Tales in Hot Pink is a weekly column by our fearless leader. Like all management, he is not required to tell the truth, represent himself accurately, or trouble himself with reality in any way. And, in keeping with our corporate style, he is not bound by good taste or specific subject, so he may ramble wildly from topic to topic. As his employees, we encourage this, because the day is long and we are frequently bored.
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Opportunity
"Tom!" a happy voice shouts out. I have been spending too much time staring at one of the models in the windows of Lerner's. I turn to see him, Whatshisname, wrestling his way through the mall walkers. He looks overjoyed to see me. I have no idea where I know him from. "Tom, how you been?" he asked happily, grabbing my hand and shaking it furiously. "Good," I smile back hesitantly. Is he the mailman? "It's been a long time," he grinned. Not the mailman. The mailman comes every day. "Yes, it has," I agreed, as if I knew. "How long has it been?" he asked suddenly. It was supposed to be my question. "Damned if I know," I said. That was the truth. "I've lost track," I added. Also the truth. He grinned. "It's been a long time, though…that's for sure." "Definitely," I nodded. An uncomfortable pause. If I was a strong person, the kind of person who just didn't give a crap, I would have let silence kill the moment until the semi-stranger just blushed and wandered away. But I am not a strong person. I am a weak person. The kind of person who is trying to sell a book on the Internet. I need all the friends I can get. "So," I sighed. "What have you been doing all these-" All these what? Years? Months? Weeks? Days? "All this time?" "I've started my own business," he said, quite glad I asked. "Oh good," I said. "And you?" I was on safe ground here. "I'm a CEO," I said. I reached into my wallet and handed him my business card. "Very nice," he said, studying the card. "What does your company do?" "Do?" I asked. "What line of work are you in?" "Well," I said, shifting my weight to my other foot. "So far, we just have the business cards." "I see," he nodded, slipping it into his pocket. "They're very nice." I shrugged modestly. "Thanks," I said. "No phone number, though," he noticed. "No," I said. "We had problems with the phones." He and I looked at each other. I realized more of an explanation was required. "The employees were always making calls," I told him. "Cost us a bundle." He looked back at the card and I scratched my nose. "Gotta nip that kind of thing in the bud," I stated managerially. "Let me buy you a cup of coffee," he said. "There's a shop right around the corner here. We could talk business." "Talk business?" I asked. I wanted to get back to looking at the Lerner's model. One CEO skill I hadn't quite mastered yet was the art of talking business. "I think I may have an opportunity for you," he said. "I don't know," I said. I was worried. I didn't want my ignorance exposed. Then he'd know I was a fake and he'd never buy my book. "C'mon," he urged. "It's on me." "Okay," I said. At least I was getting something out of the deal.
He bought me a large cup of dark roast which tasted like liquid cigar ash. Dark roast is a marketing euphemism for burned coffee. I wondered if I'd have to drink the whole thing. I had wanted a mocha, but he had left me at a table while he went up to the counter to order. I had realized too late and too far away what he was getting, and I hadn't been able to think of his name in time to stop him. I had made loud, anxious noises, like "Um" and "Uh" and "Mm", but apparently these were not sounds that he answered to. "Do you remember Emmie?" he asked me. No, I thought. "Yes," I said. "Of course I remember Emmie." Who the hell was Emmie? A dog? A girl? A midget friend of ours? "She and I got married," he told me. Not a dog, I decided. He was watching me vigorously pump cream into my coffee from the carafe on the sugar table. "Good for you," I said. I started dumping packets of sugar into my cup. "She's quite a catch." "You think so?" he asked doubtfully. "Absolutely," I said. "Wonderful, beautiful girl." I took a painful sip. It sent shudders down my spine. "I guess," he said, scratching his chin. "That big birthmark on the side of her…" he motioned around the left side of his head, "And the moles all over her…" he wriggled his fingers at different points on his face, "and the big bald patches on her…" he indicated a few random places on his scalp. "I guess you grow to love that stuff." I smiled politely. "She's a hell of a business person, though," he said. "I'll give her that much." He took a deep sip of his coffee. "Yep," he said when he was finished. "Sometimes I wish she'd die in a horrible car crash, but you can't deny…one hell of a business person." I drank deeply. There was a large amount of coffee left, I realized with dread. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about," he said. "Right," I remembered. "Emmie and I, we've started our own business," he said, leaning in close, as if he were telling me something in confidence. "You mentioned." "It's a distributorship," he continued. "I see," I said. "And we're always looking for good people." "That's me," I said. "Good people." He proceeded to tell me about a wonderful opportunity in which I would be able to buy toilet paper in mile long rolls and bathroom cleanser in six gallon steel industrial barrels. Apparently, this will save me money because I am buying in bulk. And there's quite a profit potential, too…I just had to recruit others. They would buy garbage bags in boxes of three thousand from me. Then they'd go out, and they'd get people to buy two hundred pounds of cat litter, and then the cat litter people would go out, and get people to buy sixty liters of dishwashing liquid, and a percentage of each one of these monumental sales would come roaring my way like the Mississippi into the Gulf of Mexico. I thought about my life, and how unappreciated I was at work. Then I thought about the mile long rolls of toilet paper, and where I would keep them. A problem occurred to me. "I really don't shit that much," I whispered. For some reason, that fact embarrassed me. Perhaps there was something wrong with me. Perhaps I really was, as I have been told, full of shit. Then my old friend began Overcoming My Objections. This is a fine art, polished to a spine tingling sheen by the best salesmen in the world. Salesmen who make their living selling things that nobody really wants. He was good. I wondered if he practiced on Emmie. I'm used to the telemarketing Overcoming technique, where three no's are usually enough. But Whatshisname kept going after number three. And number five. And number nine. I wanted the Overcoming to stop. What could I say, or do, that would put an end to me saying no and him saying yes? Think carefully, I thought. Think very carefully. Then it hit me. "Sign me up," I said cheerfully. "Great," he said, shocked and happy. "Let's make an appointment to meet each other and we'll work out the details." "I don't have my planner with me," I said. "No problem," he said. "You can call me later. When you know you're free." He pulled out a tiny gold case and opened it. It was empty. "Damn," he said. "I'm out of business cards." "That's all right," I said. "You're in the phone book, right?" "Yeah," he nodded. "You can just look me up and give me a call." I smiled at Whatshisname. "I will definitely do that," I said.
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| A collection of more diseased madness below. Check
out a few, and then buy The Reluctant
Prophet. We won't tell
anyone what you spent your grocery money on. No one needs to
know. We can keep it just between us.
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