Did end up shattering my driver-side mirror backing out too close to the driveway-side tree—it had grown, apparently, since I’d last trimmed it back. But managed to find enough mirror shards, in the dirt, by head-lamplight, to reaffix with moving tape so I could see.

E texted Bring all the tools you got.

I had an impact driver. A bit set. A tape. Gloves.

On the road, after blowing my last almost-hundo on gas, by 3.

•

The jobsite was this spot the Gaylord National Resort & Convention Center. On the Potomac, south of DC.

From the Google Maps image, U.S. government–related, seemingly.

Got led along this weird stretch, on the final leg, by the FBI or Homeland Security HQs that had all these signs restricting exiting without clearance.

No shoulders, no lane-switching.

Gas gauge tweaking, tryna blend my U.S. Air Force utility box van with expired California plates in with pre-dawn, rush-hour, U.S. government traffic.

Keyed tf up off gas station coffee, blasting X on the Bluetooth.

Pillared awning with a white-gloved doorman, upon arrival, who directed me where to park.

E had told me 6 a.m. It was 6:05.

But he’d worked till 3 that morning, I’d later learn. They’d gotten delayed waiting for the National Youth Division Cheerleading Competition to wrap in the event space our job was in.

He picked up his phone at 6:20.

Elaborately pile-woven-carpeted hallway leading into a circular balcony overlooking a central, all-glass, arched atrium. Huge fountain in the middle.

Wall-encompassing oil paintings of dead presidents all over.

Winding, ornamented staircases leading up to conference rooms and event spaces at the end of the hall, past the check-in desk.

“We’ll drop your shit later, we’re already late,” E said, handing me an extra room key.

“Yo—is there anywhere I could grab a Clif Bar or something?”

“Oh right. Let’s eat first.”

“Also—unless we get paid out at the end of the week, I’ma need money for gas back to Philly.”

E said I got you.

Gloved butler-type dudes in the catered eating area with plastered-on smiles, attending to Sterno-lit chafing dishes of every breakfast item you could think of.

Couple carpentry bros in there—our coworkers. But otherwise. Folks in suits typing into phones, arranging meetings, nibbling on eggs.

I went in on so much shit—French toast, an omelet, Canadian bacon. All that.

Immediately exposing myself as poor.

The job was an install for Intel.

Some Intel conference.

Setting up two football fields’ worth of booths and rooms and display areas, where Intel reps would sell new technology to…potential buyers?

I didn’t even know.

This would take Monday, Tuesday. For the event on Wednesday. Before tearing it all down Thurs–Friday.

Not even sure whether we were scabs.

I got the sense the wild day rate was in order to avoid going through the labor union.

So they could get it done with less people incentivized to work harder.