Quinta Midtown followed the lead of other La Quintas in the chain and switched operating systems over to something called Nite Vision, which is without a doubt the least audit-friendly system that I have ever encountered.  Our former system, known as LISA, was designed for accounting purposes.  Nite Vision—touted by the powers-that-be as the greatest idea since the walking man—is geared more toward hotel and motel management…but because auditing, in my opinion, is basically accounting I am hating the new system with the intensity of a thousand white-hot suns.  We converted to Nite Vision Monday night, and by Tuesday evening everyone who went near the damn thing was reduced to a helpless, gibbering idiot (though for some of the people at the front desk, this is barely noticeable).

I was given the extreme pleasure of conducting our first Nite Vision audit, a task that has since become a blur because not only did I spend what appeared to be forty-eight hours on it (okay, I may be exaggerating a tad) anything that could conceivably go wrong did that evening: some numbnut neglected to buy more copier paper, the phones went out, etc.  But did I let the system defeat me?  Did I break down crying, curled up in a fetal position and wishing for it to go away?  Of course I did—several times that night, in fact.  But eventually I wrestled the bull by the horns (okay, maybe this isn’t the best analogy but work with me here) and took control of the situation.  And with each subsequent night, as I became more and more confident with using the system…I became more and more convinced that it’s a steaming pile of horse crud.

It has definitely changed the face of auditing around the Midtown location because I have no earthly idea of knowing whether anything is correct because I cannot print out any pre-reports—I have no idea of knowing whether the rates are correct or the tax exempts have been applied right because the system either does not allow me to print out certain reports or I can’t locate the reports that, if they can be printed, need to be printed out.  It’s almost like the people who designed this damn thing just assumed that no one at that front desk ever makes a mistake, a thought that makes me cackle wildly to the point where I’m ready for a friggin’ strait-jacket.

I’ve been the guinea pig on this thing all week, and the GM is still convinced that the powers-that-be have made the right decision (though he says this in a “Raymond-Shaw-is-the-kindest-bravest-warmest-most-wonderful-human-being-I've-ever-known-in-my-life” Manchurian-Candidate kind of way).  But here’s the real test: will the relief auditors, “Little Miss Weekend Warrior” and the other gal (she works four days a week at our Southside location, and one at Midtown) I refer to as “Dreads,” be able to perform this new audit.  The smart money says no: Warrior made no attempt to attend any of the sessions conducted for the new system (though she did sit in and watch me do half the audit before taking off, explaining she had to go) while Dreads, though she was present and accounted for at the night auditor Nite Vision session, has ignored the conversion completely.

Against my better judgment, I told the GM this morning that I could be persuaded—if necessary—to sit in on the first four hours of the audit to make certain these two were up to speed on the changes.  (I had also been asked by the full-time auditor at the La Quinta on 204/I-95 if she could sit in as well.)  Lord knows I did not want to do this, and in fact I was praying that the GM would say “Hell, no” because I’m already swimming in enough overtime to incur the wrath of his boss.  No such luck.  He’s given me the greenlight.

Why do I have a bad feeling about this?

Leave of absence

I know, I know.  “Where the hell has he been the past several days?”  “Why has he neglected the blog?”  “Oh, Kee-rist—he’s babbling about his job again…”  These and many other thoughts are probably parading through the mind of the vast readership (in the high two figures) at Thrilling Days of Yesteryear.

Truth be told, there are two explanations.  One, I have been busier than the proverbial one-armed paperhanger.  This past Saturday and Sunday were the two weekend days that required my presence at the La Quinta Midtown because the relief auditor (who I have now seen fit to dub “Little Miss Weekend Warrior”) has that prior commitment to Uncle Sam that she neglected to mention to management until after she was hired.  As such, this requires me to work six days straight, and while I’ve been doing that I’ve also had to juggle a pair of outside writing projects…one of which was due today.

The other excuse for my blog reticence has to do with writing—namely, a crippling case of writer’s block.  It’s a condition that I have succumbed to many times in the past, often forgoing a go at the old pen and paper (or in this case, Microsoft Word) to instead lie about listlessly watching nostalgic television or classic movies…and having no desire to jot down my impressions.  (And when you’re in the middle of projects where people are paying you to write, it can be mighty inconvenient.)

But I hope to have something substantial up on the blog within the next day or so—except that I just realized I used the words “substantial” and “blog” in the same sentence.  If push comes to shove, I can always bitch about my job.

Buh-bye, Slappy

If you’ve just stumbled onto this blog, you might want to go back and revisit the TDOY archives to learn the story of “Slappy,” the sharp-as-a-marble security officer who provides endless amusement for the front desk staff at the La Quinta Midtown…except for one, the cranky night auditor who is frequently driven to distraction with his man-child antics.  (In case you haven’t figured it out, that night auditor is me.)

It’s a little too premature to be reporting this, but as of Tuesday morning, Slappy has been relieved of his part-time La Quinta duties.  We had a new man patrolling the hotel’s grounds Tuesday evening and though he described himself as a “floater” I’m hoping that the security company will be providing a suitable replacement by next Monday eve.

