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Watching business travelers is one of my favorite things about going to the airport. Those who never need to tell what their airline membership status is because they are the embodiment of Platinum. 

Meanwhile, I bragged to everyone I could find when I hit Delta’s “Silver Medallion” status a year ago, hoping no one would ask the obvious next question, “What does that get you?”

“Unlimited Complimentary Upgrades.”

“So you fly First Class a lot?”

“I’ve never flown First Class,” I respond, avoiding eye contact and hoping the topic of conversation changes.

The truth is it makes me feel like I’m one of those elite people who travel for business consistently. One of those who navigate a chaotic airport effortlessly while rolling their matching carry-on and laptop bag behind in their C-Suite attire. 

I find that aesthetic far superior to that of the twenty-something who has jammed all of their clothing into an enormous backpack while dressed as a Bohemian fever dream come to life. If you’ve been to the airport, you know the outfit: Birkenstocks, pajama pants, tie-dye shirt, and a blue bandana covering their ratty dreadlocks traveling back home to Omaha. 

This preference applies exclusively within the confines of an airport. I’m hanging with twenty-something anywhere else in the world, mainly for the free weed.

It will come as no surprise that I was thrilled when presented with an opportunity to attend a three-day conference at the Georgia International Convention Center, located roughly two hundred yards from the Atlanta Airport. A fine venue to learn about the latest and greatest updates in the credit card processing industry. 

While it wasn’t glamorous, it made me feel like a grown-up. One of those moments that remind me I am, in fact, an adult, like not asking permission to buy candy at the store or buying porn at a sex shop mid-morning on a Tuesday. You know, adult stuff.

I bought a new carry-on for the trip and planned my travel outfit to be optimized for TSA. Shoes that I could easily slip on and off, jeans that fit just right without a belt, and a sports jacket to elevate it all a little bit, all in the hope I would pass as a Platinum Medallion member on a pure travel day. A look that let everyone know I wasn’t on my way to a multi-million dollar meeting today but tomorrow possibly. I even took out my laptop on the plane so that people around me would be impressed by my work ethic. At the same time, I clicked around a fake spreadsheet rather than doing any actual work. 

Now you have to wonder, who else is doing that?

The thrill of the business trip ended when I stepped off the airport tram at my hotel a mere forty-five seconds after leaving the airport.

For the next seventy-two hours, I would be forced to wear a lanyard, go to classes about the credit card processing industry, and talk to some of the biggest slime-ball salesmen the world has seen while pretending to give a shit about any of it.

On the second night of my business trip, cocktails were the solution to allow me to have a good time. I went to the hotel restaurant, sat at the bar, and watched in silent frustration as the bartender ruined the Manhattan I ordered by muddling an orange slice and two maraschino cherries in my glass. Nevertheless, I smiled when she set it on a coaster in front of me and responded with an overly enthusiastic, “Thank you, looks amazing.” 

I sat at the bar alone. People on either side of me were talking shop and introducing themselves while I hoped the liquid courage would kick in and allow me to join in. I handed my credit card to the bartender to pay for my drink. 

“I saw that,” the woman in her mid to late twenties sitting beside me said with a smirk. 

I glance at the crowded bar to either side of me to ensure this is directed at me. “You saw what?”

“Your credit card.”

Why is this woman interested in my credit card?

“Oh, yeah, I used it to pay for my drink.”

She laughed as she spun her stool to face me, taking a drink of her gin and tonic. “It’s black.”

“What is?”

“Your credit card.”

My card was black in color only. It was not the exclusive American Express Black Card she assumed it to be. Not that my US Bank-issued Visa Flex Perks Reward Card didn’t give me a pretty solid 1% cash back on my purchases. 

“Yes, it is.”

I didn’t lie. I would have probably told the truth if Ms. Credit Report had asked me if it was a Black Card specifically.

I stood up from my stool, deciding to try my luck at the bar on the other side of the hotel lobby. As I did so, the woman obsessed with my credit card introduced herself. We talked briefly about where we were from and what companies we worked for, and I retreated to the other bar. 

