Hot Josh and the Coat of Many Colors

This week’s story was supposed to be funny.

I had options.

Believe me.

There is no shortage of situations in which I’ve concluded that the universe could improve its customer service.

But then Dolly Parton died.

And somehow complaining about parking spaces, checkout lines, restaurant reservations or somebody putting too much ice in my drink didn’t feel right this week.

So I’m using my entitlement differently.

I’m declaring myself entitled to dedicate this week’s story to Dolly.

Nobody voted on it.

Nobody approved it.

There was no committee.

I’m Hot Josh.

I’m doing it.

And strangely enough, Dolly once taught me something about entitlement.

I didn’t particularly appreciate it at the time.

Years ago, I wanted something.

What it was doesn’t really matter anymore.

That’s probably the first indication of how desperately important it actually wasn’t.

But somebody else had a better version.

Newer.

Nicer.

More expensive.

And naturally, I decided this situation represented a profound injustice.

I didn’t merely want what they had.

I deserved it.

Why?

Excellent question.

I had reasons.

None of them survive cross-examination today.

But at the time, they were magnificent.

I had worked hard.

I had waited.

Other people had nice things.

Therefore, according to the Supreme Court of Josh, I was entitled to an upgrade.

Then Dolly came through the speakers.

“Coat of Many Colors.”

I’d heard it before.

Most people have.

But sometimes you hear a song a hundred times before you actually hear it once.

Dolly sang about a little girl whose mother made her a coat from scraps because that was what the family could afford.

Other children laughed at her.

They saw something cheap.

She saw something made with love.

And suddenly whatever supposedly inadequate thing I had didn’t seem quite so inadequate anymore.

That irritated me.

I was enjoying my outrage.

Now Dolly Parton was interfering with it.

I started thinking about all the things we decide we’re entitled to simply because somebody else has more.

A newer car.

A bigger house.

Better clothes.

A better job.

More money.

More attention.

A different life.

We’re surrounded by people telling us what we’re missing.

Then here comes Dolly, a woman who grew up dirt poor in the mountains of Tennessee, singing that one of the richest things she’d ever owned was a coat sewn together from scraps.

Well, hell.

That’s inconvenient.

Because once you understand that, you have to ask yourself a terrible question:

What do I already have that I’ve been too busy comparing to appreciate?

I didn’t buy the thing I thought I needed.

I kept what I had.

And amazingly, civilization survived.

So did I.

That’s not to say I stopped wanting things.

Please.

This is still Hot Josh.

Let’s maintain some credibility.

I’ve spent years since then believing I deserved better seats, shorter lines, faster service, bigger portions, free upgrades and several policies rewritten specifically because they inconvenienced me.

Dolly wasn’t a miracle worker.

But she planted something.

Perspective.

And Dolly seemed to have a remarkable amount of it.

She became enormously successful without pretending she’d never been poor.

She became glamorous without being embarrassed about where she came from.

She accumulated wealth while spending enormous amounts of it helping other people.

She gave children books.

She helped communities after disasters.

She supported medical research.

And through all of it, she kept talking about that little cabin, that enormous family and that coat made from scraps.

She never seemed ashamed of having once had very little.

Maybe because she understood something many people who have everything never figure out:

Having more and being rich aren’t necessarily the same thing.

Dolly Parton died this week.

And the world feels a little less colorful because of it.

But somewhere tonight, a child is opening a book because of Dolly Parton.

Somebody is singing one of her songs.

Somebody who grew up poor is looking at everything she accomplished and thinking maybe where you start doesn’t determine where you finish.

And somewhere, somebody is hearing “Coat of Many Colors” for the hundredth time.

Maybe tonight will be the first time they actually hear it.

It happened to me.

So there isn’t much of a punchline this week.

Just a thank you.

Thank you, Dolly.

For the songs.

For the laughter.

For the rhinestones.

For never pretending success required forgetting where you came from.

And for occasionally reminding one extremely entitled man that he already had more than he realized.

The lesson?

Hot Josh still believes he’s entitled to plenty.

But Dolly Parton taught him that sometimes the thing you’re convinced isn’t good enough…

is already your coat of many colors.

Rest easy, Dolly.

And thank you for making the world a hell of a lot more colorful while you were here.

Hot Josh and the Appointment Window

My appointment was scheduled for Tuesday.

Between noon and 4:00 p.m.

Not at noon.

