I quit all twenty-three jobs I’ve had since I was eighteen. To say that prospective employers saw me as unreliable is accurate, and every interview gets harder and harder to try to explain why, as a twenty two year old, that is the case. With excuses from lack of flexibility with my scheduling to disagreements with management, I am an absolute example of a terrible employee as far as hiring purposes go. That’s why, when a limousine pulled up to my house and the portly old man inside knocked on my parent’s door to invite me to work at the world’s most prestigious hotel, both my parents and myself were initially convinced this was some sort of elaborate hoax.
However, it was not.
Let’s pull back to just a few days earlier. I just bombed my most recent interview with a small-time furniture store when I was returning home. At the crosswalk of a particularly busy intersection, I stood still, staring down at my phone while periodically looking up to see if we were given the clear to start walking across. At some point, I had gotten a bit too engrossed in the article I was reading to immediately notice that the walk sign had lit up. It was only thanks to the few people walking by me that I realized and started moving ahead.
That was when I noticed, far down the road, a car barreling forward at high speed. If I stopped where I was on the road and waited I would have been absolutely fine. However, there were two people ahead of me. A woman in a suit trotted far ahead of us, and she would easily make it to the other side before the car got close. However, the second person was the old man, face buried into the newspaper he held, walking so slow even I would have eventually overtaken him if I just continued moving normally.
Without even thinking, I had broken into a quick sprint, grabbing the old man by the back of the collar and pulling him back, just as the car zoomed by. I was barely an inch away from having my head plastered against the side. It was a miracle that no one got hurt as the car zoomed through the intersection, a chorus of surprised honks echoing from the cars with the right-of-way. The elderly man was sputtering, overwhelmed by the sudden jerk of me pulling back along with the cacophony of car horns. The business woman had made it safely across the street and seemed just as stunned as the old man, not realizing just how close that car had been to hitting her.
I let out a sigh, whether out of relief or annoyance I couldn’t tell you, before looking down at the old man. “You gotta pay attention, old man. The world ain’t gonna stop for you.” The old man and I continued across the crosswalk. He was red in the face, tripping over his words attempting to thank me. “Look, don’t worry about it…” I only did what anyone would do. I just didn’t want to see you get splattered. A few responses like this came to mind, but I had remained silent a bit too long so I felt it was better to keep it simple. “Be careful out there.”
As I had started to head home, the old man shouted out after me, asking for my name. It was a corny thing to do, I thought, but I figured I’d indulge him and tell him. “Sagramore Matthews. Yes, that’s my real name.” I hadn’t expected it would lead to the old man being able to find out where I live from my name alone.
That brings us back to the present, three days later. I had been inside looking at classified ads and scrolling through a job finder app on my phone when my father who had been raking leaves practically kicked in the door, pale in the face. My mother, who was in the kitchen, came out to see what all the noise was when my dad had finally spat out what he wanted to say: “I… Sags, there’s a limousine outside for you…”
A few minutes later, the old man sat in our living room in a single chair set across from our couch. I sat between my father and my mother. The old man introduced himself as ‘Barry Babel.’ According to my father, he was one of the most wealthy people on the planet. A famous philanthropist who got his wealth through stock trading, Barry had eventually tasked himself thirty years ago with building the transatlantic bridge connecting the United States with Europe dubbed Babel.
“So what does a rich guy like you want with Sags- Ow!” My mom reached over and pinched my dad for being rude. Barry merely chuckled before answering.
“Yesterday, your son saved my life.” A bit of an over the top way of putting it in my opinion. My parents both looked at me incredulously. “You see, I had finished a meeting with some shareholders and had decided to take a small walk to stretch my legs around a few blocks when your son had pulled me back just before a car nearly barreled over me. If not for him, I doubt I would’ve even been identifiable!” Barry laughed at his dark joke. “So I want to repay your heroism.”
“It’s really not nes- Ow!” My mother began to say before my dad pinched her. She glared at him, so I decided to speak up for myself.
“And what did you have in mind?” I asked.
