Motel Story

While driving across country to move to Atlanta, we stopped at a motel for the night just outside of Birmingham, Alabama. Between my mother, my sister, and myself, we picked up just a two bed room and asked for a cot.

We go upstairs, and the lady at the desk calls up to say that she can’t lift the cot up the stairs. It’s too heavy for her. Could we send me down to get the cot.

So… I go downstairs to get the cot. It doesn’t have wheels. Apparently it’s supposed to have wheels, but it was new, and it didn’t have wheels. And, it’s too heavy fo rher to get upstairs.

I go down to get it. I pick it up. It’s light as a feather. Weighs about as much as one of those hammock chairs in a bag.

I take it up, easy enough, and get it inside. I open it. Parts spill out across the floor, including the wheels. They are still in little bags.

Some assembly required.

So, we don’t have tools on us. We do our best to make it work for the night.

My sister gets the cot.

It caves in the night, crashing in the middle where the parts were supposed to hold the whole thing together.

I swear to god we were laughing the whole time about this stupid cot. I mean, how often do you go to stay in a motel and have to move, and assemble, your own furniture?

Ah, service.

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