I do not like Stamford, Connecticut.

The people are assholes. The sun never shines. It hasn’t been cold enough for me to enjoy the change in climate. The Hyatt denied me service. Where I’m at, nothing has that pretty northeastern aspect. The project I’m working on is a mess. This is where I whine and rage and be frustrated. This is where I let myself pretend to be a young man again for a second.

—

I had my first full weekdays at home last week. I spent them doing what I wanted to do. I tried to sleep in, but couldn’t. I stayed in my underwear until the afternoon. I gave myself a private marathon of Breaking Bad. I browsed the internet for too long. I contemplated going for a bike ride (never did.) I stood at the door of the open fridge while scratching myself. When I finally went outside, I squinted more than I should have. I ate dinner with an old friend on Monday. I ate dinner with a new friend on Tuesday. I felt happy and the lack of stress was welcoming and I didn’t think about work until I got a phone call at six in the evening on Tuesday.

“Do you know that you’re going to New York tomorrow?” (To get to Stamford, CT.)

No. I did not know.

—

3:30 AM: Wake Up.

4:00 AM: Cab Arrives.

4:17 AM: Arrive at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport.

5:35 AM: Board Plane to Memphis.

8:35 AM: Change Planes to NYC (La Guardia)

12:15 PM: Land at La Guardia.

12:17 PM: Find out my pick up can no longer pick me up. (Gery)

12:18 PM: Think about one thousand thoughts, plans, and possibilities.

1:30 PM: Take shuttle to Penn Station.

2:00 PM: Arrive at Penn Station.

2:01 PM: Buy Ticket for train to Newark Penn Station. It leaves in 4 minutes. I’m not really sure where it’s leaving from.

2:06 PM: Depart Penn Station. I don’t really know if this is the right train. I’m simply a dumb Texan.

2:40 PM: Arrive at Newark Penn Station. Locate new pick up (Eric V.)

4:00 PM: Arrive at the Stamford, CT Hilton. Meet Gery. Proceed afterhours work.

7:00 PM: Finish working. Get ride to my hotel. (The Hyatt)

7:08 PM: Arrive at Hyatt. They deny me a hotel room because I’m not 21. This has never happened before. The room is already paid for. I speak with multiple managers. I tell them I’ve stayed in two Hyatts previous to this one. I reason with them. I batter them with calmly spoken rhetoric. I watch sweat form on their brow. I tell them of my disbelief of their atrocious service. They deny me still.

And for a moment, I feel like a child.

Recently, I have felt like a lot of things. During the week I feel older than I should, or wiser than I should, or more weary than I should. I feel like the road warrior, the business traveler, a master of ground and air and lights. On the weekends I feel 20. I feel youth and vigor and recklessness. I decide not to care and I have no reason to care and all is well. But at that moment, I felt like a child. I felt wildly frustrated. I wanted to cry. Not out of sadness, but frustration and contempt for a hotel manager named Spence, who wore too many pounds and too much cologne. It was hopelessness. I felt too small for the chair I was in and too young for the life I live all at once. I wanted to forget myself, just for a second, curse up a storm, maybe just slug him in his sweaty jowls. It didn’t take long to snap out of that thought. I am better than this sweaty fat man in front of me. He may deny me a hotel room, but life has denied him much more, like fitness.

After fighting with the Hyatt to no gain, I ended up sharing a room with Eric. Eric is a fantastic guy. Wholesome is a wonderful word to describe him. He’s great at his job, he doesn’t swear, he loves his wife, he’s expecting a child, he could talk your head off about cars, he’s conservative to the bone, he’s from the Midwest.

And he snores like a cannon.

We ended up going to bed at around 10. We said our goodnights and the whole scene was something fraternal. And so it began. I have never heard such unholy sounds escape the human head before. Now, I was far too tired to really let it bother me. In fact, I was impressed. This was truly a feat of the natural human engineering. I actually found myself waking up in the middle of the night to laugh. I could have applauded him, but I don’t think he would have heard me over that cacophony that sounded like a lawnmower making love to a jet engine. He snored so loud, that he would even wake himself up.

We were both up at seven. I felt like a new man.

This particular jobsite is stressful to the point where I’m skipping the details so it doesn’t come back to haunt me like a Vietnam flashback.

On Friday, Gery gives me the ride I wasn’t able to get before. We exchange words. He’s Dominican and his accent is flavored with Spanish and the strange English of New Jersey. He’s loud and funny and we get along right away. We speak our backgrounds and of home and of our mothers’ cooking. His mom’s cooking sounded fantastic. I missed home for a small moment.

My flight is scheduled to depart at 5:05 PM.

It leaves at 6:35 PM, well delayed. To quote someone: “Satan’s busy.” I almost miss my connecting flight in Charlotte. I get back to my apartment at 10:45 PM. I’m greeted by a cat and two bottles of Sailor Jerry sitting on counter. The note on one says “HAPPY HOMECOMING ❤ LIZ”

The other: “JOKES ON YOU, THIS ONE’S MINE :)”

Home sweet home.