Night Receptionist II - A Place Worthy of Spielberg

I think I could go insane. The bar has early cleared out leaving the first floor echoing with only drunken laughter and occasional “clinking” of empty glasses. I’ve been lucky: I’ve only had to sell a pack of cigarettes so far. Everyone else I’ve spoken to just wants to chat or get his or her key. But…

The clock ticks persistently – quicker than seconds – by my ear. The television is split into four black & white screens, shaky images, security monitors transmitting the nothingness in noisy patterns, jumpy rolls, fleeting glimpses. The fluorescent overhead lights hum constantly, the buzzing interrupted only by the occasional flicker and hushed pop.

This is the stuff horror movies are made of. Scary films where people go crazy or are gruesomely murdered or haunted by bloody-thirsty, long-dead ghosts of the criminally insane.

I’m not scared – or not by the environment, at least. I’m scared of this job, of screwing up. I was scared yesterday when I saw the largest spider of my life crawling freely around the first floor of Chez Michel. It was huge and fuzzy and eight-legged and had a big, puffy body like tarantulas and I almost touched it while picking up Tequila’s dog bowl. Now that was scary.