A real estate agent was showing a woman through a beautiful room at the top of a large hotel.
“This way, Mrs. Henley,” the agent said cheerfully, gesturing to a large double door at the end of the corridor. “Welcome to the crown jewel of the property—the penthouse suite.”
They entered a grand, sunlit room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline. Polished hardwood gleamed underfoot, and the air smelled faintly of expensive citrus cleaner.
“As you can see,” the agent continued, launching into his well-practiced spiel, “this wing includes the master bedroom, the luxurious bath, and den.”
He paused for effect, smiling as he turned back to gauge her reaction.
Mrs. Henley squinted. She crossed her arms.
And then, with narrowed eyes and a voice sharpened by years of grading term papers, she asked, “And den what?”
Before setting off on a business trip to Tulsa,
I called the hotel where I’d be staying to see if they had a gym.
The hotel receptionist’s sigh had a tinge of exasperation in it when she answered.
“We have over 300 guests at at this facility,” she said. “Does this ‘Jim’ have a last name?”
An old man went to the college that he went to when he was a youth.
He knocked on room number 3 of the hostel and said, “May I come in. I lived in this very room thirty years ago when I studied in this college.”
A young man opened the door and let him in.
The old man examined the room, fondly remembering everything.
He said, “The same old room, the same old wooden table, the ventilator and the same old window that opens to the garden. And the same old bed.”
When examining it he found a young girl under the bed.
The young man got alarmed and said, “Don’t mistake me. She is my cousin. She dropped her ear ring and is searching for it.”
The old man said, “And the same old story…”