“After that day, I did a bit of research on you. You have a very uncommon name, you know.” I was very aware of that fact. All throughout elementary school I had to deal with the unfortunate nickname of “Saggy Mats” by my peers. “You’ve had quite an interesting life. You were the star of your track team in high school, with scholarships abound, but then you got injured, correct?” I merely nodded. “That injury forced you to undergo an expensive surgery and the following physical therapy resulted in you ultimately losing said scholarships since you weren’t fully recovered until well after your senior year. Since then you’ve been working as much as possible to help your parent’s pay off your medical bills.”
I felt myself grow irritated at the mention of my high school failure. Regardless, Barry continued. “Despite that, you continuously hopped jobs, one after another. Reasons for quitting are listed as, among other things, ‘too low pay,’ ‘disagreements with management,’ or ‘unflexible scheduling.’ Most people would simply accuse you of being lazy and simply not wanting to work.”
“Yeah, sure. I’m such a deadbeat, then. Did you come all this way to- Ow!” Both of my parents pinched me on the arm for being rude, but that only made my scowl deepen. Barry put an apologetic hand up. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to appear as if I was making fun of you. Rather, I admire the determination you have to find the right spot.” Barry shuffled through a few pages, looking them over. “Despite your dissatisfaction, you endlessly send out resumes and applications, always looking to replace your last job. That’s not a sign of someone who’s lazy.” I didn’t respond to him so he continued. “I want to pay you back for saving my life. Come work for me, Sagramore.”
My family and I stared at him dumbfounded. I hadn’t expected this, rather I felt dissatisfied. “Look, if you’re that grateful for me saving you, I think I’d rather you just pay out my medical bill.” I did my best to ignore the burning pain in my arm as my parents pinched me. “Besides, I’ve only got a high school education. I don’t think someone of your power is in need of someone so low on the totem pole.”
“That’s not true at all. As a matter of fact, what I’d like to hire you for isn’t something that requires any exceptional skills at all. Are you familiar with the Bridge of Babel?” I told him I was. “Then, you are aware that due to the sheer length of the bridge, it takes about two days to pass by rail. That’s why I had a hotel built on the midsection of the bridge, for people who were weary from the travel to have a chance at relaxation and rest before continuing onwards with their journey. As it happens the primary restaurant in the hotel is in need of some people to bus some tables.”
“You want to hire me as a busboy?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Yes!” Barry sounded so chipper about it. He went on to explain the benefits such as medical insurance, free lodging during my work there as well as free access to the various amenities available to the hotel. On top of that, the pay was above minimum wage and I’d still get tips. Still, something about the whole situation left me feeling dissatisfied. A bus boy? While sure, I haven’t done that specific job, I have waited tables and worked in the kitchen before. Restaurant work was too down to earth to leave me satisfied. All I wanted to do after a shift was sit in my car and cry.
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“So you’re actually offering this kinda job to our son?” My mom seemed like she was close to tears. My dad had his hands cupped over his mouth, his eyes focused on the ground. He was probably trying to calculate what my monthly salary would be. Their excitement left a seed of guilt in my mind for my overall reluctance to the idea.
“Ma’am. Trust me when I say I wouldn’t spend time out of my day to do this if I wasn’t serious. I genuinely believe your son has a place at my company.” Barry looks over at me and sees the uncertainty on my face. He smiles softly as he speaks. “You told me that if I wanted to truly thank you, I should simply pay off your medical bill. However, while I think that is a symptom of your situation, I do not believe it is the root. I would like to offer you this opportunity.” Barry pulled out a small stack of papers, sliding them over to me. “A seasonal contract. Work in earnest for me for six months, and at the end of it I will pay off your medical fees, and I will reimburse your parents for the amounts they’ve already put in.”
I came to the conclusion that I hated this man. He came into my home with no warning and offered a deal that I would be an absolute fool to refuse. I looked over the contract, doing my best to scan it for any pitfalls or loopholes he could use, though I doubt I’d be able to spot any if there were. It would lock me into working for him for six months. Six months I’d have to degrade myself by wiping down tables for a bunch of people who think they’re so much better than me, living amongst strangers from all sorts of places. I just had to suck it up for six months. Six months and the baggage of my injury would get lifted off my shoulders. I could quit then continue looking for a job that’s actually worth my time.