Not at 2:00.

Not even “sometime around 3:00.”

Noon to four.

Four hours.

An entire block of human existence.

I called.

“Hi, I have an appointment tomorrow, and I’m trying to find out what time the technician will arrive.”

“Your arrival window is noon to four.”

“Right. I have that part.”

“Okay.”

“I’d like the time.”

“Unfortunately, we can’t provide an exact time.”

“Why?”

“The technician’s schedule can change depending on earlier appointments.”

I understood.

Things happen.

Jobs run long.

Traffic exists.

Customers occasionally explain problems using interpretive dance.

Reasonable.

“So you need me available for four hours?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. What four-hour window should I expect you to be available for me?”

Silence.

“Sir?”

“If I need to call tomorrow, what’s your customer service window?”

“We’re open from eight to six.”

“No. That’s ten hours. I only need four.”

She laughed.

I wasn’t finished.

“I’ll call sometime between eight and noon.”

“You can call anytime we’re open.”

“But I won’t know exactly when.”

“That’s fine.”

“Excellent. We’re making progress.”

Tuesday arrived.

At 11:55 a.m., I prepared.

Coffee.

Laptop.

Phone charger.

Television remote.

I was ready for captivity.

12:30.

Nothing.

1:00.

Nothing.

1:47.

A truck drove slowly down the street.

I stood up.

False alarm.

Delivery van.

At 2:16, my phone rang.

Finally.

“Hi, this is your technician. I’m running a little behind.”

“Define little.”

“I should be there between four and five.”

I looked at the clock.

Then at the appointment confirmation.

Then back at the clock.

“Four to five?”

“Yes.”

“My window ends at four.”

“I know. Sorry about that.”

Interesting.

The window had apparently been opened.

I remained calm.

“So we’re changing the appointment window?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Excellent.”

“Excellent?”

“Yes. I have a change too.”

He hesitated.

“What change?”

“I’ll be home sometime between four and eight.”

Silence.

“I need you to be there when I arrive.”

“I understand.”

“So…”

“But unfortunately, my schedule can change depending on earlier appointments.”

He laughed.

I didn’t.

Well.

Maybe a little.

“Are you going somewhere?”

“No.”

“Then you’ll be home?”

“Probably.”

“Probably?”

“I can provide a four-hour window.”

He laughed again.

“Okay, you got me.”

At 4:38, the doorbell rang.

I opened the door.

The technician stood there with his tool bag.

“Made it.”

I looked at the clock dramatically.

Then at him.

Then back at the clock.

“I wasn’t expecting you until sometime between four and eight.”

He smiled.

“I got lucky.”

I let him in.

The repair took seventeen minutes.

Seventeen.

I had reserved nearly five hours of my day for seventeen minutes of actual activity.

When he finished, he handed me the paperwork.

“Anything else?”

“Yes.”

He looked concerned.

“Next time, can I give your company a four-hour payment window?”

He laughed.

“No.”

“So the timing flexibility only works one direction?”

“Pretty much.”

At least he was honest.

I signed.

He left.

The next morning, I received a survey.

How satisfied were you with your appointment experience?

There were five stars.

I stared at them.

Then noticed something beautiful.

A comment box.

Unlimited characters.

Finally.

A window with no restrictions.

The lesson?

Companies believe a four-hour appointment window is reasonable because schedules are unpredictable.

Hot Josh agrees.

Which is why he’ll be paying his invoice sometime between Tuesday and October.

Hot Josh and the Airport Boarding Group Injustice

My boarding pass said Group 6.

I stared at it.

Six.

There were only eight groups.

This wasn’t boarding.

This was a caste system.

I approached the gate agent.

“Excuse me.”

“How can I help you?”

“I believe there’s been an administrative error.”

She immediately looked concerned.

Good.

I handed her my boarding pass.

She examined it.

“Everything looks fine.”

I pointed.

“Group 6.”

“Yes.”

“So you see it.”

She smiled.

“That’s your boarding group.”

“Why?”

“It depends on your fare, frequent-flyer status, credit card, seat assignment…”

I stopped her.

“None of those categories include personality.”

“No.”

“Interesting.”

She handed the boarding pass back.

I returned to my seat.

This required observation.

Soon the announcement began.

“We’d like to invite our preboarding passengers…”

People stood.

Reasonable.

Then came active-duty military.

Also reasonable.

Then families traveling with small children.

Still reasonable.

