The Devil Is Smooth Like Honey

One never knows when life will give them a beautiful moment that will define their entire existence. It’s that one moment when everything changes on a dime. The key is that you should always be ready for it to happen; expecting it, wanting it, dreaming of it. You can’t worry about tomorrow or overthink yesterday, you must be aware so that you can fully acknowledge it’s smooth and graceful presence. You must smell it, taste it and hold it close to your heart because it’s that memory you will forever replay again and again, during those most difficult times when life seems unbearable and pushes you to the limit. Jorge Hernandez had learned this lesson at an early age. Of course, there was nothing about that particular day indicating he was about to experience a beautiful moment that would change his life; quite the opposite, actually. After getting tied up by a perra at airport security; a very masculine, white woman who attempted to intimidate him, holding him up just long enough to make him late at the car rental section, in turn forcing him to take some piece of shit compact, he was at his limit. Even all of this he could’ve tolerated, had he not arrived at his hotel to learn that the fuckers had overbooked, leaving him with some crap room that was probably designated for the cleaning staff to take a break in rather than the deluxe suite he had originally reserved. “You gotta be fucking kidding me?” Jorge dropped his charming side, no longer presenting his infectious smile, that spark in his eye that usually made women melt had disappeared somewhere between airport security and the car rental, as another woman fucked with his day. Jorge’s warm brown eyes briefly glazed over as he tilted his head down, an upward gaze didn’t hide his aggravation. “I get caught up at fucking security after sitting on a plane all day then at the car rental and now you’re telling me I have to sleep in some broom closet. I booked this suite weeks ago. I have a meeting with business associates in the morning. What the fuck am I supposed to do? Have my meeting in the lounge?” “I understand, Mr. Hernandez,” The young woman behind the counter sympathized, her face a glowing shade of pink as she frantically tapped on the keyboard, while a small crowd of professionally dressed people either waited at the desk or wandered through the lobby, staring at their smartphones like mindless teenagers. Of all the times he had been to this particular hotel, Jorge never saw so many patrons in the lobby. Not that this was his problem. “It looks like your usual deluxe suite was booked but someone changed it,” She continued to look flushed and a quick glance at her name tag revealed she was Angela. Petit, white, young, he guessed her no older than 25, she sincerely seemed confused by what had taken place. “I don’t understand.” Leaning in closer, he managed to muster the last drop of patience he had left as he calmly spoke. “Look, Angela, señorita, I know this isn’t your fault but I gotta have my usual suite. Did anyone check into it yet?” Angela bit her lip and shook her head as if to confide confidential information to him. “Perfect, then I need you to get your manager or supervisor so I can sort this out.” He spoke in the most gentle voice possible. She nodded, reaching for the phone while Jorge took a deep breath and racked his brain. If every hotel in the city was booked, he wasn’t about to do any better if he called around and judging from the professional looking crowd that surrounded him, he certainly wouldn’t find a suite. “Mr. Hernandez?” Angela’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Mr. Gomez will be here shortly.” A smile crept on Jorge’s face. After a long day of white women making his life hell, he was finally going to talk to a man; a Latino man. He felt some relief. “Thank you, Angela, your help is appreciated,” He made eye contact with her and flashed the charming smile that seemed to work with most women; not airport security or the woman at the car rental place, but most women. A tall, older gentleman appeared, his eyes immediately met with Jorge’s as he approached. Wearing a gray suit that barely camouflaged his protruding stomach, he gave a professional, fake smile as he moved closer. Extending his hand, Jorge could smell a hint of cheap aftershave as he leaned forward and the two men shook hands. “Mr. Hernandez?” His smile began to fade immediately after a brief handshake and Jorge was left wondering if he simply came out of his office to confirm what Angela had previously told him. Ignoring the reluctance he sensed, Jorge launched into his plea. “¡Oh, gracias a Dios! Parece que hay cierta confusión….” “Oh, I’m sorry,” The manager immediately put his hand up in the air and Jorge didn’t miss the self-conscious expression on his face as he stepped back. “I don’t speak Spanish.” “Oh?” Jorge asked with a hint of surprise in his voice, raising his eyebrows, he stepped forward and purposely thickened his accent. “I’m surprised with a name like Gomez that you don’t speak Spanish.” “No, unfortunately, I cannot,” He halted, as if about to give further explanation and decided against it. “Would you like to step into my office for a moment so we can take a look at this situation a little more closely. I’m curious what went wrong because I’m aware that you’re a regular guest with us.” “I always come here,” Jorge replied as he pulled his suitcase behind him, noting that the manager didn’t offer to help. It was a bit awkward between the suitcase and the laptop bag slung over his shoulder. He didn’t exactly travel light. “We definitely appreciate your business,” The manager continued as he ushered him into a modest office not far from the reception area and closed the door. The room was dark, a bit dreary with no windows, not what Jorge would’ve expected for such an expensive hotel. “Please have a seat.” Jorge didn’t reply, quietly following instructions, his eyes did a quick scan of the room; family pictures, a telephone, desktop computer, it was sparsely decorated, cluttered with boxes, the room was a mess. Showing fake compassion, Jorge decided to acknowledge this fact, knowing that sometimes it helped to get what he wanted. “Did they move you into a dungeon?” He made a face and glanced around. “No window? Sunlight?” Mr. Gomez took a deep breath and shook his head as he sat behind his desk. “It’s temporary while they paint my office upstairs. I know, it’s hardly ideal.” “Yes, speaking of hardly ideal,” Hernandez decided to get right to the point as he relaxed in the chair, something his body welcomed after a long day. “I booked the deluxe suite weeks ago and I get here after flying in from Mexico and find it’s no longer mine.” “Yes, that is quite unusual,” Gomez replied and immediately started to tap on his keyboard. “I see here there is a Hernandez booked for the suite but not a Jorge.” Cringing at the Spanish pronunciation of his name that sounded like Horhay, he quickly corrected him. “I go by the English pronunciation of my name.” “Oh, really?” Gomez replied and gave another fake smile. “And here I thought I was impressing you with the one Spanish thing I did know.” Thing. Hernandez matched his fake smile and simply nodded. “I prefer the English pronunciation.” “I see here that the other Hernandez hasn’t checked in yet, so I will just change it back to your name,” Gomez commented as if he hadn’t heard Jorge’s last comment; not that he gave a fuck, as long as he got his suite and maybe something complimentary since this fuck up was the final straw of his day. “Not all the information is filled out so perhaps it was a computer glitch of some kind. Very unusual.” Jorge merely nodded, relief filled his body. “Perfecto.” After filling out the proper information and receiving a generous discount on the room, Jorge finally found himself in the familiar suite, the same one he usually stayed in while in Toronto