As a traveling convention planner, I start many hotels over the course of a year. I spend

about a week per trip and an all expense played suite of my choosing, doing nothing but

studying the location and interviewing the staff and hand to get a feel for the hotel

and its traffic. I then spend another week organising the event and ensuring my client

is satisfied with my plans. There's a little more to it, but that's the overall

gist of the job. If you can get over the constant jet lag, it's not a bad gig.

In all of my years of planning conventions, I must have stayed at over a hundred different

hotels. With similar floor puns, architecture and staff training, they all blend together

in my mind, but one in particular will always stay with me. The Grove would in, located

just on the outskirts of Cape Cod. That one kept me up for many nights, even after

I left. And first, my trip to Grove would in seemed

mostly forgettable. The convention I was planning was a glorified book club meeting for a group

of older women and some local authors. The service, food and layout of the hotel were

average and unexciting. The only thing I liked about the place was Clara, the desk clerk.

I'd have even asked her out on a date and she'd not be married. I had planned boring

conventions before and had been to many so far hotels, but this trip was remarkably

mind-numbing and I couldn't wait to be done with it.

One night at the end, after a long day of mundane event planning, I flipped on the TV,

poured a glass of wine and climbed into bed. I grabbed the program guide from my bedside

table and looked it over, hoping to find the adult networks. As I glanced at the channel

things, something at the bottom of the page caught my eye. Written crudely in permanent

marker was the following. Elevator Code 030806 B1 0402 07 B2 0501

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