Then:

“Group 1 may now board.”

A crowd formed.

I studied them.

Nothing visibly distinguished these people from me.

No crowns.

No medals.

One guy was wearing Crocs.

This was allegedly Group 1 material.

Group 2 boarded.

Then Group 3.

Every time another group entered the jet bridge, I looked at my boarding pass.

Six.

By Group 4, I began wondering if there would still be an airplane when my turn arrived.

Group 5 was called.

I stood.

Not to board.

Strategically.

I moved closer to the line.

The gate agent noticed.

“We’re boarding Group 5 right now.”

“I know.”

“You’re Group 6.”

“I also know that.”

She smiled.

“Then we’ll call you next.”

“I’m positioning.”

“For what?”

“Opportunity.”

She laughed.

Finally:

“We now welcome Group 6.”

I moved instantly.

First person in Group 6.

Victory.

I scanned my boarding pass.

The machine beeped.

Green.

Accepted.

I walked down the jet bridge with the confidence of someone who had successfully overcome a completely manufactured adversity.

Then I entered the airplane.

And discovered something horrifying.

People from Groups 1 through 5 were already there.

Everywhere.

Opening overhead bins.

Rearranging bags.

Standing in the aisle.

Taking seventeen minutes to remove a jacket.

I reached my row.

My seat was 14A.

Window.

Occupied.

A man was sitting in it.

I stopped.

“That’s my seat.”

He looked at his boarding pass.

“Oh, sorry. I’m 14B. I prefer the window. Do you mind?”

I looked at him.

Then at the window.

Then at my boarding pass.

Then back at him.

“I do.”

He moved.

Immediately.

Finally.

A system that worked.

I sat down.

Two minutes later, the Group 8 passengers boarded.

One woman walked past me toward the back of the plane.

She looked completely relaxed.

No frustration.

No concern.

No apparent shame about being Group 8.

I almost admired her.

Then the flight attendant announced that boarding was complete.

I looked around.

Everyone had made it.

Group 1.

Group 4.

Group 6.

Even Group 8.

We were all sitting on the exact same airplane.

It departed at the exact same time for all of us.

I had spent twenty-five minutes emotionally contesting a number that ultimately changed absolutely nothing.

Except one thing.

The overhead bins.

The Group 8 woman tried to put her suitcase above her seat.

Full.

She had to check it.

I looked at the bag safely above me.

There it was.

Vindication.

Small.

Petty.

Beautiful.

The lesson?

Airlines say boarding groups create an orderly process.

Hot Josh says any system that assigns him the number six deserves immediate review.

Because equality is important.

But apparently overhead-bin space is first come, first served.

Hot Josh and the Grocery Cart Deposit

I spent $237.84 on groceries.

This is important.

Because apparently $237.84 buys food.

It does not buy cart retrieval.

I walked out of the grocery store pushing a cart loaded with enough bags to require structural engineering.

I reached my car.

Opened the trunk.

Loaded everything.

Closed the trunk.

Then I looked at the cart.

The cart looked at me.

We had completed our journey together.

I was prepared to say goodbye.

Unfortunately, the nearest cart return was approximately thirty-seven feet away.

Thirty-seven.

I had already walked through the entire store.

Produce.

Bakery.

Dairy.

Frozen foods.

Then back to dairy because I forgot cheese.

Then halfway across the store because apparently light bulbs belong nowhere near anything else a human being buys.

I had done enough.

I gently positioned the cart beside my parking space.

Then I heard a voice.

“Sir, the cart return is right over there.”

I turned.

A store employee was collecting carts.

Perfect.

Problem solved.

“I know.”

He waited.

I waited.

“The cart needs to go in the corral.”

I nodded.

“Excellent. You’re already headed that direction.”

He looked at me.

Then at the cart.

Then back at me.

“It’s only a few feet away.”

“Exactly.”

I smiled.

“Should be easy.”

He wasn’t smiling.

Apparently we’d reached an ideological disagreement.

“Customers are supposed to return their carts.”

I looked toward the building.

“Customers?”

“Yes.”

“The people who just paid you?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

I pointed toward my car.

“I just completed a $237 transaction.”

He nodded cautiously.

“I selected the merchandise.”

“Yes.”

“I transported it through the store.”

“Yes.”

“I used self-checkout.”

That changed things.

Now I had evidence.

“So I scanned the merchandise.”

He knew where this was going.

