The Hotel Card-Key Incident: The Price of Human Convenience

On a recent vacation, a friend of mine and I were about to go for a swim-when he realized that he'd left his swim trunks in his hotel room. To the Drury Inn Hotel we went to procure the coveted swimming garment. All was well until we arrived at his 2^nd floor hotel room. He slid the plastic key into the door, anxiously awaiting the appearance of the little green light. In a flash the light appeared-disappearing just as quickly, the door still tightly locked. He banged on the door, hoping that his brother had returned to the room to grant him entry. But no such luck.

One, two, three more tries he gave it-all with the same disappointing results. A trip to the front desk was in order. We approached the stately structure and waited patiently as a young, nonchalant-looking attendant meandered over to us. My pal explained his conundrum. With a few bleak words, she swiped the card onto an electronic device, reset the key, and sent us back up to the room.

The next few attempts at opening the door yielded the same outcome. He tried alternate variations, sliding the card into and out of the slot from different angles. He jiggled the knob, pulled, pushed, and spat out a few unsavory words. None of these actions made a difference; the door remained tightly locked.

We returned to the front desk and explained that the key was still not working. She surmised that the magnetic strip had been compromised by its position next to a credit card or some other electronic device. This time my friend was awarded a fresh card-key. Alas, he would be allowed entry into the room where the Drury Inn was holding his precious swim trunks hostage.

But all thoughts of crystal clear blue (chlorine-filled) waters would be quickly doused by the sour slap of reality. For this key also would not work. My friend suppressed his anger-induced adrenaline and "calmly" trekked through the lobby, back to the front desk. This time the young lady behind the desk showed us a "test door"-one that she was too happy to prove could be "opened" by the errant hotel key. Unfortunately, this revelation did nothing to bring my friend closer to his desired swimming trunks.

Again, we stomped into the elevator-past the collection of seated patrons-who by this time had found our multiple appearances in the lobby quite amusing. Quite adamantly, my pal informed a new desk clerk that the key was indeed inoperable, and requested that she try to unlock the door herself. This is where things sort of went left. The following diatribe ensued:

Friend: "Not trying to be rude; but none of these keys have worked. Can you just use a regular metal key to open the lock?"

Clerk: "The doors can't be opened with metal keys."

Friend: "But all the doors have metal locks on them too."

Clerk: "We don't have keys for those."

Friend: "Well, could you try to unlock the door, and see if it works?"

Clerk: "If this new key doesn't work, just call the front desk and I'll come up."

Friend: "How can I call you if I can't get into the room?"

Clerk: "Don't you got a cell phone?"

Friend: "Yes. But I don't have the hotel's number on me..."

The now-irritated clerk handed my friend a business card with the hotel's phone number. Back to the room he went to take yet another stab at the insulting locked door. As expected, his attempts were fruitless. He reluctantly called the front desk and waited for {Insert Desk Clerk's Name Here} to arrive and save the day.

Seeing the door remain tightly shut upon slipping the card-key into the slot, she proudly announced that the door battery was dead. She revealed this information with staunch condescension, as if we were somehow responsible for the interior mechanism's failure. Or perhaps it was my buddy's fault that he didn't carry around a spare hotel door electronic lock battery around for good measure. In any event, she left us to procure the Drury Inn's finest maintenance expert. We waited...and waited, until it was revealed that someone was actually inside the room; my friend's roommate/brother had conked out early-and had now responded to his brother's enthusiastic banging on the hotel door.

Like a miracle, the door opened. I stood outside the room awaiting his return with the trunks when all of a sudden the "maintenance" guy comes into the hallway. Only this was no maintenance man; it was a burly police officer with a threatening "Burt Reynolds" kind of vibe. He looked at me sternly and asked what the problem was. Meekly, I tried to explain, feeling sillier by the moment as "Burt Reynolds" surveyed the situation. The crisis was averted-solved by simple, human interaction. But not once was the issue of the faulty door lock addressed.

This rather long anecdote isn't meant to be a smudge on the Drury Inn's reputable record as a decent hotel chain. No, these events are more or less a testament to the extreme dependence that we have on technology to keep us safe, to protect our belongings, and provide us with ease of movement.

Sure, we know that plastic card-keys eliminate the need to change locks when hotel guests have left the building. But since when did a little piece of metal-a real key-become so insulting to hotel staff members? And since when did maneuvering around our own technology become easier than taking the direct (albeit, antiquated) approach to reaching our intended destinations? Yes, the mission was accomplished. The swim trunks were procured. But alas, the entire ordeal took so long to be resolved that the swimming pool had closed.

{AND END SCENE...}