I was in a hotel. There were multiple events going on, and all seemed to involve former employers. And I was running around all night trying to fulfill obligations to them all, but I was late to everything. I had to do a presentation here, run a sales seminar there, act in a video over here. I'm having a lousy dinner in a closing hotel restaurant at 2:00 AM with colleagues from multiple jobs, and then I have to go up to my room and change, and take care of some business and grab some equipment but the sensitive colleague they sent up to help me with the equipment can't ride all the way up with me because his system can't handle the pressure over a certain floor, so I'm on my own because of Ian's sickliness and my inability to say, "I like Ian, but can you send me with someone who can actually help us with the task?"
I'm running from one event to another, leaving one half-assed, poorly done effort knowing I'm going to start off bad by being late for another, and I duck into a hotel bathroom needing to relieve myself, but only growing more stressed at how much later this is going to make me. In the urinal next to me is television sportscaster Billy Packer, and from the state of his broadcasting jacket, with wrinkles and folds and a swoosh or two of dust from leaning against the wrong wall in a broadcast booth, as well as his hastily combed hair, I can tell he's having a night of it too. Hey, anybody pissing in a hotel lobby urinal at 3:30 AM is having a night of it. I'm in a hurry, and I'm no fanboy, but I want to be collegial and supportive, so I say, "Hey it's television sportscaster Billy Packer. How's it going?"
He's pleased as punch to be recognized, and goes into Johnny Gladhanding mode, flashing me an unnecessary TV smile and booming in his broadcast voice how everything's great and it's great to meet a fan and slapping me on the shoulder. And I'm like, "Hey, television sportscaster Billy Packer, I'm just saying hi. What are you thinking, touching me like that? Even if there wasn't a plague going on, you just had your hands on your dick and all. And this hotel has dry cleaning service that you may want to look into for that jacket."
And I rush over to wash my hands, barely find enough paper to dry them, and rush out of the bathroom knowing how late I am and feeling shitty that I just cut down an old guy for whom getting recognized at 3:30 AM by a not-crazy person might have been the best part of his week, and I'm half an old man myself now, and perhaps a borderline crazy person, and I really ought to go back to apologize, but I'm so fucking late.
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