“I bagged the merchandise.”

He sighed.

“I transported the merchandise to my vehicle.”

“Sir…”

“I loaded the merchandise.”

He rubbed his forehead.

“And now…”

I gestured toward the cart.

“…you’d like me to return company equipment?”

“It’s a shopping cart.”

“Company equipment.”

“It’s thirty-seven feet.”

“You measured it?”

“No.”

“I did.”

I hadn’t.

But confidence often fills gaps left by research.

He grabbed the cart.

“Have a nice day.”

I smiled.

“You too.”

Case closed.

Then he stopped.

Turned around.

And pushed the cart directly toward me.

“For future reference, leaving carts beside cars can damage someone’s vehicle.”

That was annoyingly reasonable.

I looked at the cart.

Then at the surrounding cars.

Then at my own car.

Fine.

He had introduced liability.

I hate when people bring facts into things.

I took the cart.

“I’ll handle it.”

I pushed it toward the corral.

Thirty-seven feet.

Maybe twenty-two.

Distance is subjective when you’re irritated.

I slid the cart into the row.

Done.

Then something caught my attention.

Another cart sat abandoned approximately ten feet away.

Not mine.

Not my responsibility.

I started walking toward my car.

Stopped.

Looked back.

Nobody was around.

I sighed.

I grabbed that cart too.

Pushed it into the corral.

Then another.

By the time I finished, I had returned four carts.

Four.

I had somehow gone from refusing to return one cart to becoming an unpaid parking-lot employee.

The original employee walked past.

“Thanks.”

I pointed at him.

“Don’t get used to this.”

He laughed.

I returned to my car.

Started the engine.

Then I saw a woman finish unloading her groceries two spaces away.

She pushed her empty cart toward the edge of the parking space.

Stopped.

Looked at the cart return.

And started walking toward her car.

Our eyes met.

I pointed toward the corral.

She stared at me.

I stared back.

She sighed.

Then returned her cart.

Unbelievable.

Ten minutes earlier, I would’ve defended her.

Now I was management.

The lesson?

Hot Josh doesn’t believe customers should have to return shopping carts.

Unless Hot Josh has just returned four of them.

Then suddenly there are standards.

Hot Josh and the Drive-Thru Time Limit

I pulled into the drive-thru at 12:16 p.m.

There were three cars ahead of me.

Reasonable.

Efficient.

Civilized.

By 12:22, I reached the menu board.

“Welcome! Go ahead with your order whenever you’re ready.”

Whenever I’m ready.

Important words.

Words I would soon discover meant absolutely nothing.

I hadn’t looked at the menu yet.

Why would I?

That’s what the menu board was for.

“Give me just a minute.”

“No problem!”

Excellent.

I began reviewing my options.

Burger.

Chicken.

Chicken pretending to be a burger.

Burger pretending to be healthier because someone put lettuce on it.

Then I noticed the limited-time menu.

Now we had complications.

“Are you ready to order?”

It had been approximately twenty seconds.

“No.”

“Okay, just let me know!”

I continued reading.

Behind me, someone honked.

I looked in my mirror.

A man in an SUV was gesturing toward the speaker.

Interesting.

Apparently I had acquired a consultant.

I returned to the menu.

“What comes on the number seven?”

The employee explained.

“What about the number nine?”

Another explanation.

“What makes the number twelve deluxe?”

More explanation.

The SUV honked again.

I ignored him.

Major purchasing decisions should not be influenced by outside pressure.

I was about to spend nearly fourteen dollars.

Due diligence matters.

“Can I substitute onion rings?”

“Yes, for an additional charge.”

“How additional?”

“Seventy-nine cents.”

I considered this.

The SUV honked a third time.

Now it was personal.

I leaned slightly out my window and looked back.

He threw both hands into the air.

I gave him a thumbs-up.

He did not return it.

“Sir?”

The employee was still waiting.

“Yes. I’m here.”

“Would you like the onion rings?”

“I haven’t decided.”

Silence.

Finally I made my choice.

“I’ll take the number seven.”

“Okay.”

“But make it large.”

“Sure.”

“With onion rings.”

“Okay.”

“And no tomato.”

“Got it.”

“Actually, keep the tomato.”

“Okay.”

“But put it on the side.”

A pause.

“On the side?”

“Yes.”

The SUV behind me made a sound with its horn I had never heard from a factory-installed automobile.

