by Dave Jackson
Nicole knocked her shin on one of the dining room chairs as she passed through the room. What am I thinking? She was a married woman, mother of two. She had no business thinking about a handsome bachelor inviting her up to his “pad.” No. If he had asked her, she definitely would have said no. Maybe they could talk on her porch, but she wouldn’t have gone to his place.
* * * *
Traffic was light going down Lakeshore Drive until Greg got to Soldier Field, then it clogged with early rush-hour drivers. Greg calmed himself and flipped on the radio. Maybe some worship music on Moody Radio would help him avoid yelling at the jerks sneaking up along the right shoulder trying to pass everyone else.
Arlo’s place faced west on the fourteenth floor of a modern building adjacent to Harold Washington Park. As Greg rapped on the door, he wondered why a multimillionaire wouldn’t have insisted on an expansive eastside vista of Lake Michigan.
“Hey, man, right on time,” Arlo said as he ushered Greg into what was obviously the apartment where he lived, not an office suite.
Arlo was about forty, with dark hair and a week-old beard, the kind some guys cultivated to appear too casual to shave but not countercultural enough to grow a real beard. He was dressed in jeans and an open-necked white shirt under a tan corduroy jacket. But Greg noticed that his black loafers looked like top-of-the-line Italian.
The apartment was pretty basic—nice, but nothing special, with the usual casual mess of a single guy. Apologizing for how things looked, Arlo said, “I’m focusing on my place in Florida. Now that’s a domicile you gotta see to believe—sweet. But hey, first things first. Have you ever tried SlowBurn? You gotta try it, because I’m tellin’ you, once you sample it, there’ll be no turning back.”
Greg followed him into the kitchen, only slightly troubled at how Arlo’s description of the product sounded like a pitch for street drugs. But obviously this stuff was legal or they couldn’t be promoting it all over the web.
The eight-ounce cans Arlo pulled from his refrigerator were a smoky brown with a yellow-tipped blue flame on the side. He poured each into a wine glass and handed one to Greg. It looked like a creamy iced coffee with a slight head on it. The taste was light, refreshing, and something like a cream soda.
“So, how do you like it? Think you can sell this stuff?”
Greg shrugged. “Yeah, it’s good.”
“But good’s not what sells it. I’ll ask you in ten minutes how you feel, whether you’re more alert, are thinking faster, more in tune with your surroundings, without the jittery feeling of too much caffeine. Then you tell me what you think.”
Greg nodded as they left the kitchen, not oblivious to the fact that Arlo had just described how he ought to feel in a few minutes. There was a lot to the power of suggestion, but Greg believed he could be just as good a salesman as Arlo was.
“Come on into my office, and we can get started.”
Arlo’s office occupied the smaller of the two bedrooms in the apartment, but it served adequately as a home office. Better than what Greg had at the moment. Arlo took him through a slick booklet reviewing most of the information Greg had already studied on the web.
“You’ll get one of these promo booklets at your first training session, then you can use it to bring the teammates you recruit up to speed. By the way, we’ve got a Chicago-area training coming up in a couple of weeks, June 22 through 25, out at the Hyatt Regency in Schaumburg. You’ll want to register soon. The training’s only six-ninety-five, and we get a group discount on the rooms. It’ll put you right on track with your first level Training Premium.”
The idea of a local training program focused a question that had been in the back of Greg’s mind ever since Arlo said he was the Chicago-area director. “How many franchises or reps are in Chicago? I mean, are we going to be competing for customers and territory?”
“Ha, you don’t have to worry about that. There are over five million people in Cook County alone. And this training will be bringing in reps from all the collar counties, even Milwaukee, Rockford, and northern Indiana. We may be getting big, but you’re in on the ground floor. I can tell you that right now, no one’s covering that whole north end of the city, let alone Evanston or Skokie. But you’re asking the right questions. See what SlowBurn will do for your mind? You’ll be the man, Greg.” He slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re the man!”
