By Anthony Nok
[I’m not a writer so excuse the butchery of the English language. This is a true story.]

Dubai is an interesting place but not because of tall buildings and man-made islands. You see, stuff like that doesn’t impress me when you have a blank check, zero regulations and practical slave labor. Build a stone bridge, in the middle of a busy river, in the 1800s. Now that’s impressive. No, this story isn’t about how the architecture, or the retail shops wooed me. You can read that dreck anywhere. Also, I’m #BallinOnABudget so I didn’t partake in anything particularly ballin’. This is a story about a novice traveler in the Middle East and how I stepped into a pretty bizarre situation.

LOCAL LOBBY FRIENDS

Saturday, May 25th 2015. 2:00pm.

I arrive at my accommodations a bit early. I’d have to wait about a half-hour before I’m shown my room. As the front desk takes a photocopy of my passport, this guy in the lobby decides to chat it up with me. He was about 38 years old, tall, white dude, easy on the eyes. Craig was his name. Craig from Long Island. Being from Brooklyn myself, I found it kind of uncanny to run into someone from my state, halfway around the world, no less.

Me: “Here for business or pleasure?”
Craig: “A bit of both.”
Me: “Hey, since you’re also from New York, why don’t you join me and my pals tonight? Take my number!”

He takes out a piece of crumbled up looseleaf and writes my Whatsapp number on it. Although he has two phones in his hands, I respected that he’s a pen and paper guy (such as myself).

Craig: “Sounds great.”
Craig: “Do you like asian chicks?”
Me: “Uh, I don’t discriminate.”
Craig: “I love asian chicks. I met this girl last night and she loved guys named Craig.”
Me: “And your name is Craig. What luck!” (heavy sarcasm)
Craig: “Yea you should meet her also, just tell her your name is Craig.”

Fucking weirdo. I responded with a polite laugh and turned to the concierge immediately regretting inviting him out.

EARLY CHECK-IN WITH PHIL

A young Asian man about 25 years old came down to the lobby to bring me up to the room. I am going to assume he’s Filipino because most of the workers in the country, especially in hotels, are from the Philippines. Some call them “house-boys” but I prefer the term “man-maid”. Anywho, we’ll call him “Phil.”

Phil: “Meester Antoknee?”
Me: “Hey, yea! Is the room ready?”
Phil: “Little beet but bring you up now. I still clean.”
Me: “No problem. I’ll set up the wifi or whatever then head out.”

After all, I wanted to just settle in and meet with my friends. Who cares if the room was still being cleaned? In the elevator on our way up to the room, I’m thinking to myself: “I can deal with a few candy wrappers or some left-out food. How bad could it be?”

THAT IS NOT WINDEX!

I enter the room, put my bags down, take in the views for a sec and JESUS FUCK! Phil is cleaning all the surfaces with toilet cleaner! My mother would have a heart attack but she’s not here so I’m having it for her. There is a certain method to clean certain things. Okay? This is not one of them!

Me: “Uhm… Phil… (in this insincere yet polite tone) Is this what you use all the time to clean? Like kitchen counters and tabletops?”
Phil: “Ya, ya, clean errting.”

Phil’s got me whipped up in a frenzy. I’m “I can’t-ing” right now.

THE SPOT THICKENS

As I text the host to give her a piece of my mind, I notice a red droplet on the white, marble floor.

I look a bit further and behind the main door at the end of the hallway there are sheets, in a sloppy bundle… with blood on them!

TIME-OUT

Now, let’s be real here. We’ve all stayed at hotels, motels and hostels. Every time you open the door to a room, you have NO IDEA what shenanigans the prior guests were up to. Orgies, hot loads everywhere, baby food, pizza grease. Then you got your Filipino man-maids cleaning it all up with toilet cleaner. Either way, you’re none the wiser. Right? I’m a realist. So, I take this mishap with a grain of salt.

THANK GOD FOR SIDEKICKS

**KNOCK KNOCK**

It’s my trusty sidekick (my friend I was meeting out here), Dan. He came from his hotel across the street to greet me so we can get out and explore Dubai.

Me: “You won’t fucking believe this.”
Dan: “What?”
Me: “Phil is cleaning all the surfaces with toilet cleaner!”
Dan: (Looking unphased) “One, I don't know who Phil is. Two, let’s go already. You hungry?”
Me: “I don’t know how you’re just gonna gloss over this toilet cleaner situation. Oh, and to add insult to injury, whoever had the room before me was having period sex.”

I point to the sheets and blood droplet.

