Brain: I have it. Surely you’ll proclaim this one a Darbytastic idea. Why don’t we crap your pants so you can excuse yourself?
Me: Dead man walking.
We were now five heavies away from me. I should have been shunned twenty minutes ago but the locker-room love being bestowed upon heavies by other heavies for their sales dominance had slowed down the sound-off. It was nearing noon. Everyone knew what that meant; Gerald Thorn would leave for lunch. It didn’t matter if he was in a meeting with our most important client; the man would stand up and go to lunch. It was wired in his head that he had to eat when the two hands pointed straight up.
I couldn’t believe it. I quickly joined in the celebration. I slapped butts, dished out high-fives, and did double bicep poses. Whatever it took to keep the sound-off from reaching me I did. Who had a silly grin now? Me, that’s who. I had an out and it was only five minutes away.
Brain: We did it! We did it!
Me: What do you mean, “We”?
Gerald also sensed what was five minutes away. He stood up and buttoned his jacket. “It’s lunchtime gentlemen. Why don’t we pick this up another time?”
Hooray! I was off the hook. I immediately headed for the door. Just as I had a foot out, I heard a wounded animal cry out. I looked back.
Harold held a file in his hand. “Wait! I’ve got all the sales figures right here. I could quickly read them off.”
Gerald stopped for a moment, contemplating. He looked at his watch, then over at Harold. Everyone in the room had stopped what they were doing. They waited for his answer.
Sweat ran down the sides of Harold’s face. He had pit rings that would make the planet Saturn proud. His lip quivered. He was dying to blurt out the figures.
The King of Sales gave the entire room a once-over. He took a deep breath, pressing his lips together so his mustache covered them. What was he thinking? What would be the decision? He looked down at his watch then at Harold. “How many we got left?”
“Five,” Harold said.
Gerald again checked his watch. It looked like Harold had him. The King was wavering. He rubbed both sides of his chin with one hand and then tugged on his mustache. The entire room was on edge, awaiting an answer. No one dared move, not even an inch.
After what seemed like hours, Gerald finally said, “Fuck it. Let’s eat.”
Chapter 10
I once read somewhere that beautiful women think the reason they don’t get asked out much is because they think their looks intimidate men. That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. I’ve asked them out. They said no.
I arrived at San Francisco International Airport around a quarter to six. The sun had just cracked the horizon and the fog layer was more of a mist, not enough to delay departures this morning. So far, the day was going as planned.
I met up with Elana Voronova and the rest of the tour at the gate. I did a quick head count. There were a total of five guys including myself who had signed up for the tour. I couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a pathetic thing.
“Hi, Elana.”
“Ah Darby, hello. How are you? Excited about trip?”
“Oh yeah. Can’t wait to get going.”
“Good, good.” Elana pointed to the men around her and said, “These are your tour mates. Introduce yourself. Make friends.”
I was hoping she wouldn’t say that. I was feeling a little shy this morning, maybe a tad bit embarrassed that I needed to get on a tour and travel halfway around the world to meet a woman. Whatever. I decided to suck it up and make the best of my trip.
I went around and did the whole introduction thing. Most of these men were guys whom I don’t think I would have hung out with. Then again, who was I to talk? Tav was my only friend.
The first two I met looked like they could be brothers. Turns out they were a couple of Silicon geeks. I stuck out my hand. “Hi. I’m Darby Stansfield.”
The dark haired one grabbed a hold of my hand and shook it like it was a Polaroid picture. “Hiya. I’m Gene Wimmers. This here is Matt Sherry. Nice to meet you. Whaddaya say? Gonna be a great time or what, huh?” Gene said as he winked at me.
“Yeah, I think it will.”
They both worked at Google. Don’t ask me what they did; my mind started to drift when they tried to explain it to me.
They seem decent enough even though they were dressed as if they were heading into the office. Both had on wrinkle-free khakis with a white button-down, long sleeve shirt. Gene was the more outspoken of the two. Which is great if you like talking about search engine optimization. I don’t.
I excused myself and made a beeline to the redheaded guy sitting by himself listening to his iPod. “Hey. I’m Darby Stansfield,” I said with my arm extended.
This guy looked up at me with an eye squinted. I felt like he was deciding whether to talk to me. It was the first day in third grade all over again. He finally pulled his ear buds out and shook my hand.
“Alonzo Forrester. Nice to meet you. What brings you on the trip? Fun or marriage?”
“Uh, fun. Definitely fun. You?”
“Marriage. I’m looking to find a sweet girl I can settle down with. I’ve done two trips to Ukraine. Almost got lucky last time but it didn’t work out. Third time’s a charm, they say. What do you do for living?”
“I sell wireless business solutions.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “You don’t look like you’re in sales. I’m in the jam business––marketing manager at Smucker’s, up in Chico. Heard of it?”
Nah, I’m the one person in the whole wide world that’s never eaten jam before. “Sure. Hey, are you guys allowed to eat Welch’s or is that against company policy? You know, kind of like how Coke employees can’t drink Pepsi.”
Alonzo gave me an emotionless look before tuning me out with his iPod. Whatever. I wasn’t here to make friends.
