Shortly after the turn of the millennium—let’s say 2002—I got something in the mail. It was not a personal letter but a commercial come-on. I ordinarily threw such pieces of mail in the circular file (the trash), but this time I read what was being presented. A company had built a large resort in the vicinity of New Braunfels, 40 miles south of Austin. The offer seemed clear cut. All I had to do was go down and take a tour, and I would be rewarded with a 3-day, 2-night vacation in Las Vegas. Despite the fact that Vegas is the most plastic city in the world and not the kind of place I would ordinarily visit, these individuals seemed to be offering me a free trip there.
Now, I am not naïve because I knew what would happen. Perhaps against my better judgment, I responded and agreed to come to New Braunfels. On the appointed day, I showed up and was taken to meet a man named Jim. It would be his responsibility to escort me around the place. Almost the first words out of his mouth were meant to emphasize that no pressure would be put upon me to buy. That’s good, I said, because I was not going to buy. Had he been listening, he would have known that he was wasting his time.
Jim and I drove here, there and yon, and I will concede that it was an attractive place. If I'd had plenty of money to throw around, liked golf and tennis, and was a country-club, retiree sort of guy—who knows? Maybe I would have been among those purchasing. I should add that numerous other people were taking tours of the resort and that Jim’s colleagues were plenty busy. If I and the others bought, the Jims would be compensated accordingly. You might say that the Jims would get some Benjamins.
Jim had been well trained by the company or conglomerate owning that resort in the Hill Country of central Texas. He constantly smiled, addressed me by my first name and asked questions that were intended to elicit affirmative answers. What follows is a summary of our conversation, with equal measures of literal truth and exaggeration:
Jim: Do you like to take vacations, Richard?
Me, somewhat confused: Yeah.
Jim: Do you like chocolate ice cream, Richard?
Me, even more confused: Yeah.
Jim: Do you like naked girls, Richard?
Me, confused out of my mind: Yeah.
Jim, closing in for the kill: Will you sign on the dotted line, Richard?
Me, without a trace of confusion: Oh, hell no!
When we came back to the resort headquarters, it was an interesting scene. I took note of serious discussions between Jim’s colleagues and others like me. It appeared that some of them were ready to buy. I had assumed that they, too, wanted that free trip to Las Vegas and were just going through the motions by taking the tour. Although I do not have a conspiratorial bent, I wondered whether all of that was legitimate. The interactions I observed were peculiarly open. If a person is about make a serious, long-term financial decision, he or she would best do it in a setting that is conducive to quiet contemplation. But all around me, people seemed to be in the process of signing up. Were they confederates? Was I in the middle of an elaborate dog-and-pony show? It did not matter because I would not be moved.
Jim’s approach had changed from sunny and easy-going to stern and puzzled at my recalcitrance. I had told him at the start that I was not buying, and that remained the case. He then called over one of his colleagues who really turned up the pressure. He laid out all the reasons for me to buy, but they were of no consequence. Finally he asked, “So if we offered you a Cadillac for $50, you would not buy it?” I told the man that his analogy was flawed and that I had been there long enough. With a mixture of pity and scorn, he took me to the girl at the front desk and told her I was not buying. She gave me some kind of document that showed I was to get the aforementioned trip to Las Vegas.
I regret to say our story is not yet over. Some affiliated company was taking care of the Vegas stuff, and they dragged their feet in numerous ways. We went back and forth for a couple of months, and I ended up taking a $200 voucher in lieu of going to that garish city of casinos in the Nevada desert. I never got to see the Strip or the Golden Nugget or some of the places where Frank Sinatra used to hang out with his underworld buddies. ’Tis a pity.
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