JWB

**This story is 100% true**

I read the next name from the list, “J.W.?”

“Yeah, hey, how’s it going?”

“It’s going well.  Thank you for asking.  What can I do for you?”

“I can’t make any, um, calls on my cell phone.”

“Okay, let me take a look at it.”

I grab the phone from the tanned hand of the man with spiky, slightly thinned, brown hair.  The phone should have at least half a bar of service in our store and should read the Company’s name across the top of the screen.  Instead, it has stopped even trying to search for reception and needs a little help.  If ever there were a panacea for cell phone woes, it’s the old pull-out-the-battery-put-it-back routine.  I try that while I get the phone number from the gentleman in the shiny black shirt.  The 702 area code suggests he is visiting from Vegas and as I type it in to the computer, I can’t help but recognize his name.  John W. Bobbitt.  Holy Shit.  

I was 15 when John Wayne Bobbitt and his then wife, Lorena, splashed their way onto the main stage of national news.  He was accused/acquitted of marital abuse and she was found not guilty of taking a knife to his penis and throwing it into a field.  There were, rightly, no riots following this verdict. 

And here I was, face to face with tabloid celebrity.  Not celebrity, legend!  I was sharing space with the star of movies such as John Wayne Bobbitt: Uncut and the terrifying Frankenpenis.  That's right, one of the founding, ahem, members of the largely unknown band, The Severed Parts was handing me his cell phone!  (You know I had to look up all this stuff, right?)

Famously, in 1993 an all-out scouring of the field in Manassas, Virginia resulted in locating the half penis and, like many a Disney movie, it was quickly put on ice.  It was ultimately taken to the hospital where Mr. Bobbitt was being treated and a nearly 10 hour surgery resulted in the reunion of Big John and Little John.

There are moments in one's life when one discovers his true calling.  There are times of serendipity that can neither be explained nor denied.  There is magic.  15 years after this man made my adolescent manhood shrivel in empathy, I am performing surgery on his cellular phone. Granted, I am performing a far simpler operation in the back room of the Company phone store, but an operation nonetheless.  I deftly reprogram the razor-thin flip phone with a new smart chip and, making sure the phone is able to make outgoing calls, I reappear to the sales floor, wiping my hands and wiping down the phone.  It is now that destiny calls out to me as I hand the gentleman his phone and deliver the line that has been screaming to get outside my head.  

“Congratulations, Mr. Bobbitt.  You’re reconnected.”

Antonio Gold

I’ll tell you who’s a real self-made man: The Prince of Mexico, Antonio Gold.  My favorite customer, The Prince of Mexico always comes in "just to see what’s new” and then he buys it.  He never complains when I tell him I can’t do something, he understands the limits of my position and he fully comprehends that, sometimes, cell phones don’t work.  He also picks up the check at the Sushi Cafe.

Always tan and impeccably dressed, Mr. Gold keeps even the remaining strands of his hair in slick order, parallel to one another, all ten of them cutting through the breeze in unison.  He had someone create him a logo with his initials and a crown on top.  The Prince, AG.  We transfer the logo to the wall paper of every new phone he gets.  Only he knows better--he calls them “toys”.

He knows to come in on Monday, when both Brooklyn and I are working, but Cock Bombay is not.  Sometimes he comes in on other days and makes Cock Bombay shake his hand and kiss his ass because he knows we’ll get a kick out of it.  He tells us we should keep our jobs until we have somewhere else to go.  Of course, all of our customers share that somewhat biased opinion.

Originally from Mexico, I sometimes doubt his last name was Gold before he moved to Beverly Hills.  I’m not saying he wasn’t Jewish before, but I may suggest his levels of religious devotion can be altered with the terms of the moment.  I've never seen a yarmulke disrupting the aerodynamics of his tanned dome, but I suspect he keeps one in his convertible's glove compartment.  He's a convertible Jew.  Best as I can tell, he makes a living servicing television executives, lawyers, doctors and professors.  He introduces people and, to my bewilderment, must somehow get a commission in doing so.  I don’t get involved with the ethics of it, just the sashimi.