Fortunately, I found a few familiar faces. I had a decent enough time meeting new people and reveling in cocktails. 

Near the end of the night, I found myself stuck at a high-top table with a man who had spent his entire adult life in the credit card processing industry. If you’ve been to a professional conference, you know this guy. No matter the time of day or setting, he is talking shop. No attention is paid to your attempts to change the topic as he continues to talk about the most boring subjects while nursing a light beer for far too long. 

I gave an exaggerated stretch, preparing to deliver my excuse for needing to head back to my hotel room, when I heard a voice over my shoulder. “You owe me a drink.”

I turned, puzzled, to see the same woman from the first bar standing behind me with an empty wine glass.

“I do?”

She stared back at me, telepathically telling me to catch the hint. After a beat, I realized she was attempting to save me.

“I do,” I said, turning to the man, “Sorry. Thanks for all the information about the upcoming rate changes to Visa Corporate Cards; it will really help me out.”

I lied. He hadn’t told me anything I didn’t know, and none of the information would help me.

“Thanks, that dude was never going to stop talking. What are you drinking?”

I took her order and went to the bar to get a couple of drinks. When I returned, I found her at a high top with a couple of the familiar faces I had seen earlier. 

As the night wore on, the crowd slowly dissipated to ten people. We stood in the lobby talking.

I felt like an actual adult at a business conference in Atlanta, having cocktails at an airport Marriott with a lanyard around my neck. This was a scene I had witnessed as a kid when I would travel to conferences with my Dad. 

The bartender was counting the minutes until closing time while cleaning glasses. “Last call.” 

Hearing that, I took the last swallow of my third Manhattan. I began checking my pockets for my belongings in preparation for getting back to my room. Undoubtedly, the other adults I was gathered with were ready to call it a night.

“Anyone want another beer?”

There was a pause. The pause. This was an end-of-the-night stand-off that would be settled by the sole brave enough to answer first. 

I stare at my empty glass, hoping someone will break the silence. “Why not?”

I am not good with awkward silence, but I am good at drinking cocktails. 

Two guys from the group went to the bar and returned with enough beer in their arms for everyone to have two more beers.

Most people are grown adolescents pretending to be adults, including myself.

The night continued, and we carried on having a boisterous conversation in the empty lobby, our laughs echoing off the tiled floor. By the night’s end, I was almost exclusively talking to the woman from the bar. It turned out we had quite a bit in common, she was an easy laugh, and I had a beer in my hand—the only three ingredients I needed to morph from an introvert into an extrovert.

I continued to enjoy the conversation until the beer ran out. I was ecstatic that I wasn’t in my room watching a movie and eating terrible food. 

When the beer ran out, we all agreed it was a good night, but it was time to end it. We walked to the elevators while continuing the conversation, squeezing every last drop of fun out of the night we could manage.

An elevator door dinged, and I entered the tiny elevator with the woman from the bar and four guys from the group. We went up one floor, and the elevator doors opened.

She bites her lip while looking at me with doe eyes. “This is my floor.”

“Oh, okay. It was great to meet you,” I said with the enthusiasm of a kid who made an unexpected friend at summer camp.

“Same. I have had so much fun talking to you tonight.”

She stepped off the elevator as one of the other passengers held the door from shutting. She turned around to face the five of us left in the elevator, her eyes trained on me expectantly.

“Have a good night,” I said as the elevator doors began to close.

I saw disappointment flash across her face just as the doors clanked shut and the elevator began its ascent to the next floor. The slight lurch when it started reminded me how many Manhattans I had consumed.

One of the guys in the elevator loudly blurted. “Dude, you’re getting off on the wrong fucking floor.” 

The elevator erupted into laughter. I laughed along despite not understanding what we were laughing at.

We stopped laughing when the elevator doors opened on the next floor, my floor.

I walked off the elevator and stopped. “Wait, why did I get off on the wrong floor?”