Greg had a few more questions, but Arlo said, “Let me take you over to our warehouse. I want you to see the actual product packages we offer so you can get a better idea what you’re dealing with.”
The product was in a stall the size of a one-car garage in a nearby public storage facility—not what Greg had imagined as a warehouse, but it was clean and bright and certainly seemed to hold enough product.
“Here we go. As you can see from the boxes, you can choose from platinum, gold, silver, bronze, and starter packs. The starter packs are for team members you recruit, but I’d recommend you begin with a platinum supply because you’re gonna sell a lot of this stuff, so there’s no reason why you shouldn’t earn the largest Instant Bonus from the outset.”
“You mean there’s no reason you shouldn’t earn the largest Instant Bonus from the start.”
“Ha, ha. There you go. I told you SlowBurn sharpens your mind. But really, we both benefit from the bonuses. That’s the thing about this company: We’re family, share and share alike. You know what I’m saying.”
Greg frowned. “I’ve got just one other question. This whole thing sounds an awful lot like a pyramid scheme, and I thought those were illegal.”
“Oh, they are. But a pyramid scheme, or a Ponzi scheme, as it’s sometimes called, doesn’t involve any product. In those schemes, a person pays money to join, and then the next level of people to participate begin to pay them off while passing on a portion of the money up to the next level, and so on. But when no one else joins, everybody but those at the top lose what they’ve invested. You can see why it’s illegal—no product, no real wealth generated, just the top people collecting everyone else’s money.”
Greg waited to hear the difference.
“This is multilevel marketing with real product, and a very valuable product at that. Look, every marketing network in the country works on the same basis. There are the owners, the producers, the wholesalers, the retailers, and finally the consumers. All the way up the line, people are taking risks, investing their time and money to deliver the product to the consumer. Each one gets a little slice of the profit, but there’s a real product, a warehouse like this, and satisfied consumers, or it wouldn’t exist.”
Greg nodded his head slowly.
“Hey, don’t take my word for it. You can go to the library or online and check it out. This is as legit as snow in a Chicago winter.”
They both laughed.
* * * *
By five thirty that afternoon, Greg closed the tailgate on his Cherokee loaded with a platinum supply of SlowBurn plus two starter packs. He was an authorized representative of SlowBurn, with papers to prove it and a bank account that was $1,385.46 lighter.
He had something good to report to Nicole when he got home, but by the time he got to the Outer Drive, all lanes were backing up with rush-hour traffic. And then the radio reported a bad accident just north of Navy Pier was blocking three lanes of traffic. “Anyone who can avoid this area should choose a different route.”
Greg checked his rearview mirror. Should he gut it out on the Drive or exit west on Roosevelt Road and find another way home? Glancing to his right out over the lake, he saw a green and black ultralight plane floating gently down for a landing on Northerly Island where Meigs Field used to be.
That’s right! The Burnham Harbor Boat Show was in progress—the event he’d worked so hard to plan. The exit for Burnham Harbor was just ahead. He sure wasn’t going anywhere fast creeping along on the Outer Drive. He flipped on his turn signal. Why not?
Chapter 15
Finally turning onto East 18th Dr
ive, Greg headed out to the harbor just as the ultralight took off again, clawing its way up into the broken clouds out over the lake. He watched it go with a sense of satisfaction. Before today, he wouldn’t have dared show his face at Powersports’ last in-water event. But now that he had a job—no, now that he was in business for himself—it’d be a pleasure to answer if someone asked him, “Hey, Greg, how’s it going?”
He parked the Jeep and phoned Nicole. It rang five times and went to voice mail. Oh, well. “Hi, Nikki, I’ve got some great news. Everything’s gonna be okay. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home. But there’s a huge accident on the Drive, so I’m stopping by the boat show for a little while until it clears up. Don’t expect me before seven. Okay? Love ya.”
