How I Accidentally Became a Middle-Aged Taylor Swift Stalker

 

I spent ten days in Rhode Island recently, and  the dispatchers kept me close to the hotel. West Warwick, East Warwick, North Warwick, South Warwick—basically every direction except Warwick “Diagonal.” Add in Woonsocket (still fun to say if you have the maturity of a middle-schooler), Narragansett, and Pawtucket—also known to locals as The Bucket—and I was really out there living the dream. If the dream is a series of parking lots, Dunkin’ cups, and people yelling “you from insurance?”

Now, I get a little bonus if I close enough claims in a day. It’s called cat pay, which my daughter and stepdaughters find hysterical. They immediately picture me in a hoodie, sliding a Ziploc bag of catnip across a dim parking garage to a Persian with mob ties. Honestly, that’s about the level of dignity I work with most days.

Which brings us to how I became a middle-aged Taylor Swift stalker.

For the record: none of the kids are official Swifties. Most of them live somewhere between “meh” and “I know the chorus if you play it.” Hannah can name about fifteen songs, though, so she may be a closet Swiftie—but that’s an intervention for another day.

One of the claims I needed for cat pay wasn’t where it was supposed to be—because the universe likes to keep me humble. After some gentle begging that sounded suspiciously like I was applying for a job I’m not qualified for, the customer agreed to let me check it in the parking lot of their job in Westerly.

When I wrapped up, I realized I was only minutes from Misquamicut State Beach. And since I had once again promised the kids I’d bring home rocks, I headed over. The TSA must think I’m either a part-time geologist or the dumbest smuggler alive. Every time I fly home, I’m the guy unloading quartz, beach stones, and whatever sedimentary nonsense I grabbed like I’m defending a thesis. They don’t even bother hiding the eye-roll anymore.

The parking lot was empty except for roughly four thousand seagulls, all of whom looked like they’d seen things they could never unsee. It was cold and misty, basically Rhode Island’s November personality, but I wandered out anyway.

There was one guy fishing. One. As in: the last living human on Earth besides me. We started chatting, and he pointed down the shoreline to a white house near a lighthouse and said, “That’s Taylor Swift’s place.”

Naturally, I zoomed in and took a picture so pixelated it looked like a UFO sighting, and sent it to the family group chat.

Megan texted back that one of her coworkers is a full-blown, dyed-in-the-wool Swiftie, and that I needed to get a better picture.

So down the beach I went—like a man with purpose, even though the purpose was “earn a tiny bit of respect from a group of twenty-somethings who definitely know I’m ridiculous.” A few miles later the tiny blob of a house became a slightly bigger blob. And honestly, I would’ve kept going, but the tide was coming in and there was a seawall, and I’m at the age where wet socks in cold weather is a medical event.

Back in the car, I pulled up the map and realized—because I’m brilliant—that I could’ve just driven to her house the whole time.

So I did.

The drive was a tour of Rhode Island’s wealth. Expensive homes, more expensive homes, and then The Ocean House—a massive pale-yellow mansion-hotel hybrid that looks like Old Money got bored, married New Money, and built a baby.

I eventually parked near Taylor’s place, paying close attention to the signs that politely screamed, “Turn around, buddy.” You can’t get a good picture from the street anyway, so I took the public beach access down. Even the access path was gorgeous. I felt like I needed to tip someone just for walking on it. 

Down at the beach, I finally had a clear view of the lighthouse, the backside of Taylor Swift’s house, and—completely stealing the show—The Ocean House, which made Taylor’s place look like the guest suite for people who aren’t allowed to make eye contact with the butler.

I was supposed to be stalking Taylor Swift, but instead I fell in love with a hotel I can’t afford to breathe near.

Was it worth it?
Absolutely.

I drove back to the hotel in the dark, sat in the lobby like a traveling census worker, and cranked out the last three claims to earn my cat pay. Megan sent the picture to her Swiftie coworker, and the coworker texted back, “Your stepdad seems cool,” which is the closest I’ll ever get to being inducted into the Swiftie Hall of Fame.

So yeah—no arrest, no ocean rescue, no restraining order. Just another day in Rhode Island.

And the kids laughed.
Which is literally the entire point.