The last guy was old. He looked at least sixty. He was also the best-dressed one out of all us. His suit looked like it was custom made by his personal tailor. This guy reeked of money. Turns out he used to be a successful lawyer in the city but was now retired. His name was William Weingard. His wife passed away a couple of years ago. I guess this was his way to get himself back out there mingling with the opposite sex. He appeared to be the most normal of the group.
About a half hour later, we boarded the plane. It was a straight shot to Frankfurt and then from there, the final leg to Minsk: the land of hot women who liked fun, lovable, caring, energetic rich dudes. Funny thing, nobody here looked like they had any money except for the lawyer, William.
Chapter 11
Minsk, Belarus
We landed at Minsk International Airport at 1:05 p.m. local time. Minsk was eleven hours ahead of San Francisco. Thankfully, I slept most of the flight. While we were taxiing, I noticed there weren’t any commercial planes on the tarmac. I only saw three others and they were all from Belavia Airlines, the Belarusian airlines. Military aircrafts were aimlessly parked around the airfield in lieu of commercial airlines. I guessed the airport didn’t get much action. This was further confirmed when I exited the plane.
The terminal was desolate. There were no smiling counter personal, no anxious passengers waiting to board. Most of the lights were turned off, except right where we happened to be walking, and even then it seemed like only every other light was on. Most of the airport seemed to be lit by natural lighting. The overall color palate of the building was gray and black with a little ‘70s wood paneling here and there. The mood was barren.
Also, we saw no other travelers—just our group and ten other passengers from the flight. There was not a single breathing soul in the airport until we reached passport control. On the way we passed one store. It was closed.
After guiding us out of the maze of empty hallways, Elana immediately directed us to a desk off to the side where a very serious woman sat. She wore a brown military uniform and looked to be in her mid-twenties. Her red lipstick popped against her fair skin, while her
short blond hair remained neat and orderly. Not once did she crack a smile or say anything.
“All visitors entering country are required to buy state health insurance,” Elana said.
It wasn’t much, only five bucks American.
From there, we headed over to passport control. There were two other non-residents besides us. They reached passport control first. They must have looked suspicious to the young man in the booth because for the next hour or so, various uniformed men entered and exited the little booth. Slam. Slam. Slam. I felt sorry for that little door. It took almost two hours for all eight of us to get stamped through.
Earlier on the plane, Elana had coached us what to do next. She said there would be two lines for customs. Her instructions were very specific. “Don’t look at customs. Don’t speak to customs. Follow green arrow, not red one, until you reach baggage claim. They don’t stop you if you look confident.”
I was beginning to wonder what I had gotten myself into, but we followed her words of wisdom to a tee and everyone got through without any problems. Except for the two other dudes. They wavered.
Entering the city was a bit surreal. The weather was sunny and the sky cloudless, so everything was clearly on display. The landscape, once we left the airport, quickly turned to forested land. Birch trees were the dominant life force outside my window. It felt like the middle of nowhere for miles, but soon signs of a city began to appear. We passed big blocks of utilitarian apartment buildings. Then there was of course the occasionally oddly shaped building, like the national library that looked like a giant ball filled with water.
As we got closer to the center of the city, the buildings on the main street featured ornate facades and regal entrances. The rich lived here. Businessmen did business here. Everyone else got thrown into block housing and liked it.
I had read in a travel guide that most of the cities in Belarus, especially Minsk, were completely leveled in War World II. When the Russians took over, they built it all from the ground up according to their tastes. Those same buildings still stand today. It’s as if one traveled back to the old Soviet era. Everything was uniquely preserved in that snapshot.
Aside from the boring buildings, one thing I did notice on the way in was the armed police presence. There were a lot of what seemed like normal police walking around in their brown uniforms and then there were the SWAT-looking ones with high-powered rifles. Was this good? Did someone say police state?
Elana must have read my mind. “You know, in Minsk there are four policemen for every one citizen? Very safe city. Nothing to worry about.”
I couldn’t argue. In fact, I had to agree so far. My first impression of the city was that it was extremely clean. People moved along the sidewalks in an orderly fashion. There were no stray animals. Homeless? Forget about it. I didn’t see any.
“No jaywalking,” I asked.
“Never. Not here. Everyone obeys law.”
Of course they do and everyone dresses in black, which may or may not be highlighted with gray. Smiles? They don’t exist. I had not seen one since we landed. I had to ask. “Elana, why do people look so harsh? They don’t smile.”
“Americans are different, always say hi and smile to strangers. It is not like that here or in Russia. It is because of communism. You only trust people you know. If you smile to stranger, they think something bad about you. Maybe you spy for government.”
“I hope the women we meet are friendlier,” Alonzo remarked.
“Once people get to know you, is fine,” Elana said quickly. “They smile and welcome you into their house. Girls are different. They sign up for this. They look forward to meeting you for weeks.”
We were booked at the Hotel Yubileinaya right along the Svislach River. At first glance, it looked like communistic block housing. My second glance told me I was right. Nothing special from the outside: thirteen stories of high-rise drab.