The woman on the gate didn’t know Greg, which was understandable since ticket sales, crowd control, and other such details were all subcontracted. But when he said he’d been the event coordinator for Powersports who’d negotiated the deal with her boss, she let him in for free.
As he headed toward the docks, he wondered if he’d see Chuck Hastings or any of the other people from Powersports. He’d be glad to see them . . . or not. It didn’t really matter, but there was an ache in his chest as he walked around and saw the various boats on display and sensed everyone’s enthusiasm. He’d loved his job, but now he passed through the show as if he were a ghost who no longer belonged there.
* * * *
It was only slightly after seven when Greg finally got home, but the dining room table was still fully set for four. “Nikki, what’s up? When I said I’d be late, I didn’t mean you had to hold dinner for me. The kids must be starving.”
His wife waved her hand. “I gave ’em a snack, but I could tell you were pretty excited, so I thought we should all eat together.” She grinned at him. “And besides, they helped me cook.”
“Hmm, thanks.” He pulled her to him and gave her a quick peck on the lips. “So what have you master chefs prepared?”
“Stroganoff and noodles,” Becky boasted.
“But Mommy had to cut the onion because we were crying.”
“There you go.” Greg grabbed his son in a headlock and gave him a teasing Dutch rub. “Now you know that even superheroes like you cry sometimes.”
“Ouch. But it wasn’t me,” Nathan protested. “The onion made me do it.”
“Well, it’s always something. C’mon, Mom wants us to come to the table.”
They held hands as Greg said a blessing. “Lord, I want to thank you for my family and for providing for us. And especially for this good food. Amen.”
As Nicole heaped noodles and stroganoff onto their plates, she smiled at him hopefully. “So what did you find out today?”
Greg chewed thoughtfully, making sure the kids knew he appreciated the meal. “The surprising thing is, this job isn’t in event management, at least not big events with hundreds of people like I’ve been doing. Though come to think of it, those big venues might provide some great opportunities . . .”
“Opportunities for what?”
“Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. Still processing all the possibilities. Okay, so here’s the thing: We’re going into business. Well, actually, I’m going into business for myself. But it’ll involve us all.”
“You’re what? You’re going to compete with Chuck?”
“No, no. Powersports is a has-been. And I’m not doin’ sports shows. I’m the new area rep for SlowBurn.” He paused, waiting for her to respond. Nicole looked confused. “Okay, you probably haven’t heard of it. It’s too new. But you know what energy drinks are, don’t you? You can get ’em in any store. SlowBurn’s an energy drink, but it doesn’t load you with a lot of caffeine, and it’s not sold in stores. It’s different. As their motto says, ‘It’s the Time-Release Energy Drink that won’t let you down!’”
“And you’re gonna, what . . . sell this stuff?”
He launched into an enthusiastic explanation of his new business. “First I have to create a warm list, actually two warm lists.” Seeing the question in her face, he explained. “A warm list is people you know personally—family, friends, people at church, people I know. One list will be potential customers. And that could be just about anybody because the stuff is so great. The other list is people who have ambition to better themselves, to get ahead. Arlo—he’s the area director for Chicago—said they don’t need to be skilled salespeople because the product will sell itself. They simply need to be people who want a better lifestyle and are willing to put in the effort to get there. They’ll become my associates, and—”
“Mom, I’m done,” Nathan interrupted. “Can we go watch a video?”
“You haven’t finished your salad.”
“Aw, Mom, I don’t want any more.”
“Finish your salad. Then you and Becky can watch for half an hour.”
“Aw, Mom, one video won’t even be over by then, please?”
Greg caught Nicole’s eye and gave her a let-’em-do-it shrug. He figured bringing Nicole up to speed might take more than half an hour.
She sighed. “Just eat your salad and go.”
As soon as the kids left the table, Greg tried to continue his explanation, but Nicole peppered him with questions: Had he checked out the company with the Better Business Bureau? How would Greg get paid? Would there be any base salary they could count on? What about benefits?