The employee laughed.

I could hear it through the speaker.

“Anything else?”

I looked at the dessert menu.

The SUV driver saw me looking at the dessert menu.

I know this because his forehead touched his steering wheel.

“Do you still have the seasonal shake?”

“Yes.”

“What size?”

“Small, medium, or large.”

I considered asking for nutritional information.

Even I have limits.

“Medium.”

“Your total is $18.74. Please pull forward.”

Success.

I drove around the building.

At the payment window, the employee was smiling.

“Busy day?” I asked.

“Very.”

I handed her my card.

Behind me, the SUV finally reached the speaker.

I could faintly hear the driver.

“I KNOW WHAT I WANT.”

Aggressive.

But prepared.

I’ll give him that.

The employee handed me my drink.

Then my food.

Then my shake.

I checked the bag.

Fries.

I looked at her.

“I ordered onion rings.”

Her eyes widened.

“Oh! I’m sorry.”

Behind me, the SUV moved approximately six inches closer.

“It’s fine.”

“We can replace them.”

I looked in the mirror.

The driver was watching me.

Waiting.

Hoping.

Praying.

I smiled.

“Yes, please.”

The employee disappeared.

I waited.

Thirty seconds.

Forty-five.

A full minute.

The SUV driver stared into another dimension.

Finally, my onion rings arrived.

“Sorry about that!”

“No problem.”

I placed the bag beside me.

Before leaving, I lowered my window and gave the SUV driver another thumbs-up.

He responded with one finger.

I’m assuming it represented his rating of the restaurant.

One star.

Harsh.

I drove away.

My food was hot.

My order was correct.

And the onion rings were excellent.

The lesson?

A drive-thru may be designed for speed.

But Hot Josh believes accuracy takes time.

Especially when somebody behind him is in a hurry.

Hot Josh and the Self-Checkout Employee Discount

I had eleven items.

The regular checkout lines were ridiculous.

One cashier.

Nine customers.

One shopping cart appeared to contain enough groceries to survive a six-month siege.

Then I saw it.

SELF-CHECKOUT

Six machines.

No waiting.

I walked over.

“Welcome. Please scan your first item.”

I scanned my first item.

Beep.

Then another.

Beep.

Then another.

Beep.

Everything was going beautifully.

Until I realized something.

I was working.

I looked around.

Nobody was scanning these groceries for me.

Nobody was bagging them.

Nobody was accepting my payment.

I was doing all of it.

Interesting.

I scanned another item.

Beep.

Four items.

Four successful transactions.

Zero training.

Frankly, I was outperforming expectations.

Then the machine spoke.

“Place your item in the bagging area.”

I had already done that.

Apparently my new supervisor was a micromanager.

“I did.”

“Please place your item in the bagging area.”

“It’s there.”

“Unexpected item in bagging area.”

Now wait a minute.

First I’m instructed to place the item there.

Then the item becomes unexpected.

This workplace had serious communication problems.

A store employee walked over.

“Everything okay?”

“I’m having some issues with management.”

She looked at the machine.

Then at me.

“What happened?”

“It accused me of introducing an unexpected item into the workplace.”

She pressed a button.

The machine immediately forgave me.

Apparently she was upper management.

I continued scanning.

Milk.

Bread.

Coffee.

Something I absolutely did not remember putting in my cart but apparently wanted badly enough to purchase anyway.

Then I reached the final item.

Beep.

Eleven out of eleven.

Perfect attendance.

No damaged merchandise.

No customer complaints.

I had even brought my own reusable bag.

Employee of the month material.

I pressed PAY.

The total appeared.

I stared at it.

Full price.

That couldn’t be right.

I called the employee back.

“I think there’s a problem.”

She returned.

“Did something not scan?”

“No. Everything scanned beautifully.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Where’s my employee discount?”

She stared at me.

“My what?”

“Employee discount.”

“You’re not an employee.”

I gestured toward the machine.

“Then who just checked me out?”

“You did.”

“Exactly.”

She smiled.

I remained serious.

“I scanned eleven products.”

“Yes.”

“I bagged eleven products.”

“Yes.”

“I operated company equipment.”

“Technically.”

“I resolved a workplace conflict.”

“You argued with the scale.”

“And won.”

She started laughing.

I continued.

“I’ve now performed every function necessary to complete this transaction except stocking the shelves.”

“Would you like an application?”

That was clever.

