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A major gas and oil tool company with whom I was once employed purchased a privately-owned, technology-based company headquartered in Provo, Utah with a second facility in France. The acquisition was to attain the rights for an ingenious, breakthrough process, which would provide a major advantage, if not domination, in the rock bit market. I was appointed as president of the new subsidiary, which required a weekly commute from Southern California until I managed to permanently relocate. Every week for the first six months I boarded a Monday 6:00 AM flight at Orange County Airport for Salt Lake City and returned Friday evening. Orange County Airport (SNA) is officially John Wayne Airport I suppose because the late film actor once lived in Newport Beach. At the entrance there’s a large bronze statue of Wayne in full cowboy regalia; hat, gun, holster and all. I chuckle every time I see it. Foreigners and some Americans gawk at the statue believing the guy was some kind of wild-west gunfighter or sheriff. A suitable metaphor is my gas log fireplace: a fake fire pretending to burn cheerfully. Only in America… The early morning flight was consistently oversold creating conflicts, loud arguments, and an abysmal start to the week. Once you squeezed into your uncomfortable seat in a sour mood you didn’t want to have anything to do with anybody. On the morning of my very first SNA-SLC flight, a clueless chatterbox beside me wouldn’t take the hint. Fortunately I had the aisle seat with motor-mouth sandwiched in the middle between me and a wheezing Falstaffian gentleman, who leaned his large, greasy head on the window in an attempt to sleep. Mr. Middleseat Motormouth kept glancing at me while blathering-on attempting to engage me in conversation. I did not react to his rhetorical, nonsensical asides and nonstop comments. (hey,howyadoin?; greatday; Ilikeyourjacket; Ineedsomecoffee; there’sadoublerontheoutsideskinabovethecabindoor; thisflight’salwayscrowded; theskin’sonly40thousandthsofaninchthick…and on and on) I pretended not to hear. Finally he poked me and said, “S’cuse me, you gotta magazine in your seat pocket? Mine’s missing. Don’t believe I caught your name.” I sighed as if the request was a great bother and handed him a tattered and crumpled airline magazine avoiding eye contact and comment. Further, I tried to appear to be seriously intent on studying an important proposal. I think I may have been holding it upside down. He leaned into my space. “Say, where you from?” he asked, projecting a dreadful combination or morning, cigarette, and coffee halitosis. Big emphasis on wwhhhere. I swooned, tried not to hurl, and considered punching him in the face, but being naturally polite (yeah, that’s right) said, “Huntington Beach.” I held my breath and turned an upside down page rapidly as if something very important grabbed my attention. I tried to work up a fart to get even. Unfortunately, my bowels wouldn’t cooperate. Where is intestinal distress when you really need it? He looked at an article, pointed to a paragraph, and turned toward me. “Interesting…” I kept my mouth shut and my eyes averted, not wanting to give him any kind of opening, and stared with knotted brow at the document in my hand, seeing nothing—just a blur of upside down print. Undaunted, he continued, “Bet you can’t guess where I’m from? (pause) No? Well, I’m from Lehi about 20 minutes south of the airport on I-15 on the way to sin city. Las Vegas. Yes sir.” I continued to ignore him while trying to think up something that would be off-putting. “I’m sure you know Lehi,” he said enthusiastically. “Remember that movie with Kevin Bacon—Footloose? They filmed this scene with him swinging through a granary. That’s the Lehi Roller Mill. You pass right by it on the Interstate.” I knew the place. He was right, it was visually prominent. I nodded absently and yawned. He didn’t take the hint. “Business takin’ you to Salt Lake City?” “Provo,” I said, breaking silence without thinking. Damn! He perked up immediately. “You gonna visit the Y while you’re there?” He meant Brigham Young University. “No,” I said quietly. “I haven’t been to a YMCA for several weeks. If you’ll excuse me…” “Say, are you a member?” I knew he was referring to the predominant religion of the area, but I said, “A member? No, I don’t belong to the Y. I’m a member of an athletic club, but I do play handball once in a while at the YMCA on the Back Bay.” Maybe now he’d leave me alone. “So you don’t belong to a ward in Huntington