It got better as we entered. The lobby was lively and they had a little casino tucked away in the far corner of the building. The lady working the front desk was thin, young, and beautiful. I was beginning to think this was a requirement of all Belarusian women.
After we all checked in, Elana motioned for us to gather around her. “Okay, everybody is checked in. I have hotel rules for you to follow. Nobody leave hotel without informing me is one. No guest in your room is two. Nobody use phone in room is three. Nobody watch porno on TV is four. Nobody walk around floors. Only lobby and room.”
When Elana switched hands so she could count higher, I tuned out. I wouldn’t remember her rules anyway.
Satisfied that she had given us all the rules, Elana clasped her hands in front of her. “Now, go to your rooms, settle in, and be back down here in thirty minutes. I have minivan hired to take us around for city highlight.”
We all nodded and then headed up to our rooms.
Chapter 12
Ever show up at a club at eight so you can get in before the bouncer comes on at nine? I have.
The sun had just set when the minivan pulled up outside of a nondescript building. If it weren’t for the small neon sign that hung outside flashing back and forth between the words “night” and “club,” I would never have guessed it was a place for clubbing.
Elana turned around to face us from the front passenger seat. “Okay guys, I have rules for nightclub. Do not treat women badly. No hanky panky in club. If you want to arrange date with girl, ask her and then both of you come to me to finalize. Okay?”
We all nodded, though I was a bit surprised there wasn’t more.
She motioned to the building. “This is very popular nightclub called Traxx. Usually is filled with university students, but tonight it is closed for our private party.”
Once inside, there wasn’t any doubt that this was party club central. The club had two floors, each with a fully loaded bar and a decent light show. In the corner I spied the DJ spinning. There were also couches and beds to lounge around in. This place would easily fit into the LA or New York scene.
But what really sold me on the club were the fifty or so women spread out around the dance floor. They were dressed to the nines and already sipping cocktails and swaying to the music. Some of them wore skirts so short you didn’t need to be a little person to get a good look.
Elana steered us over to a table where two women were sitting. “Okay, everybody. I want you to meet Masha and Lena. They will handle translation with girls if needed. Or you ask me and I can do it. So, the bar is open guys; the drinks are free. Talk to the women, dance and have good time, okay?”
There we stood, all five of us, like scared little boys at a junior high dance with our testicles tucked high up into our groins. None of us knew what to do or wanted to make the first move. Finally after a few minutes, Elana and her associates grabbed us by the arms and shoved us into the group of women to get things going. From that point on, it got better.
I found myself surround by blonds, brunettes, redheads and a couple of purpleheads, each one more beautiful than the last. I was a playboy in control of the game. Hugh Hefner ain’t got nothing on me. These women were interested in one thing and that was getting to know Darby Stansfield.
With my mojo set on high, there was no time to waste. I told them, “My name is Darby,” and they responded, “Such a manly name.” I couldn’t go wrong. Everything I shot was a hole in one. They all wanted to stand right next to me. Girl after girl jockeyed for the pole position on one of my arms. They all wanted to answer the questions I asked. It was exhausting being the center of attention. Now I know what it’s like to be a hot model in a string bikini walking along the strip in Miami on a Saturday night. Euphoric. Suddenly someone somewhere grabbed my package. That I did not mind.
“My name is Inga.”
“Hello. I am Liudmila.”
“Hi. My name is Tasha.”
The introductions continued.
As the floodgates flapped wildly open, more women flocked to me. Two had already hooked their arms t
ightly around my mine. One was a tall slender woman with long blond hair. She wore tight jeans with knee-high black leather boots. Her top was a tight sweater whose only job was to accent her breasts—and accent them it did.
The other woman was shorter but much more exotic looking. She was curvy in a J-Lo way. Her hair was black but her eyes were bright blue and she wore the reddest of red lipsticks. She had on a short skirt that barely covered her booty. A tube top under a short denim jacket rounded out the top, and stiletto pumps finished out the ensemble.
The small one pulled me down and spoke into my ear.
“I am Zoya. She is Sveta.”
“Hello, Zoya. Hello, Sveta. Nice to meet you. I’m Darby.”
“Tell us what you do for job?” Sveta asked.
“I’m in sales—telecommunications.”
“Oh, sound important.”
“Yeah, it can be.”
Zoya tightened her grip on my arm and batted her eyelashes. “I bet strong man like you has big responsibility.”
“I do, you know. I’m responsible for getting companies to spend a lot of money with us. I’m pretty special in my company.”
“Oh, tell me Darby,” Sveta chimed in.
“There are only a few like me. They call us heavy-hitters.”
“Heavy-hitter. That sounds so masculine,” Zoya said. She squeezed my bicep again. “Strong, smart, handsome man. You must have many woman around you.”
They even liked the jokes I told, especially the one I made up about Sveta right there on the spot about her sweater. I asked her, “Sveta. Are you sveting in that sveta?”
I knew these women were laying it on thick, but man, did it feel good. I felt like a king. King Darby was finally in the right kingdom. Could I really find someone special here? I was hoping.
By the end of the night I had met and danced and drank champagne with most of the women. They all thought I was strong, handsome, and intelligent. I was on track to improving my love life—and definitely my ego.
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