Lessons from Mr. Potato Head

 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Malcom, my boss, knocks on the door of the room I’m cleaning.

“You just about finished with this one?”, he asks as he leans on the door handle.

I look up from the table I’m dusting and try to hide the look of disappointment on my face. I’d scrubbed like a madwoman today in the hopes that I could leave early. Instead, I’m certain that more rooms are being added to my list.

“Tim’s taking too long. I’m gonna split up the rest of his rooms”, he adds before I can respond.

I toss the dust rag over my shoulder and trudge after him. At fifteen, I didn’t expect my first job to be glamorous, but cleaning rooms at the local hotel every weekend has been more than I bargained for; I’m becoming increasingly convinced that human beings are the grossest species on earth.

“I’m only gonna give you one because well…”, he pauses. “Just follow me”.

I glare suspiciously at his back as I follow him down the hallway. I turn to my left and catch a glimpse out the window that overlooks the back of the hotel. I spot Tim leaning against the dumpsters, on his sixth smoke break of the day. Judging by the serene look on his face, I suspect there’s a little something extra tucked into his usual pack of Marlboro Reds.

Malcolm stops abruptly in front of a room in the middle of the hallway. Its door is propped open and before I even cross the threshold, a sour odor hits my nose.

“What is that smell?”, I asked, my question muffled as I grab the collar of my light gray polo and tuck it up over my nose.

“We had a guest…erm… get sick. And yeah. Watch your step” he instructs as he makes his way into the room.

I let my shirt drop from my face and take a deep breath before entering. I’m trying very hard not to breathe through my nose, the sour smell permeating every inch of the room. I quickly discover the source of the odor.

Potatoes.

Specifically, regurgitated breakfast potatoes. They’re everywhere, like little land mines spread throughout the entire floor of the king suite. Potatoes on the floor, the couch, the table, the sink, the counters. I make my way into the bathroom, pull back the shower curtain and find the bottom of the bathtub covered with them too.

“Why are there so many potatoes?”, I shriek, horrified at the thought of having to scoop all of them out of there.

“I guess he liked the free continental breakfast”, Malcom jokes as he looks over my shoulder.

He senses I am not amused and cuts his laughter short.

“Ah well, just use whatever you need to…grab a bunch of towels or whatever”, he says, scratching the back of his head and backing towards the door.

“Oh, and I know it looks like he didn’t sleep in the bed, but we should still change the sheets with this one”, he tosses over his shoulder before quickly darting out into the hallway.

I stomp out of the room to grab some gloves off the cleaning cart and silently curse Tim who gets to spend the afternoon dancing with Mary Jane while I clean up after the likes of Mr. Potato Head.

I head back into the room and steel myself as I get ready to tackle the tub. I scoop as many potatoes as I can into the small bathroom garbage, trying not to gag, and quickly run out into the hallway to dump it into the trash. I make several trips back and forth, unable to fathom how one human could possibly eat so many potatoes.

To try and distract myself from the smell, I concoct stories in my mind of what really happened to Mr. Potato Head, imagining him sitting in the breakfast area of the hotel with several heaping plates surrounding him, wolfing down bite after bite. He tells the hotel staff that he’s a competitive eater, practicing for a competition the next town over.

In the evening, he makes his way downtown to have dinner and stops at a bar. One of the locals recognizes him and offers to buy him a shot, maybe a whiskey. Round after round they go, until the room begins to spin. He catches a ride home from some of his new friends and stumbles his way back to his room, passing out cold on the couch, the potatoes churning in his stomach. I’ll spare you the details. We all know what happened next.

I peer into the bedroom and stare at the untouched bed.

“Make sure you change the sheets with this one…”, I hear Malcom’s voice echo in my head.

The bedroom is the only part that is untouched by potato. It appears he never set foot near the bed – a great mystery. I pull back the comforter and peer at the perfectly clean sheets still tucked into the mattress. My entire body aches – my neck, my feet, my back. It’s been at least an hour of scrubbing on my hands and knees, trying to rid the room of every last potato. My head pulses from the copious amounts of floral air freshener I’ve used to try and cover up the sour smell that lingers throughout the room.

I gently set the comforter back down and run my hand down the length of the bed to smooth it out. I peek into the hallway to see if Malcom is close by. Seeing that the coast is clear, I run back to smooth the comforter again, take one last survey of the room, and quickly close the door behind me.

I keep my head down and push my cart down the hall, checking guiltily over my shoulder as I ease the cart into the elevator. My heart thunders in my chest as I punch out for the day, half expecting Malcom to angrily burst into the breakroom, a pile of dirty sheets in his arms.

I practically run out the door and make my way across the parking lot where my dad sits waiting to pick me up in our red Grand Am.

“How was it?”, he asks.

“Gross!”, I respond, as I buckle my seatbelt and describe my day.

My dad laughs as I fill him in on the scene in Mr. Potato Head’s room. I leave out the small detail about the sheets.

“Well, Ri. It’s a job. Just think of all the things you learned today”, he jokes.

I snort in response and lean back against the headrest as we make our way home. 

Perhaps he’s right. Maybe there’s a lesson or two to be learned from Mr. Potato Head.

Whiskey and potatoes don’t mix. 

Sometimes it's wise to skip the free continental breakfast. 

Occasionally, good people can make bad decisions. 

Oh... and never trust hotel sheets.