Question the necessity of sobriety
Eleven pages of work had to be done at such a short period of time. None of the others had any inkling of work nor the desire to accomplish what was necessary to achieve this goal. Perhaps it was too much to ask of me; my responsibilities do not include the work of thieves and braggarts.
This will be a long month and already halfway through it. The light at the end of this road serves as a guidance for the torturous tomorrow that awaits what little there is that is left of me. Break down my days in threes because sevens are a wee bit excessive. The sevens are my enemy now, threes a crowd, but that is all there is and it is all to need.
This one colleague of mine tells me openly about his homophobia after a scantily clad guest came up to us to purchase some small bottles of water. He gave one swift look at him, came up with a decision based on his demeanour, his voice, and his choice of clothing or lack thereof, dismissing him immediately as gay and judged him decisively based of these few seconds of touch proximity.
"I hate gays, man," he whispers to me. "But not enough to kill them."
By that he was referring to the recent tragedy about a group of people in the United States of America who were shot at a club in Orlando, Florida, when a man opened fire at people after seeing two men kiss each other.
"They should be locked up in a mental institution," he continues. "They have problems mentally, man. God did not make man and man and woman and woman, he just made man and woman."
This guy is fine. Most nights at least. Better than the other one. My silence in the matter seemed to unnerve him. He walks away, and that is that.
There is this one stayover guest we have that also happens to be from my country, is also gay/trans (could not be bothered to find out which), and happens to speak my regional language as well. This person knew me perhaps because I look the part, and that I happen to be working at the same place as my sister, thereby negating my mystery of the matter by coming across as conspicuously obvious. Most nights turn out peaceful, if not dreadfully tedious, and devoid of anything substantial. Just as if you were selling your soul to the highest bidder. But some nights this person comes to check in to his/her room with some peculiar requests, of which I would rather not divulge for confidentiality purposes. All we know is that in his/her room some mischievous things do happen which involves another person as his/her pawn.
To be able to afford this kind of money by practically living in a hotel day in and day out is decadent and gratuitous, especially considering I look at it from my own perspective wherein financial ruin and struggle become an everyday common reoccurrence. The gist of it is that this person has questionable moral compass and integrity to an outside eye, but the consequences either seem very commendable to one, or dodgy to most.
Fuck it, he/she is an escort. That is the nicer way of masquerading a job description, but it is much preferable than the words prostitute or whore. Two of my colleagues look at him with drowned eyes, prepping a humorous liner or two when his/her back is turned, blows a gesture of sigh, and off they go contesting their manhood through someone else's expense.
I am not a radical, and perhaps never will be. But if I were to do something for this world one day, I need to start somewhere. There are so many things I can do, but I certainly am no Messiah.
Just a boy, wanting to spend eleven minutes of masquerading madness with a flowered lady and a pint of Guinness.