“No, no, not in the traditional sense. Health insurance and retirement plans are things employees want but can hardly get these days. But this is a business, our business. We build it. We get the profits. And we’re gonna earn so much that things like insurance and pensions will seem like mere perks.”
She frowned. “Then what does the company provide, this guy you went to see?”
“The company backs us up, provides product, training, and support. Of course, in exchange for all that they get a small cut of our profits, but most of that’ll come back in the form of the bonuses they offer. You can’t imagine all the opportunities.” Greg breathed in patience. Answering Nicole’s questions was good practice for recruiting associates. “Remember I told you I believed God was going to prosper us? Well, this is it. I just gotta reach out and claim it.”
Nicole nodded slowly. “Wel, maybe so.” She put a hand on his arm. “Really, I’m glad if you’ve found something you’re excited about. I never doubted God would take care of us. It’s just . . . well, we’ll see what God does.”
“That’s right, honey, and I can’t wait.”
“There’s just one thing, though.” The frown was back. “I always feel, you know, uncomfortable when friends or family use our relationship as . . . as leverage to get me to do something. I mean, even if it’s a good thing, I still don’t like feeling manipulated.” She grimaced.
Greg threw out his hands. “You wouldn’t say that about evangelism, would you? I mean, isn’t it our responsibility to tell a friend about Jesus’ love or . . . or even warn ’em about the consequences of rejecting salvation? You know, friends don’t let friends go to hell, to put it in crass terms.”
“Yes, but there are ways of sharing the gospel that don’t manipulate. But when you talked about creating a warm list . . . I don’t know. It seemed . . .”
“Hey, I’m not going to be manipulating anyone. It all depends on the product. If the product’s really great, then sharing it is not only easier, it’s like doing the other person a favor.” He stopped, a shocked look on his face, and held up his hand. “Wait a minute! I forgot the most important thing. I’ll be right back.”
He returned from the kitchen with a clean glass, half filled with ice, in one hand and a can of SlowBurn in the other. “I forgot I had this in my briefcase. Here . . .” He sat down, popped the top, and poured. “Try it.”
She hesitated to pick up the glass. “It won’t keep me up all night, will it?”
“No. There’s very little caffeine in it. Maybe like a cup of green tea. Go ahead, try it.”
Nicole took a sip a
nd then a larger swallow.
“Whaddaya think?”
Nicole’s eyebrows went up as she licked her lips. “It’s good. Kinda reminds me of a root beer float with enough ice cream to make it creamy.” She took another swallow. “You sure it won’t keep me awake?”
He grinned. “The idea of starting our new business might, but not the drink. And that’s what I was trying to tell you. What kind of a friend would I be if I had the key to a six-figure salary and didn’t share that secret with my best friends? What if the only people I offered it to were complete strangers, people I contacted through cold calls? It might be great for those strangers, but avoiding my friends and family because I was afraid they’d misunderstand and think I was manipulating them? No way. It’s just like with the good news of salvation.”
“But . . .”
“But what?” This was becoming frustrating. If Nicole were a potential associate, would he continue recruiting her? Would he even keep her on his warm list? He closed his eyes and exhaled. “So, what’s your problem?”
“I just . . . guess I feel uncomfortable comparing an energy drink to the gospel. I mean, we know the gospel is true. Its rewards are obvious in the lives of millions of people, including our own, and we believe God’s Word brings eternal life. But this SlowBurn is just a product—I mean, it tastes good, and it might be good for you, I’m not doubting that, and maybe you’ll do well and make a lot of money, but . . .”
This wasn’t going like Greg expected. He had to turn it around. “Honey, I’m not comparing an energy drink to the gospel. But it’s all about believing in what you’re doing. It’s whether you know that you know that you know. Arlo kept hammering that into me today. You gotta believe in your product. And I do! I really believe this stuff is all it’s cracked up to be, and there’s a market out there for it—just like there was for the boats and ATVs that Powersports used to help sell. Or anything, for that matter. So I don’t think I’ll be manipulative.”