They all chuckled, and one responded, “She wanted you to go to her room. Are you serious right now?”

The doors closed, and I heard their laughter fade as they made their way to the next floor, leaving me alone in the hushed hotel hallway. 

I can count on one hand the number of times I have been hit on in my life by someone other than my wife. I’d have to take off my socks to count the number of times she’s hit on me, so I guess you can say things are going pretty well.

Since it is so infrequent for me, I am a little slow on the uptake.

I ran through the night’s events as I walked to my hotel room. 

She got interested because of my credit card. She came and saved me from the boring conversation. I bought her a drink. She was next to me all night, even when I talked about college football with that guy. She laughed at almost everything I said, even things that weren’t funny. And she put her hand on my arm every time she laughed.

I stood in my hotel bathroom, having a staring contest with the drunk in the mirror, when I finally realized the guys in the elevator were right. 

I went to the queen-sized bed I had arbitrarily chosen as my sleeping bed when I arrived and laid down, promising myself I’d take my clothes off when the room stopped spinning.

I wake up to a hotel maid attempting to enter my room at 10 AM. Panicked, I sat up, saying, “No, thank you. Please come back later.” 

The maid apologized as the door clicked shut. 

I’m lying in the same spot I closed my eyes. I’m fully clothed except for my left sock. I glanced at the alarm clock to see I had already missed the first session of the morning for the conference, but I needed a shower to shake the hangover. I exited my room before checkout time and went down to catch the last few hours of the conference.

I filled my computer bag with the complimentary snacks available at the breakfast bar for the conference attendees. Who passes up free candy bars?

I had one more class session on my agenda. As I made my way to the class, I saw her walking towards me. I lit up with a smile, excited to see my new friend. “Hey!”

She didn’t slow down or change her expression. “Good morning.”

I walked into the class about 10 minutes before it started to see the man who had made credit card processing his life sitting at a table by himself, reading through the packet we were all given with far too much interest.

I turned on my heel and went to the tram to take me to the airport. I sat at my gate, looking the woman up on social media, not because I was interested in connecting with her but because I was terrified she had heard the laughter from the elevator. When the elevator doors shut, I pictured her assuming I had made fun of her. Fortunately, I realized there was no message I could come up with that wouldn’t leave me looking like a jerk or, worse, a creep. I turned on some music and attempted to get comfortable in my chair. 

They called me to board the plane. I snapped into elite traveler mode and made my way to the plane via the steamy and crowded jetway. I found my aisle seat next to a man, already asleep against the window, and a woman sitting in the middle seat, looking nervous. 

I placed my carry-on under the seat in front of me and unraveled my earbuds to drown out the rest of the plane.

The woman next to me was nervously thumbing the pages of her romance novel. “What is that?”

“Excuse me?” I asked, thinking that something about me and Atlanta must drive the women crazy.

She pointed to the airplane’s ceiling, “The smoke or the, umm, steam up there.”

I looked to the ceiling to see what she was talking about. The cold air from the airplane’s air conditioning, mixed with the hot and humid Atlanta spring air, was causing a steaming effect, which was amplified by the blue ambient lights on the plane.

“There must be turbulence on our flight path.”

“What?”

“The pilot must be expecting a rough ride. When they expect a rough ride, they release a little laughing gas, like what you get at the dentist, into the cabin to keep us calm,” I said, pretending this is common knowledge amongst elite business travelers.

Her face shifted from nervous to terrified.

Why the hell did I say that? I thought before saying, “I’m kidding. The pilots have the air conditioner running to try and keep it comfortable in here while people finish boarding.”

It’s the sort of joke I try to sneak past my wife, not one I tell to nervous strangers on a plane. She muttered a thanks as she opened her novel. I put my earbuds in and turned on some music. As I rested the back of my head on the uncomfortable headrest of my seat, I realized why I said what I said.

I really missed my wife.

When I got to my car at the Minneapolis airport, I resolved to leave the business trips to the experts.

Cheers.