“Two large sakes and three large Sapporos!” Brooklyn announces our return.

We hand our hot towels back to the server.  The Prince of Mexico keeps his because he prefers it to the napkins.  He starts the ordering in his heavy, regal Mexican accent that sounds like a coffee plantation.  For each item he orders, he pinches his fingers to varying degrees, as if the size of the item would help the server to locate it.

“Bring me some sesame seeds, toasted," (small pinch)  "and those carrots," (slightly more space)  "and some limón," (larger still).  "Mucho limón" (the biggest).  "And we are ready to order.”  He orders.

Having once been in their shoes, I am quick to provide the “please” and “thank you” to the server.  The Prince would never dare.  Normally, such dismissive behavior toward those in the service industry would be reason enough for me to limit a friendship.  If you are ever the least bit rude to a server, you lose points.  The Prince of Mexico earns a free pass.  Maybe he’s just curt, not rude.  He’s buying, I can’t complain.  Okay, fine, I have a price.

“I’m going to tell you both something,” he ignores the arrival of toasted sesame seeds and julienned carrots.  “This Bombay is out for you both.”  He crams a salmon skin roll full of what he calls “the Omegas”  into his mouth.  “Heee’s going to get you.”

Brooklyn and I are no strangers to this news.  If anything, we broke it to the Prince months ago.  For me, Cock Bombay never got over the fact that I made it back from the 2007 firing and has been looking for a reason for me to foul up ever since.  In his mind, he doesn’t make mistakes, but he was a part of that one.  The way I treat him as if I know he fucked up drives him crazy.  Brooklyn stands up to him just enough to cause trouble.  Not one to let assaults on the truth slide by, Brooklyn will get into screaming matches with Cock Bombay in the Acrylic Cage just to test the limits.  Somehow he makes it out alive.  In many ways, he’s a braver man than I.

Basically, Cock Bombay knows we’re smarter than he is.  He knows we don’t fit nicely into the system.  We are not the droids you’re looking for.  If it weren’t for 1) our customers always pulling him aside to tell him how great we are and 2) our sales records, we’d be long gone.   We make up our own rules and he hates it.  He needs the numbers we post and the service we provide.  He’s stuck between having it his own way and us, his MVPs, having it ours.

In Cock Bombay, the Prince of Mexico sees similarities to himself.  “This guy, he will stop at nothing to get to the next step.  He can either get noticed by promoting you, or by firing you.”

I haven't thought of our situation in these terms.  I poke my chopsticks in the wasabi and think about Bombay's options.  Promoting us is clearly more dangerous to his career.  He would gladly promote us to the Inland Empire region to get us out of his way, but I think he knows we’d be back.  I think he knows the desert would spit us back out too.  Covered in sand, we’d find Cock Bombay sucking down soup in a saloon somewhere.  Brooklyn and Glamour Boy would dismount, tie up the horses and kick down the doors.  

“Cock Bombay, take your last sip of broth and turn around!  Recognize us?  You thought we were dead.  You dragged us out to the desert and tied us to a stake.  You surrounded us with rattle snakes and left us there.  You gave us each a gun with one bullet in it, hoping we’d come to some kind of mutual agreement.  Well, we have.  We both agreed that as long as you’re sitting in your executive chair with those beady eyes judging the world, there will be no peace.  We saved these bullets, Cock Bombay.  We saved ‘em--one for each of your damned beady eyes.  You may not see where you’re goin’, but you’ll know where you are by the flames on your back.  See you in hell, Cock Bombay!”  POP POP!

“What are you laughing at?”  the Prince looks at me confused.  

“Nothing.” I pour another round of sake.

Brooklyn drops his in his beer, grinning.  I slam mine and chase it.  The Prince of Mexico wipes his hands on the towel, shaking his head and smiling.  "Just watch your backs."

“We should go.”  My conscience ends the fun.  I’m always the first to ruin the party.  “They’re waiting.”

