I drove over the I-5 Bridge that crosses the mighty Columbia. (This is the bridge that needs replacing yesterday, but no one can agree on what to build in its place.) The I-5 Bridge is old, narrow, and funky, and will probably fall down in the impending earthquake. (When I cross bridges that I know could collapse I mentally review my action plan for exiting my car while underwater. Basically, my plan is the same as my retirement plan: Die.) Anyway, I crossed the bridge, which is a requisite phase in any journey of self-discovery, and despite road construction, one-way streets, and lack of signage, found my way to the so-called pub.
I ordered an iced tea and sat by myself where I could watch the door. Over the next 20 minutes, other people came in, ordered drinks, and sat by themselves. Were they here for the event? I imagined walking over to them and introducing myself. Hi, I'm Carol, are you here for the SBA thing? I remained seated, watching. Pretty soon two young women—one dark-haired, one blonde—arrived carrying clipboards and stacks of handouts and SBA magazines. They talked with the waitperson and in a few minutes, lo! a table (a glass-covered door set on a folding table) was prepared for the group in the middle of the large, cavernous room next door. The room was lined with dark wooden booths, occupied by diners, who ate quickly and left when one of the SCORE mentors began talking. (More on him later.) Tall factory-style windows let in grimy sunshine; everyone was a silhouette to me, as I sat facing the windows. Outside, a huge yellow roadgrater tore up the street, grinding back and forth for the next hour. The wood-slatted floor gently shook.
The dark-haired woman introduced herself and talked about the mission of the SBA. We went around the table introducing ourselves. A variety of businesses were incubating: a maternity boutique proprietor, a computer wizard, an office furniture mogul, a real estate broker, and a purveyor of prepared foods for single moms. Plus me, marketing research geek. There were exactly as many SCORE and SBA representatives as there were potential clients. Six of each, to be precise. After introductions, the SBA leader told us to mingle and talk with the SCORE reps.
I scooted over one chair and talked with the loud SCORE guy, whose name was Bill. I didn't want to; I could predict what I was going to get from him: a lot of palaver. But it would have been rude to get up and leave him for the tall, slender, blue-shirted mentor further down the table. Besides, he had identified himself as a marketing expert. There's always more to learn. Said the recently minted Ph.D.
Bill was a husky, older man with pale gray bushy hair and unkempt mustache. I told him I was starting a marketing research business. (I did not tell him I have a Ph.D. in marketing.) He immediately began lecturing.
“Here's what you gotta do,” Bill said. “You gotta specialize.” I took a breath to respond, but he ran me down. While I waited for him to pause, I noticed his bifocals were dirty. He was five weeks past heart bypass surgery, so I forgave him his dirty eyeglasses. However, while he talked, he continuously scratched his forearm, leaving a litter of dead skin on the table top.
As he talked and scratched, I couldn't help it, I started laughing. Luckily, every other thing he said was something he thought was hilarious, so my laughter just spurred him to keep talking. And scratching. Then to my horror, to punctuate a punch line, he took the hand he'd been scratching with and used it to tap me on the shoulder. Ew, ew, ew, his flaky dead skin! On my shirt! If I were murdered later, he would have a hard time explaining the presence of his skin cells on my shoulder. Assuming he's in the FBI's database, of course. Ew! What a time to be reminded that anytime I am in a crowd, I am immersed in a putrid cloud of other people's dead skin, spittle, and phlegm!
I'm not a germaphobe, really. There's a bigger problem illustrated by this interaction. Unfortunately for me, Big Bill is the kind of man I seem to attract. Like the megalomaniac multi-level marketing guy I blogged about last year. Big, blustery, loud, talkative, egocentric blowhards intoxicated with the sounds of their own verbiage. I believe they mistake me for a weak, easily controlled, unresistant patsy, simply because I am quiet. When I don't respond with praise and awe, they don't ask questions to find out what I am thinking. They just keep spouting their verbiage, no doubt thinking to themselves, She's a dimwit, but maybe I can get her to sign up for this multi-level marketing scheme! The possibility that I am a discerning introvert with a professional interest in the idiosyncratic behavior of other people apparently does not cross their tiny one-track minds. And they rarely give me a chance to get a word in edgewise; their conversation is locked up tighter than a frog's sphincter.
Bill gave me his card. If the past is any indication of the future, then I'll find myself being mentored by Bill, almost by magic, as if I had no hand in the outcome. Luckily, if you follow the stock market at all, you know that past performance is never a guarantee of future results. I won't call Bill. I will find another mentor, if I need someone, a person who knows how to listen. And possibly who doesn't have psoriasis, although that's not really a deal-breaker. (Gosh, when I think of all the slivers of cuticle skin I have left in my wake, I shudder with disgust and shame. Dermatillomaniac, that's me.) No one is immune to the plague of being human. Not me, not you, not even SCORE mentors. Sad news: It's 100% fatal. Good news: We have today. It may not have been my favorite day, but I was fully present for it. That's a victory, for me.
