An iStoryby Michael Croft
On the registration board, I spot a new card, which might mean trouble. Jack Jones, room 211. After I take a big sip of water, he appears, big, luminous, his silver belt buckle shining like a star.
“Hi, Mike, how’s it going?” he says, his smile all over me.
I shudder. Rules are rules. No one comes this close, this fast. Protocol reigns. Maybe a friendly smile on week two, after the rent is slammed down and locked up tight.