Self Made Men

Cock Bombay is a self-made man.  I know this because he tells me over and over again.  He moved from India 14 years ago to pursue what he calls “the life of the dream.” 

The dream began, somewhat nightmarishly, slinging impossible sacks of mail for the post office.  He would check in before the sun was up, work as many double shifts as possible, and bust his ass until he could finally move up from there to the Dry Cleaners.  But it was this time served in the mail room that injured his lower back.  To this day, that is why he struts around with his chest sticking out so cockishly.  Well, he is probably also trying to gain the couple of inches God forgot because rumor has spread that he definitely has lifts in his shoes.

I watch him pace feverishly outside, chain smoking.  It’s Saturday morning, 7am, and we are about to have a store meeting.  Most of the sales reps have arrived, bleary-eyed from a night of drinking, carousing and the general ‘forgetting of customers’.  Mr. Bombay is waiting for our special guest speaker.

Typically, our meetings are well-structured.  The Company is so micro-managed, even the managers get play-by-play scripts to go over in the Saturday morning meetings.  This way the language is universal, the cogs are set in place and the machine works.  New phones are mentioned, new rate plans are discussed and we are told how to better sell, sell, sell.  We are also reminded, often in the same breath, of how important it is to do right by the customer.  “Double make sure,” Cock Bombay urges us, “to take care of the customer and the customer takes care of you.”

It’s futile to fight the agenda.  It’s too early to get so upset and it would only further ruin the weekend you already lost.  So we nod, pretend to take notes, obey.  A panacea is explained, in simple script form, of how you can close every sale, solve every problem and meet every goal.  It will be shot straight to hell by the first special circumstance to walk through the door.  And, in case you haven't been paying attention, they are all special circumstances.

The guest has arrived and Cock Bombay begins.  He loves an audience.

“Good Morning!”

The ranks mumble something back.  Brooklyn settles into his beach chair, rolling his eyes.

“I said, Good Morning!”  Mr. Bombay repeats.

To everyone who has ever tried to address me and my classmates since grade school: Saying ‘good morning’ louder the second and third time does not make it so.

I yell “Good Morning!” back so we can move on.

“Okay, that’s better!” The Cock continues, “Everyone is here, so the ball needs to roll.  Thank you all for coming early on your Saturday.  I thank you.  I bow to you."  He does. "First, let me talk about the numbers.  Store was number one in the new activations again--4 months in a row now above 500 each month.  Store was number one in television product sales for 8 months in a row.  We did 82 TV package sales.  You guys are doing the selling.  Selling is there.  That’s the best news.”  

He always amplifies “good” to “best”.  In other one-on-one meetings, he'll gladly “give you best example.”  It never is.  He goes on to talk about the network and how selling is only half the battle.  Making sure the customer understands the network is our priority.  Talking about the network is the key to a good customer satisfaction score.  It’s how we will bridge the gap between the customers total satisfaction with us and their Likelihood to Refer The Company.  I’ve been telling my own, devoted customers that the network would improve for four years now.  At what point am I responsible for this lie?  I nod, take notes, obey.

“Now I have a special treat for you.  Thank you for listening to me.  This man will be talking to you now will be more exciting to listen to, more motivational.  He is a very exciting speaker.  He is my friend.  The Big Fish.”

The Big Fish greets us and immediately proceeds to tell his story:  As a teen, he lived in a park across from the McDonald’s he worked at.  He would hide food in the dumpster so he could go back and eat it at night.  He worked two jobs, maybe five jobs at once, went to school and became a cop.  Once he joined the police force, he moved up quickly through the ranks as a motorcycle cop until the fateful day a guy driving an El Camino on Crenshaw flipped his bike through the air and broke every bone in his body.  He “crossed over.”  He saw the light and the next thing he new, he was in the hospital, tubes sticking out of every orifice.  

