Thursday
Wilson woke up earlier than usual even for him, feeling more relaxed and refreshed than he had in recent memory. He set a miniature pot of coffee to brew while he took a shower, enjoying the feeling of not being rushed for the first time in what seemed like forever.
When he was done, he dried himself off and wrapped a spare towel around his waist before pouring himself a cup of coffee. He took his time with his morning grooming and dressed, grumbling yet again at the snug fit of his dress shirt as he struggled with the top button. He finished his coffee while knotting his tie and put on his suit jacket. Just as he was about to head out the door he glanced at the clock. Still too early to head next door to the convention center, Wilson wandered over to the window to look out over the river and let his mind drift at the change in scenery. Several long minutes later, he left the room to make his way to the event.
House slept through the 6am wake up call and only just pulled himself out of a deep sleep to answer the second one at 6:30. He lay there for a couple of minutes trying to kick start his brain before rolling out of bed and heading into the cramped bathroom to relieve his aching bladder. He started the shower, then set the miniature coffee pot to brew while he got in the tub.
Barely taking the time to dry himself, House wrapped a towel around his waist and poured himself a cup of coffee, taking a sip of the steaming liquid in an effort to clear the sleep from his brain. He shaved and dressed quickly, his un-ironed dark blue shirt and grey slacks sticking to the parts of his body that hadn't yet dried. He pulled on his socks and sneakers and shrugged into the slightly rumpled suit jacket he plucked from the chair. Grabbing his wallet and room key, he headed out the door to the elevators.
Wilson was amazed at the stagnant wave of heat and humidity that struck him as he left the air conditioned comfort of the hotel. Even at 7:15 in the morning the air felt thick and damp, making it almost hard to breathe. By the time he got to the main entrance of the convention center he was practically sweating through his suit jacket, his shirt sticking to his torso in odd and uncomfortable ways. He opened the door, relishing the blast of cool air that hit him as he entered the building and made his way to the registration tables outside the main exhibit hall. There were only a few people milling around, so he was able to sign in and pick up his badge and conference materials without having to wait in line. Wilson pinned the name badge to his suit jacket and walked into the expanse of the main exhibit hall, marveling at the seemingly endless rows of tables, each one set up to show off their latest technology, procedure, or piece of equipment. He followed the signs to an adjacent room, not nearly as huge as the hall he just left but plenty large enough to seat a good many of the 3000 or so people who were expected to attend the conference that weekend. One of several hostesses led him to a round table, where he chatted with a few other early arrivals as they enjoyed their breakfast from the buffet on the far side of the room.
House took his time going from the hotel to the convention center. He figured that if he was late enough getting there, no one would notice when he ducked out early. Punctuality had ceased to be an issue with him the moment he left his parents' home for college. His father, a retired Marine Corps pilot, was a punctual man and House had spent most of his childhood and adolescence in a war of wills with and hating the man who he'd figured out at 12 wasn't even his biological father. Subsequently, there wasn't a boss in the world who could make him be on time if he didn't want to be.
The steamy morning air hit House like a wet blanket as he took in the sights and sounds of his favorite city, breathing deep of the unique smell that was New Orleans. Wandering over to the convention center, he tried to think of some excuse that might fly if he were to somehow find himself instead at a little café in the French Quarter drinking a decent cup of coffee and munching on a beignet. He shook his head slightly, knowing that any excuse for not being at the conference early would be cause enough to be looking for a new job by Monday and glanced at his watch as he approached the main entrance to the convention center.
House followed the growing herd making their way to the registration tables outside the main exhibit hall and stood in line for the conference materials he'd likely throw out before the end of the morning session, indulging in the fantasy of registering under someone else's name and exposing the conference for the networking sham that it was. But when his turn came to sign in he tersely gave his own name to the cheery young woman at the table and collected a name badge (which he had no intention of wearing, instead shoving it into a pocket of his suit jacket) and a bag full of conference materials and assorted propaganda. He merged back into the herd that was headed to the room adjacent to the massive exhibit hall for breakfast and found himself being seated at a table of his worst administrative nightmares. House immediately got up and headed to the buffet, choosing just enough institutional food to fill his stomach. Wanting to be anywhere but there, he returned to the table. Welcome to hell, he thought as he began to shovel food into his mouth.