Island Time, Rhode Island Style: Trying to make production goals in a state that doesn’t believe in morning people.

 

When I got deployed to Rhode Island, I’ll be honest — I was pumped. I haven’t been anywhere in a while, and it felt good to hit the road again. But before I left, everyone had the same warning:
“Rhode Island’s tough on adjusters. Real combative up there. Good luck.”

So naturally, I geared up for battle. I packed like I was going into a war zone — laptop, flashlight, extra pens, emotional armor.

Four days in, and guess what? Everyone’s been perfectly nice. No yelling. No attitude. No slammed doors. I’m starting to think the only thing Rhode Island’s fighting is the concept of urgency. The only guy who was mad at me was because  I showed up at a quarter to 9.

They’re on island time here — but not the tropical kind. No palm trees, no tiki torches, no fruity drinks. Just cold, gray mist, and Dunkin’ Donuts as far as the eye can see.

The average body shop “opens” around 8 a.m. That’s what the sign says, anyway. But if you show up at 8, you’ll just see a dark garage and maybe one guy wandering around holding a coffee like it’s a security blanket.

You can’t just walk in either. Oh no. You have to email for an appointment. Once that’s approved, you have to call them on the phone to narrow it down to an actual hour. And even then, you’re still guessing. The best you’ll get is, “Swing by sometime after coffee but before lunch.”

Lunch, by the way, lasts from 12 to 2. Then by 3:30, it’s too late to start anything new because they close at 4:30 — and God help you if you mess with that schedule.

For a guy who wakes up at 6 a.m., this has been an adjustment. I’m burning daylight while everyone else is still stretching and looking for their first cup of chowder.

So now my mornings go like this: I loiter around the Hampton Inn lobby, pretending to be fascinated by the continental breakfast. I’ve become the unofficial waffle station supervisor. I know the exact minute the pancake machine wakes up, and I can tell you which yogurt flavor gets ignored every time (it’s peach).

Once the fog lifts — both literally and emotionally — I hit the shops. I dive in, take my pictures, grab copies of what I need, and sprint back to the car before anyone can invite me to lunch. By the end of the day, I’ve got enough photos and notes to keep me typing for hours.

Then, while Rhode Island winds down for the night, I set up in the hotel lobby like a one-man night shift. Laptop open, earbuds in, free lobby coffee for fuel. I hammer out estimates until ten o’clock, trying to hit my production goal while the rest of the state peacefully snoozes under a blanket of sea mist and modest ambition.

Turns out, “island time” still works — even when the island’s cold, gray, and smells faintly of clam chowder.