In My Write Mind

Whoever said that Lawrenceville was “about an hour away” from Raleigh … was about an hour off. For real. After driving for an hour, going the speed limit so I wouldn’t pass the exit (because seriously, there’s only one exit for Lawrenceville off 85), I kept driving. And driving. After approximately 30 minutes more, I wanted to call somebody to see if I’d passed the place.

Except for one thing. I couldn’t call anyone. I had no reception on my phone. None. Nada. Zilch.

No signal.

As I would discover later, that was my cue that I was approaching Lawrenceville. I was there two days. Forty-eight hours. My phone had a signal for ummmmmm … maybe one of those. Hours. Yup.

Apparently, T-Mobile didn’t pay its residence fees for this part of Virginia. And just like I was about an hour outside of North Carolina, this news was just about a beyotch. LOL

So, stay with me. I was inside of Lawrenceville, the quaint town just south of Richmond and just north of Nutbush (which, when I passed it on 85, I snickered and did the obligatory chorus of “Proud Mary,” complete with smack-upside-the-head sound effects. LOL)

Lawrenceville, the town T-Mobile forgot about. I had nothing. And anyone that knows me is aware that Will without his Sidekick is like … like … DAMMIT, where’s Bronzie’s sister when I need her?!?!?!? Anyway, without my phone, I’m lost. Like the television show LOST. Like Bode-Miller-in-Torino lost. Like the-dude-that-Mosley-beat-who-wound-up-with-a-third-eye lost. Like the Knicks season lost. It was that bad.

[Aside # 3: Can I rant for a minute? Let me just say that I’m not a Knicks fan anymore. They’ve broken my heart way too many times with horrible playoff losses. So I’m coming at this without a bias. So here goes: HOW DOES ISIAH THOMAS STILL HAVE A JOB?!?!?! Is there any other situation in the history of the world where an employee can make such crippling, lopsided, asinine decisions which cause the company a deficit, alienates their customers, makes the city they work in a laughingstock, gets accused of sexual harrassment by a reputable, high level female executive and STILL HAVE A JOB?!?!?!? A BLACK MAN, AT THAT?!?!?!? Here’s where we start asking what Zeke has on the Dolan family that he must be dangling over their heads right about now. Here’s where we openly wonder what the game plan is for the organization when a guy who’s been given not one, but TWO chances at upgrading a roster has failed miserably at it. Here’s where we start looking for naked photos of Dolan fondling his dog or having sex with the mailroom guy. I mean, seriously. How does this happen in New York City?!?!?!? I swear, if I spelled my supervisor’s name wrong, I’d probably be on probation for a month. LOL Somebody. Anybody. Explain this to me. Please.]

I made it to Saint Paul’s College. I winged it. Besides, the town was so small, I couldn’t help but run into it. I get out of the caravan (which is growing on me, by the way … all I need are some sandals to wear with my dress socks, a Bermuda shirt and swimming trunks, and I’ll look reallllly cool driving this thing), and start to ask around as to where I can find Ms. Jolley.

Then it dawned on me. Everyone I stopped … was TALKING ON CELL PHONES!!! Sigh. Sure, go ahead and rub it in, why don’tcha. As I walked toward the Career Services building, I contemplated the fact that all the friends who I’d ignored during happy hour and while out at meals, concerts and sporting events, probably banded together to pay me back for giving more attention to my Sidekick than to them.

I was convinced that this was Intervention of the Worst Kind, with a group of them storming the town and taking down the only available T-Mobile tower just to teach me a lesson.

See what happens when I’m without my Sidekick? I turn into Julia Roberts in “The Pelican Brief” with all my conspiracy theories. Somebody shoot me now.

Let me describe Saint Paul’s campus to you. Quaint. Old school.

There. I’m done. It would be like beating Mister Ed to tell you that the walls must be made of lead, you know, since I couldn’t get a phone signal there. So … I won’t say that. LOL

I was there with a group of black executives, from Ente.rprise Rent-A-Car, the U.S. Navy, USDA Forest Service … and a reverend who serves as a professor of black studies at the University of Nebraska-Omaha. A really great group of people.

The opening night reception took place at a bed and breakfast (nope, Lawrenceville doesn’t have any hotels), where everyone met and sat down for a wonderful dinner. The conversation was flowing (as was the sweet tea), with the execs paired up with students that would serve as their ambassadors for the next day. All was good. In fact, at the B&B where I stayed, I was even able to get a phone signal. For an hour. The above-mentioned hour. That’s it.

Oh, and did I mention that the B&B had no television? No books? So it’s 9pm, I’m in the middle of Virginia, sitting up in my room like a broke-ass Brandy, itching to be informed about anything. So I did what any other inquisitive person would do.

I knocked on the owner’s door and asked for a tour of the place.

What??? Was that wrong? I mean, sure they were already in their pajamas, ready for bed. Could you blame them? Hell, they knew there was nothing to do there. LOL But they indulged me. Gave me the tour of the three-story house called The Three Angels Inn. Named after their granddaughters. The place was originally a hospital built in the 1800’s by a freed slave. It was used exclusively to treat escaped slaves and their families. And although it hadn’t been used as a hospital for years, it still had that antiseptic smell. Clean.

A tour of the living room was highlighted by uneven wood floors, an original fireplace with a wooden mantle, rows of pictures of their children and grandchildren atop a grand piano, two huge chairs in each corner of the room with untarnished doilies on each arm. I felt like I was in the old South, back in time. Which I guess is a good thing. It was historic, yet I didn’t feel it was necessarily my history. The owners are solid, though. Very accommodating. I would suggest that if you’re ever in the area, stay there. Except … I won’t.

Their grandchildren are alllll over the upstairs, where the rooms are. The stairs leading to the third level are decorated with pictures of their grandson. They call that section “Jacob’s Ladder.” Nice. Unless Jacob was gonna come give me a hand with my heavy suitcase, I didn’t need to know this. LOL I can’t remember all of the girl’s names, but I knew I was in Chrissy’s Room.

It was all white — frills and lace on the bed, doilies on the furniture, white carpet, an all-white bathroom … I was scared to touch anything when I first walked in. Sensing my trepidation, the owner told me to treat this like home. When I gave her the “Whatchutalkinbout, Willis?” face, she amended the statement with, “Well, a home that has no real modern amenities besides a fireplace, that is.” LOL

We both laughed, but inside I was crying. No TV. No PC. I was convinced I was a part of some experiment the government put together. I mean, even a Punk’d episode wouldn’t be this cruel. LOL

I finally managed to get to sleep, hunkered deep underneath the covers as the fireplace, while pretty to look at, failed to have any blowers so the heat could actually circulate throughout the room. So yeah, it was cold.

Sorry … work has got me all caught up right now. I promise I will sum up this trip tomorrow with Day Three: The Rebbie Reb and The Return.