Time Suck …er, Share

I could hear Sue on the phone in the other room and it seemed like she was doing most of the listening. An occasional “But–“ or “Well, you see–“ but otherwise, silence. I wandered in to see if she needed an assist.

She had it on speaker, and a lady was talking nonstop in loud, hectoring tones. “Timeshare pitch,” Sue whispered. Oh, brother.

They wanted us to pay 99 bucks, listen to a two-hour pitch, then they’d put us up in a nice hotel in Myrtle Beach for three nights.

We’d heard the stories of time-share pitches, but what the heck, we could use a break. How bad could it be? We’d just say no. Sue put it on mute and we had a brief discussion as the voice on the phone continued without pause.

Sue took it off mute and politely interrupted the lady in mid-stride: “OK, fine, we’re in,” she said. There was a noticeable pause: Huh? Yes?

A month later found us driving to Myrtle Beach and discussing strategies for saying NO as I-95 rolled by: Her parents already had one we could use any time. My folks had a yacht; what do we need with a time share? We finally settled on I had just lost my job.

We walked into a plush room brimming with activity: people, travel posters, slideshows, balloons. I noticed dozens of racks with brochures and stations with food and drink. Agents sat at desks across from prospective customers. The customers’ body language was telling; many had their arms folded, legs crossed, a stony expression. I think they were also there only for the weekend getaway.

A deeply tanned guy about 30 approached us, big smile, hand extended.

“Remember,” Sue whispered. “Let me do the talking.”

“Hi folks,” he said warmly. “I’m Brad. I’ll be your host today.” He had a strong grip. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Water?” I noticed the tailored shirt, gold cuff links, expensive looking watch.

“No, thank you,” Sue said.

“Fine, fine,” he said. “Let’s just get you comfortable over here.” He ushered us over to a desk by a window. We all sat.

As agreed, Sue immediately opened up with her big guns. “Look Brad,” she said politely. “I’m sure it’s all very nice and a great deal. But, see, Darryl just lost his job and there’s no way we can afford this. We’re just here for the $99 weekend.”

If we expected Brad to immediately fold, we were gravely disappointed. In fact, he looked even more enthused. He leaned back, steepled his fingers and smiled. The consummate professional. “Hey, no, that’s fine. Completely understand. A lot of folks have issues like that. Let’s face it, these are hard times. But that’s why I think you’ll be so interested—the unreal affordability.”

He waited a second or two, then said “Let me just step you through the highlights.”

As he went through his pitch, my admiration for him grew. It was an uphill sell, two porcupines, but he turned on the charm. Despite myself, I started warming to the concept.

I love traveling, and as he went through his pitch with maps and pictures, and talked about building up and trading points, how affordable staying in Bali or Tuscany or Barbados could be, the memories we would make, a subtle change occurred. I was drifting over to his side. He and Sue both sensed it. And instead of staying silent as agreed, I started asking questions. Sue coughed and caught my eye. What are you doing?

I lapsed into silence as Sue continued playing the heavy. “That really sounds great, Brad, but with Darryl out of work, there’s no way…I’m sorry.” Brad, unfazed, continued to show pictures of exotic locales and personal chefs preparing exquisite meals, all for “dollars a day.” And I continued to be sucked in.

Brad excused himself to get some additional brochures. “What are you doing?” Sue hissed. “We’re NOT gonna buy this! We agreed! Would you PLEASE let me do the talking?!” Brad returned and handed us some glossy brochures.

The next 90 minutes were brutal. I couldn’t stand any more pictures of Tahiti…so close, yet so far…so I gazed at the other guests, trying to see how they were doing. I looked at the room, the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but Brad and his pictures.

At the two-hour mark, Brad played his last card. “Let me go get my manager just to let her know you stopped by,” he said. A tall, angular woman appeared. “Hi, I’m Cynthia,” she said as she shook our hands. She told us how delighted she was to meet us, and were we ready for the facility tour?

Sue and I looked at each other. Facility tour?

We were ushered into a golf cart and driven toward some distant buildings that were still under construction. For the next two hours, we wandered from unit to unit. They were all identical, all with the same amenities merely described in a different way. It was hot and stuffy and I was frantic with boredom.

And it still wasn’t over.

Back in the lobby, Brad disappeared to get our hotel keys. Cynthia sat us down again with yet another woman …HER manager…who agonizingly went over it all over again for another 45 minutes.

When they could see that we were just not gonna cave, the second woman gave an almost imperceptible nod and Brad reappeared with the keys. This time, no charm, no smile, he practically threw them at us.

At the hotel, we made a beeline for the tiki hut bar. As the blender whirred with our double rum runners, I rubbed by temples. I felt like I’d just donated two pints of blood and Sue looked equally weary; maybe even more so, with her role as the heavy. It took us a full day to recover.

Our second night, I laid on the bed and thumbed through a brochure about Greece as Sue got dressed for dinner. “I dunno,” I said. “Even though they were brutal, maybe someday we could—“ A pillow hit me in the head.

Guess not.