Homeless - Part I of Many

The Wednesday before Labor Day. 337 PM. Phone buzzes. The dog sitter.

“Hey, just want to let you know there was a small kitchen fire somewhere in the building. They put it out. But the fire alarm went off and Maddy got really scared. Luckily, I was here and she is ok now.”

5 Hours Later, the mood changes.

“So…… I came back for the evening, and your apartment has some water damage. A bunch of puddles on the ground and wet walls. Your carpet is ruined. The property management company had some guys come in and put in industrial fans and dehumidifiers. I don’t think you guys can really come back here. It’s really loud and about 86 degrees in here. I’ll take the dog to my house, but I would extend your stay for a few days until this gets sorted out.”

After a few hours of furious logistics planning and execution, I moved my family’s flight back four days and we left our Airbnb for a luxury resort known as the Homewood Suites. Those of you with kids know (but for the unencumbered I need to remind you) that moving requires disassembling and re-assembling kids’ travel cribs, a search for laundry machines cause kids generate an ungodly amount of dirty laundry, a hunt for more formula, reconnection of baby cams, about 700 lbs of luggage…

Many hours later, stressed and exhausted, and after my recently potty trained 2-year-old had an accident in her pants and for some reason screamed at me about it, we were settled in with kids asleep.

Within 90 seconds I was at the front desk asking if the “hotel” had a bar and how late it was open. The two acne-ridden teenagers working the desk informed me that there was no bar, but they had a refrigerator with some wine and beer for purchase.

“Let’s go right now, I’m gonna need a fair few.”

To my great distress (and that of some random wine mom who didn’t look like she was in a middle of crisis but rather that her life in general was suboptimal – she had that: “My deadbeat x-husband is paying neither alimony nor child support and I’m too over the hill to find a quality man at this point” look to her.) the mini-bar sized refrigerator had a giant padlock on it and the pimple posse was unsure where to find the key.

After five minutes of restrained rage I couldn’t contain it anymore.

“Kid, I am paying $400 dollars a night cause it’s fucking labor day wknd to stay at this dump, let’s find a way to get that refrigerator open before a bunch of middle aged parents lose their composure.”

Rattled, the kid skedaddled somewhere. 4 decades of life had taught me that this kid would fail spectacularly. I still couldn’t understand how the local high school pizza faces were running the busiest wknd of the year at the “hotel” in a major city but given my astronomical stress levels and unchallenged liver I chose not to explore this topic.

Thus, I used said life experience to innovate my way out of this problem. I started wandering the hotel like some Alcoholic MacGyver trying to find ways to locate booze. That’s when I saw two Hispanic cleaning ladies entering the staff break room. I swiftly intercepted them, asked them if they were mothers (they are), and explained my heart-wrenching situation while pulling a 50 out of my wallet.

“So, my wife and I could really use a drink.”

They were empathetic. Perhaps even enchanted by my honesty, my vulnerability.

45 Seconds later Camila and Marianna shared their secret (and their booze) with me.

Apparently, every Thursday the “hotel” throws a happy hour for their guests and whatever the guests don’t finish, my new friends take to the break room and pound. Having obtained half a bottle of mystery red, 6 Heinekens, a hug and many good wishes… I departed for our “suite” and started draining beers in the dark. My brother in-law had generously provided me with his old Pax vaporizer and some weed, so I added that to the buffet as well. Truth is though, the vapes are bullshit and beer is too weak. What is this, 11^th grade? Perhaps the average Homewood Suites patron would find this set-up to be most admirable but I’m a grown-up with standards and in the midst of a crisis.  

Over the next few days our dog sitter regularly updated us. Terms like “grade 3 water damage” and “potential mold” entered our lexicon. I had regular conversations with the half-wit insurance adjuster from our renter’s insurance company. Our landlord (a LOT more on him later) was out to lunch. At one point the property mgmt. company pulled the fans and dehumidifiers out. The day before we were due to fly back, I asked our dog walker if we could safely go home. She asked:

“Is the baby crawling and can the kids sleep in an 83-degree room?”

Yes and No. Nonetheless… I wasn’t about to incur another massive flight change penalty nor fork over another dime to fucking Homewood.

Thus, the Saturday before Labor Day… We flew home. Much like Odysseus, I had no idea what lay ahead or how long and complicated the journey would end up being.

More on that in part II and III and honestly probably IV.

Jamoke is back and looking to spam you over the holidays. I’d tell you to drink some eggnog and read up, but if I find out you drink that shit I’m kicking you off the listserv. Remember our motto. So simple, so exclusive….. Jamoke readers don’t do eggnog That’s for your pathetic uncle. You’re drinking Red Breast or Old Raj or Casa Dragones or Beluga on the rocks. And you’re at the Ritz Carlton right now – no doubt – probably googling what the Homewood Suites even is – cause you’re soooo out of its league.