By Michael Shay

It was almost lunchtime the next day by the time Christian and Ellen reached No. 327. Christian had not mentioned anything to Ellen about night before. He knew she would get mad and that was the last thing he wanted.

Christian was tentative when he rapped on the door. "Housekeeping," he said. No answer; he knocked again.

"They checked out," Ellen said, pointing at her clipboard check-out list.

"Oh," said Christian, relieved that a nettlesome problem was gone. He unlocked the door. It was open no more than a few inches when the stench hit him. "Oh!" he said, turning away, the door banging shut behind him.

"What is it?" Ellen asked.

"Scheiss," barked Christian.

"Scheiss?"

"Shhh," Ellen said. She moved him aside, unlocked the door and barged into the room. She turned back immediately, grabbed a mask from the housekeeping cart and returned inside. Christian put a mask over his face and followed her. She flipped on the lights. At first, he didn't understand what he was seeing. The covers had been stripped from both beds and lay on the floor in crumpled masses. In the middle of each bed was a mound of shit.

"Nazi pigs," Ellen said through her mask.

"I'm reporting this," he said.

"No," said Ellen.

Christian turned to go, but was stopped by what he saw on the large mirror above the desk. Someone had written "FBI Wuz Here" on the mirror. It was written in excrement, now dried and cracked.

"What does that mean?" Ellen asked.

"I'll be right back," Christian said. He heard Ellen yell at him to stop but ignored her on his way down the stairs and across the parking lot. Christian leaped over puddles of melted snow on his way to the hotel tower that rose 20 stories above him. He strode across the lobby, on his way to the office of the housekeeping supervisor, when he saw hotel manager Mr. Smythe waiting by the elevator.

"Mr. Smythe," said Christian, almost yelling," there is something you should see."

"What is it, Mr. Schweigert?" His voice was calm, well-modulated; it matched his plain blue suit and subdued tie.

"Come with me." Christian grabbed Mr. Smythe by the arm and muttered to him and he almost dragged him from the lobby and out into the Utah sunshine.

Mr. Smythe sputtered behind him and finally stopped. "Tell me what this is about," he said, straightening the seams of his suit coat. Christian told him. Mr. Smythe's eyes went wide with surprise. "Piles of sh... human waste, you say? On the beds?" He paused; the sun glinted off his bald spot. "Let's see about this."

They crossed the courtyard and the parking areas quickly, dodging the puddles formed by the sun's warmth. They climbed the stairs and Christian paused at the open door to No. 327 to let Mr. Smythe go in. He followed, expecting the smell of offal to still be hanging in the air. But what he smelled was disinfectant; what he saw was Ellen pulling a flowered spread over one of the beds -- the second one was stripped and awaiting fresh linen. Christian surveyed the rest of the room. The mirror sparkled. In it, he saw the reflection of Mr. Smythe's quizzical expression.

"Ellen," Christian said.

"Mrs. Buckles," said Mr. Smythe, straightening his tie. "What's going on here?" His mouth was a pinched line.

"What do you mean?" she said.

"Ellen," Christian said. "Tell Mr. Smythe about the scheiss on the bed. The shit on the mirror."

Mr. Smythe shifted his feet, clearly uncomfortable with four-letter words.

"I've seen worse, Mr. Smythe," she said.

"Ellen! Those men. Their magazine!"

"I've got work to do." She fluffed the bed's pillows; drew her hand down the bedspread to smooth out any wrinkles.

"I hope next time you drag me away from my work that it's serious." Mr. Smythe turned on his well-polished shoes and left.

Ellen brushed beside a dumfounded Christian as she walked out the door with her cleaning supplies. At the supply cart, she picked up a handful of soap and shampoo and returned to the room. Christian followed her into the bathroom, where, by the sink, she carefully arranged all the hospital's implements of personal hygiene. "Now doesn't that look nice," she said effusively, as if she really meant it.

"Why did you clean it up?" Christian asked.

"The Mud Woman is busy," she said without a trace of irony. She whistled as she left the room, leaving Christian to pick up the trash bags. He put the bags down in the corridor and joined her at the cart. "Help me make the last bed," she said, grabbing a pile of sheets.

Inside, on the other side of the bed, he grasped one end of a sheet and pulled it over the mattress cover. "Why...."

"Don't," said Ellen, tucking in the sheet.

"But..."

"Where do you live, Christian?"

"Frankfurt."

"What country?"

"Germany, but..."

"Is that anywhere near Salt Lake City?"

"No."

She finished her tucks and glared at him. "You're a good kid," she said, her voice losing some of its edginess. "If there's one lesson you take away from your time here, it should be this: MYOB."

"MYOB?"

"Mind Your Own Business," she said slowly.

"Mind Your Own Business," repeated Christian.

"Just remember: MYOB. Repeat it over and over until its imprinted into your brain. Got it?"

"MYOB. Got it."

"Now finish up here and I'll see you at break," she said.

Christian watched her as she rounded the edge of the bed and walked briskly from the room. She did not step lightly and never would, thought Christian, wondering how she would fare in a huge city like Frankfurt.

MYOB. Just do it. Mud woman. Q-T. "MYOB," Christian said out loud. "Mind your own business." There was so much to learn and so little time.