Dan: “You’re worried about which cleaning products the house-boy is using to clean? Meanwhile, you have blood on the floor?!?”
Me: “Well, I’m not eating off the floor or sheets. Am I? What if I make a sandwich and get toilet cleaner on my sandwich? Then what, Dan? You fucking eat a sandwich off the counter if it’s no big deal.”

He turns to the bundled-up sheets, pauses and gives the sheets a swift kick… which exposes this:

DUN DUN DUNNNNNNN

Now, I’m no forensic expert but that is A LOT of blood. I’ve had long term relationships where we decided to just… you know… ignore that time of the month and go at it. This wasn’t that. As you can see in the picture, ya got your dry blood, ya got your wet blood, ya got your blood splatters. I’ve seen enough episodes of Dexter to know splatters are a sign of velocity or whatever. It’s science.

Now, either someone gave birth (#HashtagBlessed), we had some sacrificial voodoo shit goin down (#HashtagHaitians) or this is human blood (#HashtagWTFFFFFF).

Dan: “Contact your host and complain. This is nuts.”
Me: “Seriously. Between this and their choice of cleaning products, I’m DEFINITELY getting a discount.”

At this point, I leave the room with Dan to go to his hotel. Figure I put my stuff down somewhere that’s not a possible crime scene, enjoy the day and figure out accommodations later.

My phone rings. I hear a nervous voice on the other end. It’s the property manager. She was calling to apologize, offered a new room in a different tower, and issued a full refund. **harlem shuffle** She tells me another host will check me in around 8pm that night.

You may be thinking “this isn’t funny at all” and “the author is a sick fuck” as you clutch your pearls. Understand a few things. First off, we don’t know what happened so let’s not jump to conclusions. You’re probably the type of person to think someone is dead if they don’t pick up the phone, grandma. Secondly, I only have a few days here and don’t want to be wrapped up in some wacky murder mystery in the Middle East. Can’t cry over spilt blood. Amirite?

SO, WHAT HAD HAPPENED WUZ…

It’s 8pm and I’m waiting to be checked into my new room.

At this point, I’m honestly kind of nervous. What if that was a murder scene and now I’m a witness? Maybe some Emirati prince had some kind of “Eyes Wide Shut” soirée in the room. Maybe one thing lead to another, and this woman insulted his mustache. Maybe he’s sensitive about his mustache because it’s kinda patchy and never grew in like his father’s. Now he’s gonna go full Emirati Prince and decides to clear out the room and carry out an impromptu execution! And I’m next!

They’re gonna walk me into my new room and whack me like Tommy in Goodfellas. My boy Danny will be beating up a random phone booth. Where is he going to find a phone booth? I was a mess.

I considered leaving but it was too late. My new host was there already and we were on our way up the elevator.

Me: (nervously) “So, uh… what happened back there?”
Host: “We don’t know but we called the authorities to investigate.”
Me: “Oh,that’s a relief. Yea… that sure was a lot of blood. Who was in the room before I checked in? Where was he from?”
Host: “He was an American.”
(Pause)
Me: “And his name?”
Host: “Craig. We are currently trying to reach him to figure out what happened.”

HOLY SHIT!

It all made sense. The two phones. The crumpled loose leaf. The casual talk of Asian chicks that like his name? My wacko radar usually works just fine but this nutjob flew right passed by spidey senses. Now I’m wondering if he’s going to plant that piece of paper on his next victim and frame my ass. Maybe he’s some kind of Craigslist killer. His name is Craig! **tin foil hat**

THE TAKEAWAY

I went on to enjoy the rest of my few days in Duabi. I took a camel selfie, bashed some dunes, went clubbing, met a lot of expats (most of the country is made up of expats). The new room was even nicer than the first and I had zero issues. Oh, and I didn’t get whacked.

I never asked anyone what happened before I left nor did I want to know. Better off. But I learned a few things such as: never trust people who write shit down on less than crisp paper. Also, never check-in before the room is completely cleaned; ignorance is bliss.

But here’s the REAL TAKEAWAY:

The real takeaway is also the hero of this story.

No, not me…

Phil the Filipino man-maid.

Consider this: WHAT THE FUCK does Phil see on a daily basis that made him see that bloody scene, sprawled out, shrug it off, roll that shit up in a bundle, toss it in the hallway AND THEN, this crazy bastard, decides to check me in early.

Zero fucks were given on that fateful afternoon in Dubai. He cracked. He slipped up. Maybe he was tired? Yea, tired of all the shit. Sick and tired of being sick and tired! I don’t know.

Whether it be a 20-man bukakkee or a scene from Apocalypto. There is a Phil in every hotel around the world making your room look like that shit never happened.

This goes out to you, Phil. Keep ya head up!… And try Clorox spray.