When I was the Resident
Manager of the Flagship Hotel in Galveston, some of the many problems I had
to put up with were the conventions that we scheduled. Conventions maximize profit: the rooms are
all full, the bars are at capacity, and the restaurants are packed. On the other hand, a convention booked at a
beach hotel is not there to do much work.
The average patron after a week of heavily organized frivolity is
sun-burnt, hung-over, sick, and too broke not to leave for home. This is not a recipe for happy guests.
Some conventions were fun.
Others were an adventure in combat anger management. In 1971, the Veterans of Foreign Wars had a
convention in Houston that was attended by Governor Reagan and Vice-President
Agnew. Thousands of students laid siege
to the hotel, protesting the war. Except
for the rather humorless Secret Service agents, I thought the whole affair was great
fun--in part because I was the only college student at the protest who was getting
paid. But, I was only a lowly security
guard in those days--you have a different view when you are management.
Undoubtedly, one of the worst conventions the Flagship ever
hosted was The Telephone Workers of America.
This group of miserable, angry drunks (What is the collective noun for a
gathering of assholes? A toilet? A hemmorhoid?) held its convention at
Halloween. We had more fist fights—in costume--than a
Golden Glove bout. One drunk in
particular created havoc by making an endless series of obscene phone calls to
every room in the hotel. Somehow, even in
his inebriated state, he had figured out that he could call room-to-room
without the assistance of the hotel operator.
No amount of pleading from his wife and friends could convince the large
and violent drunk to stop making the calls.
Like most of the staff, I was in costume, dressed as Dracula--complete
with a large flowing black cape. I
opened the door to his room with my passkey and stepped in, loudly announcing
in my best Tex-Transylvanian accent, “Good Evening!” As everyone stared at me, wide-eyed and
frozen, I walked over and removed the handset from the drunk’s hand, yanked the
receiver wire out of the wall, and left with the telephone. No one in the room moved or said a word until
I was back in the hall, with the door securely shut behind me. I have always wondered how much the drunk
remembered the next day.
The worst convention—by far—was the Texas Peace Officers
convention. I would not do that
convention again without… hell, I have no idea.
Combat pay? Personal protection
provided by Delta Force? None of that
would be enough. Part of the problem is
that the police do not believe that rules are written for them. As one sheriff put it, “You can’t break the
law when you is the law!” That seemed
to be the general attitude of pretty much everyone at that convention.
There was an enormous amount of drinking, which was followed
by an equal amount of puking, retching, gagging, and upchucking. Most people, when they drink, pass through
familiar stages of inebriation: loud, obnoxious, intelligent, handsome, and
finally, invisible. With the police, it
is angry, screaming, rampaging Cossack, and finally, crack shot.
As I have previously explained, the Flagship was situated on
a pier over the Gulf of Mexico. Every
room was over the water. So, when a
group of East Texas policemen (including quite a few local cops) managed to
force open the door to the roof so they could conduct some target practice at
3:00 am—evidently the Balinese Room a quarter a mile away was the target—other guests
in the hotel couldn’t help being aware of the situation.
“Is that gunfire I hear?” asked every phone call to the
front desk. “Is someone shooting? Should we call the police?”
“The police already know about it.” I answered. “With any luck, any second now they will shoot themselves
and fall off the damn building into the water.”
NO! Of course I didn’t
answer that.
“No!” I actually said.
“That is the sound distant thunder makes when it comes rolling in from
the sea.” I doubt that I was
believed. What I was actually counting
on was that the idiots on the roof were too drunk to reload.
The first night of the convention, the deputy sheriff from
Montgomery County, Texas staggered out of the bar, stumbled and fell. A tiny little Spanish .25 automatic fell out
of his sock, hit the floor, discharged and fell apart as the receiver, slide
and spring all bounced in different directions.
The anemic little toy had punched a neat hole through a nearby window,
just inches above a local police lieutenant’s head.
The lieutenant was a little pissed. As he grabbed the deputy by the neck, he
said, “I hope for your sake that you are a cop.”
The Montgomery County Sheriff was very angry at the cost of
replacing that window. As it turned out,
he got a lot angrier. The hotel had a
parking problem when it was at full capacity.
Because of this, the local fire marshal required us to keep the spaces
directly in front of the hotel’s doors empty at all hours. He had ordered that appropriately marked red
sawhorses block these spaces at all times.
That night, the sheriff came back to the hotel late, and not
finding a close parking space, had moved the sawhorses, parked his squad car,
and then moved the sawhorses back in place.
By the time he had finished this chore, the lobby bellman had alerted
me, and I was waiting at the front door.
I was very polite, he was very drunk, and found my request to move the
car hilarious. He didn’t even answer me
as he got in the elevator and went to his room.
I didn’t live in Montgomery County, and didn’t want to. I did live on Galveston Island, and did know
what the fire marshal would do if he found that fire lane blocked. I doubt the sheriff had reached his room
before I had called the tow truck. The
wrecker driver thought the whole affair sidesplitting. The sheriff’s car had rotating lights, an
official paint job, radios, and a shotgun in the rack between the seats. And I had it towed away.
The next morning, the lobby was full of policemen from all
over East Texas, each of them laughing his ass off while waiting for the sheriff
to come to the breakfast the convention was hosting. When the sheriff finally stepped out of the
elevator, the lobby was quiet for a few seconds, then the gathered cops started
laughing. The sheriff, realizing that he
was the object of the gathered mirth, looked out the glass doors and figured
out the joke pretty quickly.
Furious, he marched over to me. “Where the hell is my car, boy!” he
thundered.
I told him the car had been towed, and gave him a business
card from the wrecker company.
“You better get my car back, boy!” he yelled. Every word was punctuated by him stabbing me
in the chest with his finger, his red face just inches from mine. “You better get it back now, boy!”
“No sir.” I answered.
The gathered police were roaring with laughter. I was wondering if any of them would try to
stop the sheriff if he was to draw his gun and try to shoot me. Or would they just laugh harder?
“YES YOU WILL!” By
now, the sheriff was screaming.
“No sir.”
“That’s an official po-lice
car,” shrieked the sheriff. “Just what the
hell were you thinking, boy?”
By now, the finger poking was getting painful, but I had an
answer. Calmly, but loud enough for
every law enforcement official in the room to hear me, I said, “I thought it
made up for every parking ticket I ever got.”
The last thing that sheriff said to me as the room erupted
in laughter was very quiet, and very close to my ear. “If I ever catch you in Montgomery County,
boy, you’re a dead man.”
That was almost 30 years ago. I know exactly where Montgomery County, Texas
is. I still haven’t been there.
Texas peace officers are a special breed. I was driving across Texas on my pre-deployment leave in my 1994 Camry on the back I had a nice bumper sticker that was dark blue and silver blue writing that said "bad cop, no doughnut". I enjoyed the sticker, and even had a motorcycle cop in San Diego comment on how the silver blue almost matched the paint of the car itself (as he handed me a ticket laughing) and he asked where he could get one, but I digress, this sheriff in the middle of nowhere Texas sees this sticker walks up to me and says (i will try to get the accent right) "naow booy, here in Texas we respek our officers of the law" to which I said "excuse me?" He pointed out my sticker, and demanded that I remove it (only after checking my id) to which he said "youz a Morine huh?" He continued "Well I'wz in the Army in Viet-nawm and I'wz was taught to respek authoritai" he demanded that I remove this sticker, to which I said no. He followed me all the way across his county, and west Texas has some big Damn counties
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