Desk of Desperation - Ch. 2 (August 2024 Story)

“Good morning Ms. Andrews, can we talk for a moment?”

Ah, ffffuuuuck.

Grace looked up from her computer with a fake smile. Mr. Muglia stood there with his usual grim look. She didn’t think the man was ever capable of smiling, even a smirk, or a half-grin. He was somewhere in his 70’s but still looked spry with a full lawn of gray hair, chiseled face, and always dressed nicely. This time he had a tan suit on that threw her in for a surprise. Tan suits were not that common.

He flipped over a notecard on the counter. “One of our guests filled in the customer satisfaction review and wrote in a couple interesting things concerning the front desk.”

Fucking hell. Did that woman already do the survey? It hasn’t even been a full 24 hours. Who even does the survey?

Grace cleared her throat. “Ahem. What seems to be the problem, Mr. Muglia?”

“Well, she enjoyed the service but circled a 4 instead of a 5 when it came to timeliness. She wrote the following note accompanying it: ‘Front desk girl was late and a bit uncouth’. Do you care to explain why that’s the case?” He bore his gaze into her, unflinching and uncompromising.

“I’m not sure why that’s the case. I only used the bathroom for a minute.”

“A minute?” Mr. Muglia scoffed. “Ms. Andrews, I think we both know which of the two sexes spends more time in the bathroom.”

Grace glowered at him for a brief second.

I want to fucking punch his face. 

Nevertheless, she strained a smile and said playfully, “I’ll be sure to talk to my bladder next time.”

A dangerously combative response, but Grace and Mr. Muglia had been sparring with each other more frequently like this in the past couple months. Grace honestly had been looking at other places to work in, expecting the eventual axe.

“You’re a big girl, Ms. Andrews. You can hold it in.”

Grace really wanted to tell him off and speak up for the countless women who suffered various stomach problems, some which were even caused by men. For the sake of her next rent, she bit her tongue and replied, “Yes. I’ll make sure to do so next time.”

“And do you know what she means by this comment about being uncouth?”

Blasting ass in front of her in the bathroom?

She shrugged. “I have no idea. We didn’t talk much. It was a simple check-in like any other.”

Mr. Muglia eyed her cleavage. “Well, maybe cover yourself up a little more next time.”

Grace sighed heavily through her nose, holding her patience by a thin thread. She refused to respond to that, and Mr. Muglia tapped the card on the counter and left, saying, “Have a good day, Ms. Andrews.”

Grace muttered under her breath, “Maybe if you hired a second fucking person to help me…”

To her shock, Mr. Muglia was still within earshot around the corner of the hallway. He poked his head out and said, “Yes, Ms. Andrews?”

Grace panicked. “Oh, nothing. Just thinking of stuff I have to do when I get back home.”

Mr. Muglia lingered for a second longer to stare her down, then left.

“Nice going, Grace,” she muttered to herself. “Almost got yourself fired in the worst way possible.”

Working at The Regal Chateau wasn’t exactly her life goal. After spending her liberal arts college years not really figuring out what to do except get a bachelor’s in history, Grace found herself moving up from service job to service job. She expected one day to be a manager like Mr. Muglia, but a part of her thought that was simply she had taken a step in that river and now she had no choice but to be swept away by the current. At the very least she wasn’t flipping burgers. But despite The Regal Chateau boasting years of service to distinguished guests (there was a picture of JFK on the wall behind her, and another of Paul McCartney and another of Hunter S. Thompson, who looked like he didn’t want to be photographed), there were aspects that had clearly seen better days. Every job out there was suffering to some degree in this insufferable economy. Mr. Muglia had to cut back after the pandemic, and that meant having only one front desk clerk. He always promised to get back to the way things were, but that was two years ago already. Grace knew better than to trust a manager on anything. She joined right before the pandemic hit. Her co-worker was an older black woman, Tisha. She was funny. Grace missed her. She felt uncomfortable thinking about why Mr. Muglia axed Tisha instead of her, despite the fact that Tisha obviously always showed warmth and accommodation to the guests and had five more years of service. Old bastard was probably racist.

A saving grace of working there was the fact that they were uptown in the city. After her shift, Grace liked to wander around and pretend like she could afford staying there. She liked to sit in the lobby, with its lavish 1930’s art deco, and read a book before going home. The restaurant averaged at like $60 a meal. The very least she could afford was one drink at the bar ($12 for a simple cocktail). But that one drink was all she needed to briefly feel like a million bucks.

That was really the only perk – it was a cool rich place.

Grace often felt out of place. Everyone here, guests and employees alike, were so bougie. She never saw businessmen actually use handkerchiefs before. The waiters wore white gloves when serving meals, and they even had porters with the fancy uniform, and a doorman too. She hardly spotted jeans or shorts even in the summer. And meanwhile here was Grace at the front desk munching on Doritos and not being able to hold in a fart.

