The truth, of course, is that everything -- the good and the bad and everything in between -- was all in your sleep-deprived mind. No one was watching what you were doing. They were all too busy juggling their own balls.
I had a few spare moments before having to babysit the evening sessions, so I went back to my hotel room to use the restroom and splash some water on my face. There were plenty of restrooms in the convention space, of course, but they were always full of conference goers, and sometimes I just needed a break from all their questions and demands. I’ve been accosted in the men’s room before, attendees recognizing me or my staff badge and deciding the urinals were a great place to lodge their complaints. Really? Can’t you even wait until I’m done peeing?
Before relieving myself I fished my phone out of my pocket I saw that I had a text waiting. I flipped it open I saw that it was from Jenny.
Quest Partners. 617-345-8721. Call Pamela Thornsby.
I looked at my watch. It was 5:37 PM. Florida was the same time zone as Boston so there was a chance that Pamela might still be in the office.
“Hello, this is Pamela Thornsby.”
“Hello, Pamela. This is Alan Larson calling.”
“Alan! How are you? Your wife said you were working a conference this week?”
“Yes,” I said, her voice and the pressure in my bladder suddenly reminding me of how badly I had had to urinate the last time I spoke to Pamela Thornsby, and how badly I thought I had screwed up her interview. “I’m in Miami Beach.”
“Lovely! I hope you’re finding a few moments to enjoy yourself.”
“It’s been pretty busy,” I said, “but I wanted to make sure I returned your call.”
“I’m glad you did. Listen, we’d like to bring you out to Boston soon to meet with the members of our Search Committee. Would you be able to do that sometime shortly after you get back from your conference?”
“I think so,” I said, already moving out of the bathroom. “Let me look at my calendar.”
“We’d be looking for about four hours of you time,” Pamela said as I found my briefcase and pulled my calendar out. “Either a morning or an afternoon. Whatever works best for you.”
“Uh huh,” I said, flipping pages until I found the right week. “It looks like next week Thursday and Friday are fairly clear. But I haven’t looked at any flights yet.”
“Well,” Pamela said, “we can accommodate almost any itinerary you can set up for next week Thursday or Friday, so why don’t you look into flights and email me all the details when you have them.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, flipping my calendar closed and stuffing it back into my briefcase. I should have peed before calling her, I realized belatedly.
“Email me a copy of your receipt for the airfare, too. Quest Partners will reimburse you for the expense.”
“That’s great,” I said quickly.
“And if your itinerary requires an overnight stay, let me know that, too. We can book a reservation for you at the closest hotel.”
“Okay,” I said. “Will do.”
“All right, then, Alan,” Pamela said, her voice signalling that she was about finished with her business. “I’ll watch for the next message from you. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call.”
“I will.” Questions? Did I have any questions? “Thanks.”
“Good luck at your conference. We’ll see you next week.”
I might have said good-bye, I might not have. There were suddenly so many things flying through my mind I would never be sure. The line clicked off and I was alone with those thoughts.
Where in Boston was Quest Partners? Would I have to rent a car? How many people were on the Search Committee? Who were they? What questions were they going to ask me? Should I bring anything? What should I wear? Was I going to wet my pants? How badly was I going to screw up this time?
I didn’t have long to stew, nor even to pee. I hadn’t even dropped my phone back into my pocket before it rang again. Looking down at the tiny screen, I could see that it was Mary calling.
“Hello?”
“Alan?”
“Yes?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in my hotel room.”
Mary paused. Then slowly, “Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m just freshening up.”
“Are you coming down to the evening sessions?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. Eleanor and I would like to talk to you.”
Fuck. “Where are you?”
“We’re outside the junior ballroom.” Where you’re supposed to be. “Can you meet us soon?”
“Yes. Give me five minutes.” Or ten. I really had to go.
“Okay.”
This time I was sure I didn’t say good-bye. Neither did Mary.
+ + +
“Dragons” is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. For more information, go here.
This post first appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can follow him on Twitter @ericlanke or contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.
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