Beach I guess…” Wait a minute; this guy reeking of cigarettes and coffee was a “member”? Apparently he was one of those they referred to as “Jack Members”. From previous Utah trips, I knew the use of “ward” referred to their name for a congregation, several of which meet in a building called a Stake Center. I decided to play ignorant. “I’m not sure what ward I’m in. I didn’t vote in the last election.” I leaned my seat back, turned away, and closed my eyes. I used his run-on blather as auditory chloroform. Some time later my eyes popped open, and I was aware the guy was still yakking. I’m not sure how much time passed because it was one of those times when you nod off, but aren’t sure if you’re really asleep or not. “…and that’s why marriage is such a big step…” I closed my eyes again, and turned away. After another fifteen minutes or so the guy was still going! “,,,then I gave my testimony of what I knew was true…” Zzzzz… “…and Halloween was always a fun time at our house. Y’ever notice how the candy bar makers never call the little Halloween bars small? They call ‘em fun size. Who d’they think their foolin’? Why if I…” The positive side was that his droning voice was like a sleeping pill. “…y’see you got your Snickers, Milky Way, Sky Bar, Nestle’s Crunch Bar, Baby Ruth, Abba Zabba, Suger Daddy, Hershey’s with almonds—my personal favorite, Chuckles, Butterfinger, Neccos, Twix—y’know I can never tell the difference between Twix and KitKat—Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, Three Musketeers, Mars Bar…” After we deplaned, the guy stayed on my elbow talking all the time, but I ditched him at the baggage claim. Whew! I drove my rental car south and took the Provo exit off from I-15. The arid Utah climate gave me cotton mouth so I stopped at a gas station / convenience store for some gum and bottled water. After I paid for my purchases and turned to leave, a middle-aged guy with a St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap, stepped in front of me and gave me an eyeball-to-eyeball challenging look. He tilted his head and partially closed one eye. “Who’re you?” he demanded. His boldness took me by surprise, but it was clear he demanded an answer. Irritation and annoyance stepped-to-the-plate, so I decided to give him smart-alecky response. “Name’s Jablowme, first name Heywood.” I plopped in a piece of gum and began smacking it with my mouth open. “I know it’s early, but do you know where we can get a snort of whiskey around here? I’m buyin’.” He stepped back and gave me a suspicious, cockeyed, I-must-report-this look, “What ward are you in?” I pushed by him and said over my shoulder with a wink and a smile, “Montgomery Ward. Hope to see you there.” The plant was located near the BYU campus, a few doors from the offices of educator and author Stephen R. Covey. Upon arriving, I was greeted by two of the original founders and owners, both of whom were retained by my company, one in research, and the other as project manager for the technology we coveted. Although they seemed pleasant and buddy-buddy with one another like old lodge brothers, I had been warned that wasn’t the case. The two of them had built the firm from scratch, but over the years their relationship had morphed to absolute loathing. Both were very intelligent and had super-sized egos. Both were “members”. At the close of business that first day, I took the former owners to dinner mainly to learn about progress, challenges, and to exchange pleasantries. Instead, each presented an elegant, well-prepared, logical case about why the other should be terminated. Not an ounce of emotion was projected, only a matter-of-fact presentation of evidence. While one made salient points, the other sat quietly and occasionally nodded. To this day I have never experienced anything like it. What a bizarre dinner to cap-off a bizarre day. I set both free. What would you have done? Copyright by Gene Myers, author of AFTER HOURS: ADVENTURES OF AN INTERNATIONAL BUSINESSMAN (2009), Strategic Publishing Group, New York, NY – a hilarious account of the author’s overseas travels; and SONGS FROM LATTYS GROVE (2010), PublishAmerica, Fredericksburg, MD - a mildly sinister, but amusing work of fiction. Both are available from Amazon and Barnes & Noble, and available in Amazon Kindle and Nook formats. Watch for SALT HIS TAIL, a catch-me-if-you can crime thriller.
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gas and oil tool company, acquisiton; SNA-SLC flight, motor-mouth, Utah, ,
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