Whataburger for Breakfast

My flight from Atlanta to Austin was delayed four hours, which, when stuck in an airport, feels like a fortnight. I watched planes take off from a seat that was clearly designed for discomfort while writing a play I’ve been working on.

Before I knew it, the terminal started to resemble a can of sardines—hundreds of humans, packed tightly together, contentiously competing for a limited supply of uncomfortable real estate. There were as many men using their luggage as pillows as there were mothers praying for the batteries in their devices; otherwise, the terminal would’ve sounded like a nursery. I prayed for those batteries, too.

I got to Austin around midnight, though still on Eastern Standard Time—so really, around one in the morning. I got a terrible night’s sleep and didn’t have a means of getting a coffee when I woke up, so I drove around downtown Austin looking for a cup. When I couldn’t find one that was easily accessible, I said to hell with it and got a cheeseburger and Dr Pepper for breakfast.

That’s the thing about traveling—it’s inherently unhealthy. At least for me. I used to work with guys who immediately went to the hotel gym when they checked in, whereas I went to the bar. I wish I were that guy when it came to my health, but I’m not. I operate from a place of self-pity when I’m on the road.

I figure I owe myself a treat when a plane is four hours late, which means it’s perfectly acceptable to have a Dr Pepper and a cheeseburger for breakfast and feel no regret whatsoever. In fact, it’s an entitlement issue if we get down to brass tacks. I earned it, in my own self-destructive way.

There was a time when my fellow drunkards—did I say that? I meant my fellow colleagues—would’ve poured whiskey into our Dr Peppers. Just a little “hair of the dog” to get right. And who could blame us? We were cogs in the almighty corporate wheel, which meant we were miserable—but with big expense accounts.

And if you know anything about expense accounts, they were created to pour alcohol down salesmen’s throats. And none of that well shit—we’re talking as high-end as you can go without raising a red flag.

I had an infamous sales trip to Savannah back when I was in corporate. A colleague and I convinced our boss that this boondoggle was legit, and since he had a “use it or lose it” budget, he unwittingly gave us the go-ahead.

Greg and I acted like two college drunks for three days straight. We drank Blanton’s exclusively at the finest hotels and restaurants, and when it came time to turn in our expense reports, my boss almost had a heart attack.

Our conversation went as follows:

Boss: “What in God’s name did y’all do down there?!”
Bradley: “Oh, you know, entertained some clients.”
Boss: “By clients, you mean Greg’s fraternity brothers who live in Savannah?”
Bradley: “You know about them?”
Boss: “I know this is singlehandedly the biggest bar tab I’ve ever seen.”
Bradley: “Yeah… sorry about that. Things got a little out of control.”
Boss: “A LITTLE? How in the hell did y’all buy 28 shots of Blanton’s…in one night??? Who drinks that much?”
Bradley: “Our clients.”
Boss: “You mean the SAEs?”
Brad: “Yeah.”
Boss: “I’ll approve it, but next time you need to split it with Greg. You can’t turn this in by yourself again.”
Bradley: “But I did split it—that’s my half.”
Boss: “You’ve got to be kidding me! You two idiots spent twice this???”
Bradley: “Again, you know, we were, ah… entertaining clients.”
Boss: “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! I guess we can be grateful no one went to jail.”
Bradley: “I didn’t say that.”

So, as you can see, my breakfast indulgence was relatively harmless compared to my good old days in corporate.