This Is SO Me

On Thursday evening, as the clock neared eight, I decided to hit the road and make my way into New England. My goal? Get past the Tappan Zee. It was totally realistic and truly necessary. I just didn’t have it in me to deal with obscene holiday traffic as I mentally prepared for the official start of graduate school. By half past midnight, four hours and three This American Life episodes later, I was pulling into a hotel just past Hartford. I exchanged a credit card for a room key and immediately crashed.

I awoke around nine, my eyes puffy and my body mapped by the imprint of sheet creases. That’s when my phone rang.

“Did you make it?” my mom asked.

I broke into a rendition of Happy Birthday to properly recognize the occasion.

“Thanks, PJ. That was sweet. But did you make it?”

“I got as far as the Vince Lombardi pull-off on the Jersey Turnpike,” I fibbed in a groggy morning voice. “Ooh, the BK is open now. What time do they stop serving breakfast?”

“Please tell me that isn’t true,” she said with a slight hint of uncertainty.

“It’s as true as you keeping the ring.”

“I told you,” she began before I cut her off from a rambling montage of apologies and excuses.

“I’m just past Hartford.”

“Well, drive safe and have fun in Kennebunkport!”

It took a little while for me to motivate. Not to motivate out of bed or out of the hotel but to get my ass on the road. It just so happened the place where I stayed was nestled amongst a collection of shops. And with the overcast weather dictating my mood, I didn’t feel like hustling.

At half past three, with two new pairs of shoes stowed in my backseat, I pulled into the valet lot at Barnacle Billy’s.

“Welcome,” the young kid said as he reached for my door.

“Has it been nice like this all day?” I asked as I propped my sunglasses up on the top of my head and squinted against the glare.

“Sure has. Though everyone coming from the south has said it’s horrible.”

“Yup, it is,” I confirmed as I stepped out onto the macadam. The sky, an azure blue, was illuminated by an afternoon glow and a warm gentle breeze complimented the heat lifting off the pavement. Just beyond the parking lot was a cluster of rocks and just beyond the rocks were rhythmic waves crashing forward. A salty scent tainted the air and filled my lungs.

One lobster roll later, I got back into my car and headed to my hotel. It was there, on a chair overlooking the water, that I scanned books and stories I had been assigned for school. These were the last few reading remnants and as I leisurely worked my way through them, a sense of calm replaced the previously dominant angst.

At around eight, I gathered my things and headed to Kennubunkport for dinner. Nothing special. I just wanted a light bite to avoid morning hunger pangs. The meal was perfect, the wine was delightful and as I worked my way back down Route 9, a two lane road flanked by tall pines and willowy reeds, to my left I could see fireworks. Bursts of red and blue, silver and gold, splashed across the evening sky. I pulled off by a marsh, slipped out of my flip-flops and crunched my toes in the sand as I looked on at the glittery display.

The next morning I set out for Bowdoin, the spot that would be my home while attending my first workshop. I made my way onto the campus, parked my car in front of the designated dorm and went inside to check in.

“Paige Jennifer,” I said to the curiously young gal working the table.

She flipped through a collection of folders.

“J-E-N-N-I-F-E-R,” I elaborated.

“Um, hold on,” she nervously sputtered as she flipped to the start of the J’s and went through them one by one. Then she referred to a list. And then another list. “Huh, well, you definitely paid because you’re noted here,” she said as she pointed to a random collection of names.

“Yes,” I responded, the last letter of that simple word hissing between my clenched teeth.

“But it seems we never assigned you a room.”