With those thoughts in mind, I reluctantly signed my life away. Barry would say ‘Excellent’ and instruct me to get my affairs in order by next Wednesday. I was to board the intercontinental train (All fees covered by Barry of course) and ride off to the hotel. The Hotel Babel.
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The Hotel Babel was a massive, multi-level building positioned in the middle of the Babel Bridge. For many, it represented a landmark of the halfway point of their journey across the sea. The conductor of the train went on and on about the different materials used and how the construction of the bridge and the building were highlights of modern human ingenuity but I zoned out through the explanation, instead focusing my attention on the employee manual that had been sent to me the day prior to my departure.
The first chunk of the book was the typical employer phooey, talking about workplace rights, policy and all of the necessary legal mumbo jumbo they had to explain. The section after that listed off the different portions of the hotel. The highest floors were dedicated to providing lodgings to the guests. There were enough lodgings to supply rooms to two trains worth of customers as well as a number of extra rooms for maintenance and contractor workers who came in from the mainland to do repairs. The bottom few floors of that section was dedicated to housing the various onsite staff.
The second half of the hotel was essentially dedicated to providing a resort-like experience to the clients. Indoor pools, a couple of weight rooms and even an entire section of a floor dedicated to providing an indoor gymnasium complete with a track circling room. There was a water park completely separated from the indoor pools as well! Other amenities included massage parlors, salons, a daycare and various restaurants that appealed to different tastes. From simple burgers to a number of different asian cuisines, there was a restaurant for people from all walks of life. I took particular note of the hotel’s prized ‘Rose des Passions,’ the high dining restaurant I would be losing the next six months of my life to.
The restaurant was on the third floor of the hotel, spanning almost half of the floorplan. The manual showed that a large spacious kitchen was positioned to the north of the restaurant, with an open view from the kitchen into the dining room. From what I gathered the dining room was separated into four blocks, the area closest to the kitchen, the section furthest from the kitchen, the entrance and the bar area. Much like the previous jobs I’ve worked, each waiter and busser would be assigned a section to deal with, though considering the size, I assumed that there would be more than one person assigned to each area.
The manual included proper procedure on how to quickly and properly clean tables, just general information that anyone with a working brain cell could figure out. The end of the book talked some crap about how we should try to get along and treat one another as family, but I simply closed the manual and turned my attention to staring out at the deep blue ocean that stretched endlessly from the train’s window.
Eventually, as the sun began to set, the train pulled to a stop at our destination. All of the passengers began to talk excitedly amongst themselves as they noisily grabbed their luggage. I grabbed my two carry-on bags and slowly made my way into the shuffling mass and made my way off of the train.
The first thing that struck me was the intense smell of salt in the air. To be expected I suppose considering we were smack dab in the center of the ocean, but I still felt myself choke up a bit and my eyes water. The hotel was just as large as it’s picture, scraping the sky with it’s height. In a sense, it lived up to its namesake; it seemed as if it reached up towards heaven itself! The building was metal but painted with warm browns, giving it the appearance of a monolith sticking out of the ocean. Despite its ominous look, none of the other passengers of the train paid it any mind, much more content to push past one another to enter the hotel lobby first. Was I the odd one, here?
Regardless, I followed along with the crowd, entering into the large lobby of the Hotel Babel. The lobby was brightly lit with warm white carpet inviting everyone in. Compared to its ominous exterior, the inside gave a much more inviting feeling. There were three hallways connected to the lobby. Two were dedicated to a number of elevators and stairwells to allow the guests free roaming, whereas the third hallway was located behind the wide circular service desk against the far end of the room. Manning the service desk, there were at least ten clerks standing in front of computers, all shouting and organizing the crowd, some speaking in different languages to assist those who needed it. I had to admit, their ability to reign in the excited crowd and organize them was impressive. I stayed in the center lane, one dedicated to checking in English primary speakers.