Dangerously clever.

“No. I’m more of an independent contractor.”

She laughed harder.

I pointed toward the total.

“So what’s the compensation structure?”

“There isn’t one.”

“Breaks?”

“No.”

“Health insurance?”

“No.”

“Retirement match?”

“No.”

“Terrible workplace.”

The customer at the machine beside me was now listening.

He nodded.

I had organized labor surprisingly quickly.

The employee crossed her arms.

“Are you going to pay?”

“Under protest.”

“That’s fine.”

I inserted my card.

The machine processed the payment.

Then came the final insult.

“Please take your receipt.”

I stared at it.

“You’re not even going to hand it to me?”

The employee walked away laughing.

I took the receipt myself.

Another uncompensated task.

As I headed toward the exit, I passed the regular checkout lanes.

A cashier was scanning someone else’s groceries.

Bagging them.

Accepting payment.

Doing everything I had just done.

Except she was getting paid.

I stopped.

Looked at my receipt.

Looked back at self-checkout.

For approximately three seconds, I considered filing a timesheet.

Instead, I left.

Because sometimes you have to know when to walk away from a toxic workplace.

The lesson?

Stores call it self-checkout.

Hot Josh calls it an unpaid internship.

And after eleven flawless scans, he still believes somebody owes him a W-2.

Hot Josh and the Hotel Checkout Extension

Checkout was at 11:00 a.m.

I knew this.

The little card on the desk knew this.

The confirmation email knew this.

Apparently everyone knew this except my body.

At 10:47, I was still in bed.

Not sleeping.

Evaluating.

There is a difference.

At 10:52, I made coffee.

At 10:56, I turned on the television.

At 10:59, I concluded there was absolutely no responsible way I could be out of this room within sixty seconds.

So I called the front desk.

“Good morning. How can I help you?”

“Yes. I’ve encountered a scheduling conflict.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. What’s the issue?”

“Checkout.”

A pause.

“Checkout is at eleven.”

“Exactly.”

Another pause.

I could tell she appreciated how efficiently I had identified the problem.

“Would you like to request a late checkout?”

“I’d like to inform you that one is occurring.”

Silence.

Powerful silence.

“Sir, late checkout is subject to availability.”

“I am available.”

“The room.”

“Oh.”

Apparently the room had its own schedule.

She checked the computer.

“We can extend you until noon.”

I looked at the clock.

11:02.

“That’s only fifty-eight minutes.”

“Yes.”

“What happens at noon?”

“Housekeeping needs to prepare the room for the next guest.”

There it was.

The next guest.

My natural enemy.

“What time are they arriving?”

“Check-in begins at three.”

I sat upright.

“Then we have three hours.”

“No, sir. Housekeeping needs time to clean.”

“How dirty do you think I am?”

She laughed.

I didn’t.

I looked around.

The bed was messy.

There was a towel on the floor.

Two coffee cups occupied the desk.

One decorative pillow had somehow migrated into the bathroom.

Nothing catastrophic.

“I could help.”

“Help?”

“Housekeeping.”

“No.”

That answer came remarkably fast.

“I can make a bed.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“I’ve done it before.”

“I’m sure you have.”

“I have references.”

She was laughing now.

I remained focused.

“What is the latest possible checkout?”

She checked again.

“We could do 12:30, but there would be a $50 late checkout fee.”

Fifty dollars.

For ninety minutes.

I began calculating.

That was approximately fifty-five cents per minute.

Outrageous.

On the other hand…

I was extremely comfortable.

“Done.”

At 12:27, I finally packed my bag.

At 12:29, I walked toward the door.

Then I noticed something.

My coffee wasn’t finished.

Three minutes later, the room phone rang.

I stared at it.

It rang again.

I knew who it was.

They knew who I was.

Nobody needed this confrontation.

I finished my coffee.

At 12:34, I entered the hallway.

A housekeeper stood beside her cart outside my door.

“Sorry,” I said.

She smiled.

“No problem.”

That was suspiciously easy.

I headed downstairs.

At the front desk, the woman from the phone recognized my room number.

“Enjoy your extra ninety minutes?”

“Very much.”

She handed me the receipt.

There it was.

Late Checkout: $50.00

I stared at it.

She waited.

Finally, I nodded.

“Worth it.”

She smiled.

“Have a safe trip.”

As I walked toward the exit, another guest approached the desk.

“What time is checkout?”