These are the bullet points and they are, one may say, riveting.  Even I have to admit it is pretty amazing stuff.  I have no problem with the story.  On paper, this can be some motivational shit.  Just going through that shit, however, does not entitle you to become a motivational speaker.  You must know how to speak and, preferably, in a motivational fashion.  This guy is, quite possibly, the least inspiring person I’ve ever met.  The story is disjointed, more than a little rough around the edges and wanders in broken english until it finally ends with these parting words, verbatim:

“I’ve crossed over.  I died and came back.  I’m retired now.  I used to eat burgers from a dumpster but now I have two Rolex watches, five cars and my wife can buy whatever she wants.  I came from nothing and have the man upstairs to thank for everything.”

Brooklyn leans over from his beach chair and whispers, “The guy who owns the gym?”

I turn red with suppressed laughter, stifle it and endure the rest of the story.

“You guys have some opportunities that I never had.  You guys have been given so much more than I ever was.  You are blessed by the man upstairs.” Oh please stop.  “He watches over you and he takes care of you.  You all have it better than I ever did.  I made the most of it and look at me now.  See this Rolex?  I never thought I’d be wearing one of these when I was digging burgers from a dumpster.  The man upstairs provides.  Do the best with it.”

I take a breath.  Once I stop giggling over the image of Rage watching over us and providing for us, I start thinking about this guy’s speech.  Wait, what was that?  Then I get angry.

Firstly, my personal belief in The Man Upstairs stands in stark contrast with material goods.  That Rolex, I had always been taught, won’t make it with you when you 'cross over' for good.  I’m pretty sure that if you believe in God, you also believe he’s never said, “hey, nice watch!  Is that a Submariner?”

The fact that this guy thinks I care about his Rolex is an insult.  But why is he even here to begin with?  Why bring in yet another person to further confuse the boundaries of sales and service?  This is the message: ‘Be thankful for what you have and, by the way, I have more now.’?

So Cock Bombay thinks we’re brats.  Clearly the purpose of this motivational speech on an early Saturday morning is to remind us that we come from (mostly) middle class America and therefore have already secured a better life.  The lesson is that we should never complain about our shrinking compensation pay, that we are ungrateful and should be embarrassed.  No matter how little we are paid, or how poorly we feel we are treated, we should be thankful.  We should never voice our concerns or suggest that we want something better.  

But didn't he?  Isn't that how he got his back problems?  Isn't that the result of both of these guys and their dumpster-diving, double-shifting and extra-hour-ing?  Complaining alone will not improve your condition, sure, but shouldn't you speak up when your condition worsens, when you sense injustice?  Shouldn't you say something while you are also doing something?

In this moment I say nothing as I look at a cohort further alienated from their leader.  The de-motivational speech has taken its toll and I sense there is about to be an increase in day-drinking nearby once we leave.  At best, more than one of us walks away with the lesson that it's okay to steal burgers from your employer as long as it eventually leads to wearing a really nice watch.

Jonah and the Peen S-4

I read the next name from the list:

