When you sleep, I stay vigil. When you eat, I sleep. I’m a sort of hospitality vampire, more on the “hosting” side than the “hospital” side, even if they seem to be similar). I’m a moving lantern, I’m a beacon in the storm, I’m an answering machine with a soul, I’m your own personal caretaker. I’m the voice you wake up to and the one that will smile at you when your weary body comes to my presence. Whether my smile is true or a hand me down, you’ll never notice.

My name is Rebeca Concepción and I’m the receptionist with the graveyard shift in a hotel placed squarely in the middle of the desert. A lot of people arrive here because we are placed between two important cities and the highway is a treacherous beast. It’s my job to welcome them and offer them a safe haven so they can continue their journey the day after.

Midnight calls are commonplace. “The Internet doesn’t work”. “Can you send me more bog roll?” “I need an antiacid!” “Any good place for tacos around?” “Do you know where can a guy get some ‘fun’?” “Can you wake me up at 5 am?” “At what time is breakfast served?”But there’s also the odd, interesting call that adds some spice to my otherwise bland job.

Once, the phone rang at the reception and an extremely intoxicated voice told me “I fell in love with you since you gave me the key to my room, please, won’t you do me the honour of spending the night with me? I promise to take you to my town and we can marry in July!”. “Sir, you’re drunk” I said. “I’m not, no, I’m not, really…” he slurred, and then I heard him let go of the speaker and snore. I disconnected him, just in case. Next morning, when he came to check out, I noticed that the poor man was the driver of an eighteen wheeler and you could see in his face he was in no condition to drive. We did not let him go until he’d eaten a plate of chilaquiles and slept it out. We’ve seen enough accidents happen on the nearby highway to see another person waste their life.

In another strange occurrence, a woman, clearly in distress, rang. “My husband beat me up. Please call the Bill”. “Where is your husband, madam?” I asked her. “He’s in the bathtub. With a gaping head wound, gushing. He’s unresponsive. I don’t know what to do.” The police came and when they entered the room, they found no man, only a woman that cried and laughed, sometimes at the same time. There was no husband, she was schizophrenic (and a micromanager for a Telecommunications company).

I’ve been working like this for years and no longer can I remember how sunlight feels nor what a “normal life” feels like. My circadian rhythms are all shot and when I get home, my mother greets me with a “love, have a good day’s sleep” before I crumble in my queen size bed (it’s the little things). Sunlight has never been a good friend, I get this red rash whenever I’m caressed by the treacherous astral body’s radiation. People who know me say that my skin is as white as the ones from the princesses from fairy tales. I just say it is as white as the Moon. I’m alone, not lonely, although I once had a fling with an elevator operator who was fired once our systems were upgraded. I heard through the grapevine he found a job in an old, classy hotel in the capital…

Words: César (@HomoRodans)

Loose translation/embellishment/nosy changes: Sam