            She sighed longingly and tapped a pen on the counter. Switching between sitting and standing with nobody else to talk to except guests put a strain on her. She caught up on her reading though. She finally finished Emma, The Three-Body Problem, and a deliciously smutty story that she hid behind a Cosmopolitan magazine. One of the senior porters Harry once noticed she had been holding the same magazine for a week and said, “That must be a REALLY good issue. You’ve been reading it since Monday!”

            The hell was she going to do with her life?

            No matter what she occupied her time with during her shift, everything seemed to inevitably come down to that one question.

            For lunch that day, she went back to basics with a homemade sandwich. Better take it easy on her stomach. She didn’t think about her weakness though after getting a coffee from the hotel cafe to keep her awake midday. Her stomach started grumbling in an unusual way that told her she was going to have a problem soon.

            Shit. They probably used whole milk. I should have asked for almond milk.

            Grace wasn’t really sure if she was considered fully lactose intolerant. She was fine with pizza, funny enough, and even chocolate milk, but a cup of coffee with whole milk took hold of her stomach in a tight grip.

            Mr. Perry, the man in the beige trench coat from earlier, was waiting in the lobby sitting on one of the couches. He was dressed like every other bougie male guest – suit and tie. He seemed to be waiting for someone, zoning out on his phone. 

            Grace leaned over a bit in her seat. She kept her eyes on Mr. Perry. She had done the “one cheek sneak” a thousand times and was a master at it. Just a little lean to the side, lifting up one butt cheek, and silently ripping a long wispy fart. 

            The coffee really started to kick in, as she had snuck three more silent farts in the course of five minutes.

            The front doors opened and a group of nondescript business men entered chattering and laughing. Mr. Perry jumped to his feet with a wry smile and greeted them enthusiastically.

            Grace thanked the sudden clamor in the lobby, because now she dared to fart a little louder, putting less of a strain on her abdomen.

            PRRRRPPP.

            The fart would have been audible only if one were standing right next to her. She wanted to giggle like a five-year old at the feeling of it vibrating her seat. It was a good fart, one that settled her stomach for some time instead of having to quietly string out one silent fart after another. She estimated that maybe in ten more minutes she’d have to rip another one.

            Mr. Perry laughed aloud and she realized his entire entourage was heading to the front desk to check in. She straightened and kept a smile.

            An old gray-hair man went first and said, “Hello there, wow you are SO fine. Isn’t she fine, Bill?”

            Grace fake smiled effortlessly again. She probably could have created a whole workout routine based on strengthening facial muscles. Maybe she could viral on TikTok or something? Never have to work a day in her life again?

            “Name sir?” She went straight to the point.

            All these old bumbling men were there for a conference with Mr. Perry’s firm. They all smelled of expensive cologne that gave off strong whiffs of bourbon and cedar wood. Grace tried hard not to grimace at the intense crowd of boomer masculinity. Eight of the ten men had made open passing comments about her, making her feel uncomfortable.

            All the while, her stomach was growing increasingly impatient with another fart building up. Honestly, the passing comments made her more anxious and frustrated, worsening her stomach. She clacked away at the keyboard checking in every one of those bastards and slapping their key card on the counter.  

            She eyed the bathroom door. She planned to literally stick her butt in their and let it rip and hurry back to the front desk.

            Once she checked in all of them, she thought she was done when Mr. Perry approached her.

            Goddammit what does this guy want now?

            He scratched his chin and looked nervous. He muttered incoherently before saying lowly, “Sorry about them. They’re…much older. They’re not part of my company, thankfully.”

            Grace tilted her head a bit, somewhat surprised. She wasn’t sure what to say. “Oh. Er. It’s…nothing. I’ve dealt with randy old men before.”

            “I’ll tell them off next time. I mean. Well. Hopefully there won’t be a next time.”

            Mr. Perry cleared his throat a bit more. Grace started to think about how cute he was, albeit maybe ten years older than her, but in that suave George Clooney way. She could tell he wanted to say more and was into her. She wasn’t sure if that was a good idea. She nodded and in her customer service voice said, “Is that all, Mr. Perry?”

            He took the hint and nodded. “Yeah.” Before he turned the corner to the elevators, he gave a haphazard goodbye.

            Finally. They’re all gone.

            Grace was about to head for the bathroom when she realized that the lobby had emptied out entirely. The only noise was the distant soft jazz playing over the loudspeakers. She eyed the doorman standing idly by the front door. Then glanced to the other side where the bar and café were in the distance. She peeked her head around the corner of the hallway to the elevators – also empty. Mr. Perry had just left.

            This was definitely not the most graceful thing to do but it was her favorite guilty pleasure. When there was nobody around – not a single soul – even on the phone – she would love to fart out loud at the front desk. Why? She didn’t really know. It was one of those strange deeply personal secrets that nobody shared with anybody else. The opportunity of secretly defiling this old rich place with such debasement made her giggle on the inside.

            She stood back to her post, glanced to make sure the coast was clear yet again, and then lifted her leg a bit to unleash a satisfying roar. She blushed at the thundering sound that dragged on, eventually ending in a high-pitched squeak.

            Yep. Definitely not graceful.