"Jonah?"
"Yeah," an abrupt voice sounds out in a choppy half-syllable.  The teenage boy in black pants and jacket motions to his friends to follow as they approach me at the counter.
"Hello Jonah," I begin, this time with the appropriate amount of welcome back in my voice.  He is proud and turns over each shoulder to be sure that his minions have acknowledged his notoriety in the store.  "What brings you back so soon?"
"Oh, you know, just seeing what's new," he squeezes out before you could count to one, one thousand.    I don't say anything yet as I let him settle in and calm down.  He nervously smiles, only allowing his eyes to check back in with mine if he must.  Otherwise, he looks up and over my shoulders as if I should have minions too.  He pokes back his black, full brimmed hat and looks back to see that his two compatriots are still with him.  Then he leads on.
"So, uh, what's new?  Got any new phones?" he manages in 550 milliseconds.
"Not much, man.  We got that new Samsung with the 5 inch..."
"Samsung sucks," he scoffs, encouraging his friends to agree.  They do so, not really knowing.
"...screen and the Peen S-4 processor." I continue in a disapproving tone of authority.  His eyes meet mine for as long as it would take this kid to say Hi and quickly dart away again with a nervous smile following.
"Ericsson is the best.  Whatever happened to Ericsson?" (300 milliseconds)
"They merged with a musical device company and got less concerned with making phones that just worked."
"My dad says Ericsson is still the best.  He still uses his Ericsson from 4 years ago, HA!"
This time the nervous laughter on the end of the sentence escapes his mouth, uninvited by its predecessors.  I look at him sideways, once again questioning whether or not Jonah might have mild Tourette's.  I don't think he does, so I'm slightly less forgiving of his sense of entitlement.
"I saw your dad last week, Jonah.  He was looking at the Samsung."
"Yeah right, I'm so sure, pshhh."  This time the pshhh trespasses on the rest of his sentence as he sprays it over his shoulder at his friend.
"I'm just kidding," I assure.
"I know you were kidding," like it's a race to say the same thing.
"Your dad will probably never upgrade his old phone, but he's in here as often as you are asking about the new ones."
"Yeah, when he decides, I'll just order it online for him anyway and that way we can get a car chargerandcaseforlessthanhowmuchyouwouldsellthemforhere."
I make sure he breathes.
"So, you wouldn't buy it from me, Jonah?"
"Well..."
He has never considered this option, or the idea that I might be affected by his choice.
"It's expensive here," he defends.
"I know.  But at least you know that I'm here to help if your dad needs assistance."
"I can help him."  He's mostly right.
"Just know that if you buy it online, we can't help you with it here."  I mostly lie.
"Yeahokayfine.  What's so special about this Samsung?"
"Well, as I was saying, it has the 5 inch dis..."
"My dad doesn't need a big screen."
"And a front-facing cam..."
"Doesn't need it."
"International capabilities."
"Meh."
"And it's built with that Peen S-4 inside."
"Meh."
"The Peen S-4 is pretty fast."
"Huh, what's a Peen S-4?"
"That, Jonah, is something you should ask your dad."

The joke flies over his head and the two behind him, landing somewhere in the middle of the showroom floor.  He informs me that they are going to take a look around and I stand in the middle of the room, checking to see if they need any additional assistance.
They won't.
His father will buy the phone online and get his son to catch him up to speed on the 5-6 years of technology he has missed. When Jonah runs out of patience for his father's slow adoption rate, his father will either a) try to return it in the store or b) come in for a private lesson on how to use it.  Zero commission and one extra-large headache later, Cock Bombay will ask me why I didn't sell him a bluetooth headset for his new phone.  I, unlike Jonah, will take a second to think about all the things I would like to say and then, not finding any of them appropriate, keep my damn mouth shut.

The Pinnacle (Part 3)

Lest you believe this party to be a frivolous display of The Company's benevolence and generosity, you'll be glad to know that the other shoe drops with the rude blaring bells of a 7am alarm clock after the previous night's Bacchanalia and karaoke revelry.

We have a meeting to attend.

Yes, even here on this weekend of celebration, of thanks-taking, we must file into the reserved ballroom at 8am for an all-hands meeting.  There are two genius reasons for this.  First, it pleases the accountants who can file the event into the expenditures column that includes all other meetings.  Second, it provides the Bulldog with crucial insight into how well his employees handle their hangovers.  Having left the festivities well before the inevitably degrading karaoke sessions, my hangover is non-existent.  Last night, Wifey and I absconded with a bottle of wine and enjoyed our balcony on the far side of the resort property.

And now we're all here.  8am.  Ready to go.  The Bulldog looks rested as he eyes the room and has the 15-20 staffers take roll.  Ahhh, that's why they're here.  His wife, who was last seen drunkenly busting stray cougars who were trying to crash our party the night before, was NOT in attendance.  I'm assuming she was dismissed from active duty just this morning.  Cock Bombay is here, his wifey with him.