Monday night, Slappy informs my co-worker (the individual who’s manning the desk from 9 to 11pm until I come on) that he can’t climb upstairs anymore because he’s afraid of heights.  Why this realization took more than a year to discover I do not know, but said co-worker tells me he’s going to have to drop a few things off at several upstairs rooms because Slappy refuses to go.  I venture out of the back office and, seeing the Slapster is seated at one of the tables in our lobby, I inform him that this does not bode well for his career at La Quinta.  What I said was, “I don’t think the boss is going to allow me to call those individuals getting out of hand or creating a disturbance to ask them if they can move it downstairs so that my security guard can handle the situation.”

Slappy tells me he’s not feeling well.  “I’m sick, man—real sick,” he continues to wail over and over and over again.  He reveals further that he’s not necessarily afraid of heights, it’s that he gets dizzy climbing the stairs and he feels like he’s going to fall.  So I tell him that if he’s ill, he needs to call his office…inform them of his situation…and let them know that they need to send someone out here in his place.  I hand him the phone and he complies with my request.

This past week, we’ve been tres, tres busy here at Midtown—due in part to Spring Break and also the Masters Tournament in Augusta.  (Yes, hotels are busy to the point where guests are actually forced across the state and into Savannah.)  So the audit has been a little heavier than normal, and I find myself with precious little time to devote the usual amount of adult supervision in Slappy’s case.  He did discuss the matter of his being sick with the guy in charge of the security office, and he tells me that the individual told him to sit tight while he made preparations to get a replacement out to us.  I then told Slappy (in retrospect, kind of stupid I know) that he could either walk around the property to a) get some fresh air and b) pretend he’s doing his job or he could sit down for a breather until his substitute arrived.  Naturally, he chose the option that would involve sitting down.

And he sat…and he sat…and he sat…for about four-and-a-half hours, according to my watch.  At first, I wasn’t too concerned about this because this security company is notoriously slow in getting a relief man (or woman) out to us.  But gradually, it becomes apparent that the guy he talked to apparently rolled over and went back to sleep, because after two hours he’s still sitting there and no one’s coming to relieve him.  On top of this, he starts complaining to just about everyone who walks into the lobby (the driver of the CSX van, our two Carolina Trailways drivers, etc.) about how the people who employ him aren’t doing him right—he’s sick, and when he talked to his boss he told him to “stick it out for the rest of the night.”

As you may have guess, the part about “sticking it out for the rest of the night” doesn’t jibe with the rest of his story—particularly the part about his company sending out a replacement.  When I call him on this, he assures me that help is on the way—but with every passing hour, it’s not looking good.  In fact, when he told the CSX van driver about how cruel his company was for making him work while he was sick, the driver gives me the hairy eyeball, thinking I’m the slave driver.  I shot back a look that I hoped conveyed the message: “Do you see him sitting there?  Does it look like he’s working?”

By this time, I was grabbing items out of our makeshift kitchen and bringing them out to the breakfast area in preparation for our award-winning continental breakfast.  It’s about twenty minutes before Slappy’s shift officially ends, and as I enter the lobby through the back door he says to me excitedly: “Hey!  I know now what was making me sick!  My blood sugar was low!  I just checked it and it was low!”

So I just stood there, silent and not moving a muscle, because to do so would involve me strangling the little twerp and I’m not entirely 100% certain a jury is going to let me walk—this is Georgia, you know.  He proceeds to produce a hamburger that his wife made for his lunch and pops it in the microwave, wolfs that down and then asks me if he can have some toast.

“Slappy—a half-hour ago you were at freakin’ death’s door…and now, just as it becomes time for you to leave you’ve got the nerve to ask for breakfast?”  I continue to stare at him as his pudgy little fingers shove the remaining bits of burger into his maw.  He then realized that we had this conversation about sponging off the breakfast area last week, and decides that it was bad form to ask me for toast—but instead, picks up the house phone and calls his wife to let her know he’s on his way home…and asks if she’ll make him some pancakes for breakfast.

As he gets ready to leave, he says to me: “Well, I guess I’ll see you tonight.”  He turns to go, and I interrupt him with the aural equivalent of floodgates being opened.

“Slappy—I’m going to do everything in my power…move heaven and earth if I have to…to make sure you never cross that threshold in an employment capacity ever again.  Your career here at La Quinta is over, my friend.  You’ve spent the last four-and-a-half hours with your fat ass in that chair, complaining you’re sick, and now I learn that it’s all because you refuse to take care of yourself.  You played me, man—and the camel is buried in a big straw stack.”

He interrupts me with “No, I didn’t play you” but I’m not finished.  “Slappy, I don’t know why I felt sorry for you.  You’re a diabetic, and yet you continue to shovel crap and garbage down your gullet that completely violates the diet of any known diabetic.  If my father ate even half the shit you do, my mother would be a widow now.  There wasn’t anything wrong with you this evening that a proper diet wouldn’t cure, but instead you decided to play the illness card and faked being sick so that you wouldn’t have to do a goddamned thing.  Well, it’s over, my friend—I’m done protecting your job.  I’m fed up with your mooching and napping and your just-plain-laziness.  The GM and I are going to have a talk in the morning about this, and again…if you’re still employed here by the time we finish our chinwag, I can assure you that I won’t be.”

I related this incident to my boss in pretty much the same manner as set down in this post, and even though he looks upon Slappy as some sort of hotel court jester, he reluctantly agreed that Slappy had to get the yank.  He says to me: “Did you really tell him about doing everything in your power to keep him from coming back here?”

“You better believe it,” I responded.  “My only request is that you don’t make a liar out of me.”