Tales from the front desk

I know I promised an angry tirade or two, but my crushing overtime schedule hasn't been quite so bad. I've also been working on some maps for Erul-Iton.

Instead of fury, I offer comedy. But first, I feel I must elaborate a bit.

I sacrifice hours of my life in exchange for currency at an upscale apartment building. My official position is front desk attendant, a job which is part security, part customer service, part records management, part administrative assistant, but mostly involves making these idiots feel special. The simplest way to describe it is to say that my job is to enforce the rules in an environment where everyone thinks the rules don't apply to them.

I'm tempted to just say "the rich" when I complain about the residents, but putting aside my usual complaints about money, class, and power, this is not totally accurate. Many are a special kind of rich. We who work here have a term for it, but I ought not reveal this in such a public forum.

You see, I was raised to value labor. A work ethic and a trade and self-reliance and all that. While my early-to-bed-early-to-rise needs a little work, and my skill with power tools brings shame upon my ancestors, I've learned just what you get when you grow up with absolutely none of that.

Some of these people have so much money, they're completely useless.

Whether it's the result an inborn trait -- too much caviar during pregnancy -- or a learned sense of entitlement, I work with people who never learned how to perform simple tasks. From the operation of the simple lever and chain mechanism inside a toilet tank to the complicated operation of a television remote to working a door that you push to open, they're often rendered helpless by the challenge of remarkably banal activities.

In the future, I'll be using this space to document the foibles and failures of the wealthy whilst performing tasks you and I take for granted. Just look for the "tales from the front desk" tag, and no snitching if you know where I work.