“Eleven.”

I stopped.

Turned around.

Our eyes met.

I wanted to warn him.

Tell him there were options.

Tell him eleven wasn’t destiny.

But some journeys must be discovered individually.

So I kept walking.

The lesson?

Hotels believe checkout time is a deadline.

Hot Josh believes it’s the opening position in a negotiation.

And sometimes freedom costs fifty dollars.

Hot Josh and the Restaurant Reservation Emergency

I arrived at the restaurant at 7:03 p.m.

Prime dinner hour.

Saturday night.

The parking lot was full.

The lobby was packed.

Couples stood shoulder to shoulder near the entrance. Families occupied every available bench. One man had reached the stage of hunger where he was staring at the decorative bowl of fake fruit.

I approached the hostess.

“Table for one.”

“Absolutely. Do you have a reservation?”

“No.”

She looked at the tablet.

“We’re looking at about an hour and fifteen minutes.”

I laughed.

She didn’t.

That was concerning.

“An hour and fifteen minutes?”

“Approximately.”

I looked behind me.

There were at least twenty people waiting.

Then I looked through the dining room.

Every table appeared occupied.

Obviously, something had gone terribly wrong with their planning.

“I’m already here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So shouldn’t that move things along?”

She smiled professionally.

“I’m afraid everyone else is also already here.”

Interesting.

I hadn’t considered that.

“How long would the wait be if I were extremely hungry?”

“The same.”

“What if I haven’t eaten since lunch?”

“The same.”

“What if lunch was disappointing?”

Still the same.

This restaurant had absolutely no emergency classification system.

I asked whether they kept a table available for unexpected circumstances.

“We do keep tables available for reservations.”

“Exactly.”

“No, sir.”

Apparently we were using the same words to describe entirely different concepts.

I stepped aside and studied the operation.

Every few minutes, the hostess called a name.

“Johnson, party of four!”

Four people disappeared into the dining room.

“Ramirez, party of two!”

Two more.

This wasn’t a restaurant.

It was an evacuation.

Then she called:

“Josh, party of two!”

My head snapped around.

Josh.

Finally.

Recognition.

I approached confidently.

“Right here.”

A completely different Josh stood up.

The hostess looked at me.

“Are you with his party?”

“No.”

“Then that’s not your reservation.”

I looked at Other Josh.

He looked at me.

For one brief moment, two Joshes stood at the intersection of destiny.

“You could probably fit one more,” I suggested.

Other Josh declined.

Selfish.

Forty minutes passed.

I had now invested too much time to leave.

At fifty minutes, I started watching tables.

Table twelve had finished eating.

Table seven had declined dessert.

Table four was lingering over coffee with absolutely no regard for the people suffering in the lobby.

I considered approaching them.

I decided against it.

Growth.

Finally, after one hour and nine minutes, the hostess called my name.

“Josh, party of one.”

I stood.

“That’s me.”

She smiled.

“Your table is ready.”

I followed her through the restaurant like a victorious general entering liberated territory.

She led me to a small table.

I sat down.

Opened the menu.

And discovered the restaurant had stopped serving the entrée I specifically came there to order.

“Unfortunately, we just sold the last one,” the server explained.

I stared into the distance.

Seventy minutes.

Twenty-three waiting customers.

Two Joshes.

One emotional journey.

Gone.

“Would you like a few minutes to look at the menu?”

I closed it.

“No.”

He looked worried.

“I’ll have the burger.”

“How would you like that cooked?”

“Immediately.”

He laughed.

I didn’t.

Twenty minutes later, the burger arrived.

It was excellent.

Annoyingly excellent.

As I left, I passed the hostess.

“Have a great evening,” she said.

I stopped.

“You should really consider keeping one emergency table available.”

“For what kind of emergency?”

I pointed at myself.

“This.”

She laughed.

I walked out.

The lesson?

Reservations are apparently designed for people who know they’re going to be hungry several days in advance.

Hot Josh considers hunger a developing situation.

And developing situations require flexibility.

Hot Josh and the Declaration of Independence

Here’s the next Weekly Entitlement Story with an Independence Day theme.

Weekly Entitlement Story – July 4, 2026

Hot Josh and the Declaration of Independence

Meta Description

While everyone else celebrates America’s independence with fireworks and cookouts, Hot Josh decides it’s time to declare his own independence—from waiting in line, folding lawn chairs, and following unwritten barbecue etiquette.