You know how graduation from a large school is 2 hours of sitting through other names for the 5 seconds of celebrating your own??  Now imagine doing that, but without ever having wanted to graduate in the first place.  I am too tired to crack jokes.  I start wondering what's wrong with me.  Why am I so ungrateful?  Why can't I feel a little bit excited that the work I've been doing for the past ~10 years is being recognized?  Maybe because it isn't?  A computer stacked the numbers and I somehow made the cut.  Nobody acknowledged me.  I wasn't nominated, elected, confirmed.  SkyNet said I could be here.  What the hell do robots know?  I try to be excited, but even that is a lie.  

They read my name.  I walk up onto stage, between The Bulldog and a VP.  I stare into the camera that is SO MUCH MORE EXCITED THAN I AM TO BE TAKING THIS PHOTO and I give it a dead, wry smile as I sarcastically lift the...oh shit, is this acrylic? No! It's glass! trophy(?) above my head.  The Bulldog snorts, "That's the spirit!" as he makes note that I am one to watch, one who can clearly hold his Pinnacle-adas.  He pats my back and I exit, back to the rows of interlocked seats in the large ballroom.

I sit down and Wifey leans over to take a look.  

"Wow," she starts as she turns it in my hands, "it's heavier than I thought it would be."  

We laugh and take note of the inscription.  [First Name][Last Name] Pinnacle Winner [Year].  I'm sure the template never gets it wrong.

You might think that a misspelling would be appropriate here, but it's accurate.  Instead, there's a slight inconsistency with the line as my name trails around the glass Mikasa vase.  It begins to dip.  Maybe a 4-5% grade decline as my name fails to wrap evenly around the side.  I chuckle a little.  That's seems appropriate; It's not wrong, but it's not exactly right, either.  

The vase and I are just a bad fit.  It's useless to me and I'm no good for it either.  The whole thing feels wrong as I feel even worse that I'm here.  I feel like I broke something.  I look down again.

It's a vase defiled by my name being engraved into its side.  Worthless.

We get back to our room just before noon.  There are gifts waiting for us.  Today, they are flip-flops with bottle openers in the the middle of the sole.  Unlike the worthless vase I am holding in my hand, I treasure these little multi-taskers.  Finally, something of value!  I've long looked for a way to transmit the germs from the ground I cover all day into the beverage I enjoy at night.  Maybe my attitude has been wrong the whole time.  Maybe I should have been looking for a way to kiss the very ground I walk on.

Identities of The Bulldog and VP have been protected...by very comfortable masks.

The Pinnacle (Part 2)

Let's be clear about one thing here, everyone has the same reason for looking forward to this event.  The free food, drinks, resort and activities are nice, but people are there to "network".   Read: people are there to kiss up.  There is so much deep, nose-in-crack, butt-kissing going down at The Pinnacle, it should be sponsored by Listerine.

We get to the outdoor welcome dinner early and manage to grab a couple of glasses of wine before finding an empty table.  A frozen coconut concoction sounds great in 58 degree weather, but we manage to resist the urge.  We sit on the outskirts of the event and watch as the gravitational pull of VP and P create clusters of rubbing shoulders around them.

Above me, hierarchically speaking, are Assistant Managers, Managers, Area Managers, Directors, Vice Presidents and finally El Presidente himself, The Bulldog.  The Bulldog's cluster is the biggest.  He is actively smiling as his asshole is diligently cleaned and he meets "my wife" and "my husband" as if that were to improve anyone's stock in his eyes.  I like to picture him taking off his shoes at the end of a night like this and wondering aloud, "where the fuck do we find these people?"  These people who always start their script the same way:
"Hey, Bulldog, it's [name] from [department] in [city and/or state].  I'd like you to meet my [insignificant other]."
WHY??  Why the hell does this guy, who clearly doesn't know you, want to meet another stranger who  is wearing:
a) an ill-fitting suit
b) a helmet of hairspray
c) a little bit of Pinnacle-ada on her sweater?

Sorry, that was a trick question.  He doesn't.

