Dry Heat - Part Two

SUNDAY

I want to get a nice late breakfast before the conference starts at noon. I walk around downtown - nothing is open. I abandon the morning constitutional and eat at my hotel.

The conference room is crowded. The panel of experts is seated, and their tables form a U, facing the Powerpoint display. Myself and the riff-raff are behind them, squeezed next to one another, chairbacks against the wall. I am among the last to arrive, so I have a poor view of the screen. The woman that is seated to my right has an even worse angle. She compensates by leaning into my personal space whenever she feels like seeing what the speaker is reading. She is the exact opposite of the woman I sat next to on the flight to Albuquerque. She's constantly fidgeting, and preferring both the standard leg bounce and the unconventional lateral knee touch - the latter performed as if there is an invisible Thighmaster in her crotch.

I meet Nathan and Julie in the hotel bar shortly after 5:00. I knew they were inside after seeing their large truck in the parking lot, loaded for their cross-country drive. The bed is packed high, and a blue tarp covers everything but part of a bicycle frame. I think of the Joads.

We enjoy beer as we wait for our food to arrive - we're on a patio off Central Ave, also known as Route 66. I am three feet from the neighboring table, where a bikerish woman is straddling a bikerish man. My boss walks by on the sidewalk, and I say hello. She approaches our table and sits down. Damn. A best friend, his wife, a liter of Sam Adams Summer, a warm evening on the Route 66 patio, my supervisor. One of these things is not like the other. It's over soon, and I show Nathan and Julie the theater's ice cream selection before they drive further west.

The hotel has HBO. Unlike the host cities of my last two conferences, Albuquerque does not sponsor a hotel channel that features local restaurants, museums, and landmarks. I take this as another bad sign.

MONDAY

For the past handful of years, I've tried to surround myself with my favorite things during my birthday. I listen to my all-time favorite albums, I watch my favorite movie, I bathe in my favorite champagne. This year, I battle my peers for complimentary bagels and muffins before sitting through plenary and breakout sessions.

A well-dressed, gray-haired gentleman sits a few seats down from me during the opening presentation. The speaker tells an anecdote involving Senator Robert Dole for some reason - a reporter asks Mr. Dole if it's effeminizing to be second fiddle to his newly elected wife. She pushes him away from the microphone and says, "Move over, cupcake, I'll take this one!" The crowd laughs, starved for something resembling humor.

"Heh heh. Savoir fare..." the man says creepily.

A speaker uses the phrase, "Not sure if the juice is worth the squeeze," and I try to think if I've been previously exposed to that wording.

There is a reception at 6:00 with a cash bar, appetizers, and a mariachi band. Why would a culture that lives in such a warm climate choose to uniform their bands in restrictive suits? Barbara, a friend from grad school that I found earlier that day, tells them it's my birthday. They ask me to stand as they play "Happy Birthday". The pacing of the mariachi version is far superior to our slow, pained, American chorus.

Later that night, Barbara and I try to find alcohol. A hotel shuttle driver takes us to Seven-Eleven, where we purchase two bottles of Yellow Tail. We drink the cabernet and catch up on the past two years of each other's lives. There are about a dozen adult films available for rent through the hotel, including Swallowing Shanks, Cream on my Face, Hot Young Snatch, and Hairless Honeydrippers. $13.99 is greater than our curiosity.

TUESDAY

Tuesday lasts forever. Eventually, I am in a hotel bar with Barbara's female peers. The British-sounding one looks at me.

"Why do men ask 'Do you swallow'?"

It is unprovoked and accusatory, but at least we are not talking about risk ratios. The other girls talk about feelings of power/submission/control. I give my opinion, which I adopted from Loveline's Adam Carolla.

"It has little to do with power. It's more flattering. It shows that you're not disgusted. I don't care what you do, just don't seem incredibly disgusted by the process."

I'm sure she doesn't hear any of this.

WEDNESDAY

I am waiting for a cab to the airport. I'm tired of feeling cold in the hotel, especially because it's so warm outside. I stand on the sidewalk by the entrance. There is an abundance of shade, but I want to spend my last minutes in the sun. The dry heat is nice, but it feels like there is something missing.