All in a day's work

Despite the pristine reputation of the sports club, our sales directors sometimes fall prey to bad judgment. Tonight, however, that bad judgment manifested itself in heretofore unseen forms of monumental idiocy. Let's say you sell memberships at a health club where the cheapest monthly membership costs around $140 per month. Would you take the word of a homeless woman who says she's really rich and allow her to try out the club for a week?

Apparently my colleagues would.

Adele had been using the club long after her one-week trial expired. She'd been caught doing her laundry in the sink of the women's locker room. She was reprimanded for eating in the women's steam room. Worst of all, she tried pulling a Career Opportunities by lurking after closing and sleeping in the locker room.

All of this happened before my shift. You see, I have no heart and couldn't care less that she's homeless. The health club is just that...a club. It isn't a Jesus house. Go loiter on someone else's five-star property.

So tonight, after being briefed by a co-worker about Adele's activity, I waited for her to enter. When she did, I informed her that her pass had expired and that she'd need to leave the club. She told me she'd left a few belongings in her locker and said in so many mumbled vulgarities that she'd be clearing out her locker after her workout.

First of all, the lockers always have been and always will be the property of the club. They are not the lockers you find at a bus station where folk singers leave dirty sweaters and discarded song lyrics. They are most certainly not overnight lockers.

But I decided that point was a moot point in light of the war brewing between Adele and me. After detecting the simmering condescension and disdain in my voice, she stormed off while proudly displaying her dirty middle finger. I contacted the female locker room attendants to forbid her from entering the facilities, but they were too late.

So we'll cut to where the story gets good. Adele took her sweet time in the locker room and emerged an hour later in the lobby, where I was at the front desk. She looked at me and said, "I heard you making fun of me and laughing about my age with the president of the company."

"First of all, I have no interest in making fun of you," I said. "And second, the 'president' of our company isn't even here. His office is in Santa Monica."

"No, no, I heard you," she said. "And I'm reporting you to the corporate office."

"You may believe whatever you'd like to believe, but I'm not threatened by you," I said, trying to suppress that natural shakiness that comes from such sudden, bizarre confrontation.

So after a round of crazy-as-a-shithouse-rat, Adele finally broke down and SCREAMED, "You are a fucking asshole, you slimy piece of shit!" Members as far back as the free weights could hear. And they all came to the front to watch the lion tamer and his crazy pussy cat.

I told Adele she wasn't allowed to scream obscenities at me and that I was going to call the police. She walked toward the door, but only after telling me that she knew lots of attorneys. I said, in so many kind words, that I didn't give a thorn from Jesus' crown about who she knew and that the threats of a homeless woman carried little weight with me.

The building security guard escorted Adele home (i.e. to the street outside) and reiterated my warm invitation to never set foot on club property again. I felt vindicated. I felt justified. I felt like the star of my own Real World episode as members relayed the story to other members.

And though I seemed frustrated and angry after the incident, only a fool would have believed that I wasn't loving every minute of my brief celebrity in Beverly Hills. Thank you, sales directors, for a nice break from the ebb and flow of sports club tedium.