Just as I'm thinking that they might let any ass-hat into this party, I see Cock Bombay and my suspicions are confirmed.  He's pulling his wife behind him like a rag doll as they make their way through the crowd toward The Bulldog.  I think, if this doesn't go well, he will blame it on her.  He will find something outside himself--her dress or hairstyle or lack of stimulating conversation.

It's over quickly.  It's a lot of jostling and what I imagine is the generic response from The Bulldog: "I hear great things about what you're doing down/up/over/out there in [city and/or state].  Keep up the good work.  We've got our eye on you."

Cock Bombay's entire face is beaming.  He is so happy that I almost forget that such a smile usually has a canary behind its teeth.  But I find myself happy for him in that moment.  Perhaps because, when things are going well, those around him are spared.

We drink our wine as our table finally fills with the latecomers who could not get seats closer to more important people.  We meet them.  I feign excitement about what [name] is doing down/up/over/out there in [city and/or state], because I know they're doing the same thing to me.  I want to apologize for being the very bottom of the totem pole.  Maybe tomorrow they'll fly a little closer to the flame.

The Pinnacle (Part 1)

The Pinnacle Weekend was once reserved for those achieving and exceeding in sales metrics: New Activations, Accessory Sales and Features.  The incentivized path was that which added the most pre-decimal numbers to a customer's monthly bill.  Recently though, to prove the doubters wrong and get the numbers up, The Company finally started incorporating Customer Satisfaction scores into the required metrics.  That elusive JD Powers Piece of Acrylic would find shelf space, dammit! 
Sales alone would no longer get you to the best weekend of work you ever had!  The cherry-pickers, the hustlers and those "sales" guys were all ousted.  The 1% was overturned and yours truly has been given access in a customer service coup.

The Pinnacle is to reward the top reps in the West (14 states) and sometimes takes place in such exciting destinations as Park City, UT and Honolulu, HI.  This year, when my ticket to ride comes in, Wifey and I pack up the bags, load up the car and drive the hour it takes to get to to Dana Point, CA--five minutes from my parents' house.  It's not that I'm ungrateful, but this is the second time I've been rewarded with a trip home.  The first time followed a stellar 3rd Place finish on Jeopardy! which I would later forfeit so as to not have to pay the taxes on a $4000 trip.  'Put it to you this way':  Dana Point is a beach in Southern California's Orange County.  That means March is mid-60 degrees at best, cloudy and damp.  So all those other reps heading to "Sunny SoCal" were in for a real surprise.  At least everyone knows how to pack for Park City in March.

"God really wants you to go to Dana Point."  Wifey assures me with a Field of Dreams destiny.
"Meh."
"And the drinks are all free."
"We'll go."

We arrive.  I instantly begin calculating the salary costs of people checking us in.  15? 20 staffers?   Just to read the names of a couple hundred?  A photographer???  I've begun doing this, this critically suspicious accounting of "How much did these brochures cost?" and "What's the best possible price for buying Hi-Liters in bulk?"
As I stare at the extravagance around me, Wifey implores me to "let it happen."  I do.

"Here are your badges.  Make sure you wear them at all times while on the resort.  And which two of these day-time activities would you like to participate in?"  The cheery voice makes me feel guilty for not being more impressed.  I attitude-adjust and look at the list.
"Well, let's see.  I guess Whale-Watching and...um the Art Walk?"
The golf reservations had all been taken, we'd both already taken surfing lessons, SCUBA freaks Wifey out and the rest were all Arts and Crafts.  I saw a couple of names scribbled under "Basket-weaving" and I shivered.  As it would turn out, since neither suffering the colder conditions of whale-watching nor the amateur water colors of local artists sounded appealing, we would ultimately bail on the two events for which we signed up anyway.
"And we'll see you at the welcome reception tonight!  Get ready for those Pinnacle-adas!!?
"Our what?
"Pinnacle-adas!  It's the official drink of the weekend! It's a Piña Colada but with the name..." my ears spare my brain and seal themselves instinctually.

We go to our room.

She reads the next name from the list.