On Saturday night, after dinner at an Italian restaurant and a few glasses of wine, Lauren and I checked into our hotel room. Although the convention we were attending was right across the street from the Radisson, we elected to say at a lesser-quality (i.e. cheaper) hotel around the corner. We checked in a little after 10pm with plans to go get some margaritas at a restaurant across the parking lot. Lauren was finishing up a phone call and I opened the nightstand drawer to get out a notepad.
And do you know what I found in the nightstand drawer?
A bible, a book of Mormon, and a fat stack of paperwork belonging to a recently released convict. As in: A CONVICT WAS STAYING IN OUR HOTEL ROOM BEFORE US. And not just that, but he left behind his FBI number, social security number, personal letters, court paperwork, address, phone number, and photo.
Maybe we overreacted, but Lauren and I decided we wanted a new room. You know? Our convict could have realized that he left his paperwork behind and returned to collect it. And, I don't know, my feeling is that convicts don't always follow normal social protocol. And, therefore, our convict might not go to the front desk to get his paperwork like a law abiding citizen would, but he might very well come knocking at our door. Or he might bust through our window. That's how convicts roll.
We marched down to the front desk, Lauren and I, and requested a new room. But there were (allegedly) no available rooms. So, we got a little demanding.
Us: So, then we'd like to move out of this hotel. And we don't want to pay.
Lady at the front desk: I don't really see what the big deal is.
Us: Well, we could be KILLED.
Lady: We have his address. If something happens, we know where he lives.
Us: An address doesn't help us if we are DEAD.
(More discussion about KILLED and DEAD)
Lady: Fine! If you move out by midnight, we won't charge you.
We said that YES, WE WOULD MOVE OUT, THANK YOU. We packed up our crap, which is one hour was already scattered throughout the room, and lugged it out to our cars and, hallelujah, we were not going to be KILLED and DEAD.
There was only one problem. We didn't really have anywhere else to stay.
We drove over to the Radisson and repeated the story of our convict to everyone we saw. The Radisson didn't have any available rooms for the night. Neither did the nearby Holiday Inn. It was looking like we were going to be chillin' in the lobby until a room became available the following afternoon, but as Lauren pointed out, we wouldn't have slept had we stayed in the convict room, so we might as well not sleep in the lobby of the Radisson with some martinis.
But, then, lo! Somebody we knew had rented a suite for a party and now, at 1 o'clock in the morning, the paid-for suite (and its king-sized sleep number bed) sat empty. And we, being homeless, were invited to move on in. And so we did. And we were not killed or dead. And it was lovely.
That, my friends, is how our convict got us a sweet suite in the Radisson.