I left a trashed hotel room in Birmingham. I didn’t want to, but it happened. Empty bottles of Pepto-Bismol and Pedialyte, a couple of boxes of ordered and uneaten take out food, a pile of towels drenched in sweat with traces of vomit. I would still be there watching television in a feverish dream, but the air conditioning unit conked out. I’m sure this was the result of me switching the thermostat from high cool to heat as my own temperature spiked and plateaued. I staggered out for one critical eight hour meeting where I’m sure I ranted and babbled about everything- my theory of hybrids, what happened to Tupac, and how I wear a suit sometimes to communicate respect, but I prefer sweatpants.
The environment at the hotel became like day five in the Superdome. No windows. No air.
Weak from hunger it took me three trips to carry my belongings down to the car. On my last trip I carried a coat hanger and a sock.
We can rail on about corporate America another day because I will kiss the ground Coca Cola walks on at the moment. That single can of Coke got me home. It might corrode a coffee cup over the course of a month, but it was the only thing I kept down in days.
I am also specifically not bringing up the diarrhea.
Now my spine feels like it is wrapped in hot coils and my kidneys ache. I think that is from the 15 hours in bed.