The wait was excruciatingly boring. Any attempts to tide myself over with my thoughts were always disrupted by someone bumping into me or a sudden piercing shout of another ornery guest. The line slowly shuffled along and I arrived at the desk after about forty-five minutes in line. The person manning the desk had shaggy hair, though there was a certain style to how it fell. He was probably a couple years older than me and wore brown slacks and a matching vest over a white collared shirt. “Hello, welcome to Hotel Babel. May I have the name for the check in?” He tapped on the computer. I told him my name and after he tapped it in he nodded and pulled out a small key card. As he placed it into the machine, he welcomed me. “Sagramore, huh? Well, then. Welcome to the Hotel Babel. Where do they have you working?”
“I’ll be in the restaurant, Rose er whatever.” I rubbed the back of my head. I didn’t care much for small talk with strangers. Luckily, he didn’t keep me for much longer. He handed me the key card and gave me instructions on how to get to my room. With a final welcome, he let me go on my way.
The elevator was just as pristine as the rest of the hotel. I suppose it was generally easy to keep clean, considering the only way here was by the train, allowing the staff to tidy things in advance of guest arrival. I considered taking the elevator, but seeing people stuffing themselves shoulder to shoulder, I decided to drag my luggage up the stairway instead.
The stairways were well lit, but much more dreary compared to the bright lobby outside. Forcing myself up the metal stairs, I began my trek up. All the way to floor thirty-two. By floor five, my arms grew sore, and by floor ten my legs followed. When I reached floor twenty, I had to call it quits and take a seat to rest. Sweat was pouring down my face. Using my shirt to dry myself, I cursed Barry, that rich jerk, for basically strong-arming me into working under him. “Next time, I’ll let you get hit by a car, dick.” I pushed myself back to my feet after venting and pushed up the next flight of stairs. I felt nauseous. Even if my life was in the shitter, at least it was familiar. What the hell am I even doing here? If I end up getting fired, I’ll just be plopped back to where I was, but with barely anything to show for it. A bit of experience and the name of Babel on my resume.
In spite of my loathing of the situation, or perhaps because of it, I managed to climb the remaining twelve flights. Next time, I’ll just cram in the elevator. Using my body to force open the door, I enter a long corridor with a red rug and yellow wallpaper with a floral pattern. Nearest to the stairwell was room 004. My room was 032. “Just a bit more…” I sighed aloud as I pushed forward, now dragging my bags across the ground.
I passed room by room, maneuvering my way down the hall. I just passed room 020 when the door to one of the rooms ahead of me suddenly opened. I stepped aside, making room for the person exiting. She was a small woman, nearly six inches shorter than me, wearing black pants and a pure white chef’s coat. Her hair was black, chopped short, and her eyes a pale blue. I watched as she pulled out a long stick, using it to poke around before she started walking.
I decided to stay silent until she touched my bag and came to a stop in front of me. She turned her head, looking in my direction. She didn’t look directly at me. I ended up speaking up before she started doing something like reaching out. “Oh, sorry. Excuse me.”
Her eyebrows flare in surprise. Slowly she speaks in a soft, almost quiet voice. “A new voice. Are you new staff?” Despite her gentle tone, her words carried a quality of confidence, almost as if she had everything figured out.
“Yes… I just got in today.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, I am Sonya Kravets.” She held out a small hand towards me. I regarded it for a moment. Thrown off by her kindness, it takes a moment for me to respond in kind and give her hand a firm shake.
“Sagramore Matthews.”
“Sagramore? Oh, so you are him....” She giggled to herself as if remembering a joke. “Well, then, it was a pleasure to meet you, Mister Matthews. I shall see you around.”
With nothing more than a wave, she turned her head and continued down the hall to the elevator, the tapping of her stick echoing across the ground as she walked. A blind chef? Exasperated, I continued to my room. Sticking my key card into the plastic reader, I pushed open my door, tossing my luggage into the corner of the room. I didn’t even bother turning on the light to find my way around. I was too exhausted from everything to care. Instead, I felt my way around the room, finding the softest thing I could before throwing myself into it and passing out.