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The neighborhood Fourth of July picnic started at noon.

By 11:55, people were already setting up lawn chairs.

Rows of them.

Empty.

Apparently everyone believes placing a folding chair somewhere legally transfers ownership of the surrounding atmosphere.

Interesting concept.

I arrived carrying absolutely nothing.

No cooler.

No side dish.

No folding chair.

Confidence packs surprisingly light.

As I walked through the park, someone pointed toward a table.

“That’s reserved.”

I looked around.

There wasn’t a single person sitting there.

Only a paper plate with a rock on top to keep it from blowing away.

“So… the plate is attending?”

He frowned.

“We’re saving it.”

“For whom?”

“Our family.”

“They seem late.”

I continued walking.

Eventually I found the perfect spot.

Front row.

Excellent view of the fireworks launch area.

Someone hurried over.

“Sorry, that’s where we’re going to sit.”

I looked at the empty grass.

Then at the empty grass next to it.

Then the empty grass beyond that.

“There appears to be a nationwide grass surplus.”

“It’s tradition.”

“So were powdered wigs.”

He didn’t appreciate history as much as I did.

Later, the barbecue line formed.

Thirty people.

One grill.

An astonishing lack of urgency.

I reached the end of the line and asked the man cooking burgers,

“How many burgers have achieved independence so far?”

He laughed.

“About six.”

“I’d like to file for early release.”

“No cutting.”

Reasonable answer.

Unreasonable policy.

As evening approached, families spread blankets across the field like they were claiming new territories.

Children ran everywhere.

Someone tested fireworks three hours early.

A dog expressed its constitutional right to panic.

Finally, darkness arrived.

The first firework exploded overhead.

Everyone looked up.

Beautiful.

Red.

White.

Blue.

Then another.

Then twenty more.

The entire sky celebrated freedom.

I smiled.

Not because of the fireworks.

Because for one glorious evening, nobody cared where anyone parked, who got the best seat, or how long the burger line had been.

Everyone simply watched.

Together.

Even I had to admit…

That was worth waiting for.

The lesson?

Hot Josh believes independence is important.

But every now and then, even independence can take a back seat to a really good fireworks show.

When you’re ready, I’ll generate the matching Hot Josh Independence Day image separately (with no text in the image).

Hot Josh and the Airport Moving Sidewalk

Airports are fascinating.

Thousands of people.

Hundreds of gates.

Millions of bad decisions.

I had plenty of time before my flight, so naturally I chose the moving sidewalk.

Not because I was in a hurry.

Because efficiency deserves to be appreciated.

I stepped onto it with perfect timing.

Hands in my pockets.

Confident stride.

The sidewalk and I were working together.

A beautiful partnership.

Then…

It ended.

Without warning.

I stepped off and looked back.

That couldn’t be right.

Surely there should’ve been more sidewalk.

I walked back to the beginning and rode it again.

Same result.

It stopped.

Again.

A nearby airport employee noticed me.

“Everything okay, sir?”

“I’m evaluating the infrastructure.”

She nodded politely.

“What seems to be the issue?”

“The experience ends too abruptly.”

She looked at the sidewalk.

“It ends where it’s supposed to.”

“But emotionally…”

“…I’m still moving.”

Silence.

The good kind.

The kind that tells you your point landed, even if nobody admits it.

“I think it should loop.”

“Loop?”

“Like an amusement park ride.”

She blinked.

“People could stay on as long as they wanted.”

“I’m not sure that’s the purpose.”

“That’s because you’re thinking like an employee.”

“I’m thinking like a visionary.”

A businessman walked by.

He stepped onto the sidewalk.

Rode it.

Stepped off.

Didn’t complain.

Amateur.

The employee asked,

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Yes.”

I pointed toward the handrail.

“It should move slightly faster than the sidewalk.”

“So you feel like you’re winning.”

She stared at me.

“I’ve… never heard that suggestion.”

“That’s because innovation is lonely.”

She smiled.

“I’ll be sure to pass it along.”

I knew she wouldn’t.

But that’s what people say when they’re overwhelmed by genius.

As I walked toward my gate, I glanced back one last time.

People continued riding the sidewalk exactly once.

Accepting its limitations.

Never questioning its potential.

The lesson?

Most people see a moving sidewalk.

Hot Josh sees untapped opportunity.

And one day…

Someone will build the loop.

For me.