Why do they always have to go to the basement. That's the lousiest part of my job and the worst part isn't the fact that they feel the need to go to the basement but there's a sign that says "do not enter please and thank you" at the beginning of the stairwell to the basement. One would think that the patrons would have the human decency and consideration to obey the sign’s request but nope. One obviously thought wrong. I was in the middle of finally catching up on my reading. I had spent a whole 2 week's paycheck on this subscription for Men’s Vogue and they’ve just been piling up on my nightstand, unopened and unread. I figured I might as well and I did. I was in the middle reading a pretty riveting article too, on the overrated-ness of q-tips and how we do not give enough value to our earwax until she came along and messed up my good time.
She was noticeably confused, just looking around the basement and not paying me any mind.
“Hey lady!” I called out across the room, lying down in the nice, comfortable and chewed up suede couch that I bought at a bargain from Picasso’s garage sale, a few weeks back. What do the kids say? Finesse. That’s what it was: a finesse. Anyways she acted like she didn’t hear me so I tried again only this time louder. “Miss, you can’t be down here!” Still no reaction. “Oh for the love of Janet Jackson,” I say to myself as I got up to talk to her. I was walking slowly to her but she ran and bumped into me. Oh great, another sleep walker, I thought to myself. “What are you doing in the basement, ma’am?” I asked her. She gave me a weird look and then wondered around. I was worried she was going to crash into a wall or something. Long story short I had to spend an hour snapping her out of it and then took her back up to her room.
Just another day at Winthrop Place.