Thursday, February 20, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Goldberg: My way or the Amway

By Tod Goldberg

About a week ago, I was sitting on the couch doing what I normally do, which is to say I was sitting there thinking about how wonderful it is that video game technology has moved forward to the point that Tom Clancy has his own games--which made me think that I should have my own games, which made me think that my game would involve Krispy Kreme doughnuts, crazed mutant aliens and that woman from the "Stripper 101" advertisement I keep seeing--when my wife walked into the room.

"What are you doing tonight?" she asked.

"You're seeing it right here in 4D."

"We have plans."

"We do?"

"Yes. We're going to go out for drinks with my friend Diane and her husband, Jeff. It will be fun."

Diane was a new friend of my wife's--they'd met not too long ago in a class at the gym and seemed to get along well enough, at least while working out, which, in a modern relationship, is probably enough to necessitate drinks. Fun was debatable.

"What does Jeff do?"

"Business of some kind."

"Fun."

This didn't sound good. For some reason, whenever we meet new people and the husband is in some kind of tangible business, I end up getting into an argument about how what I do, which is ostensibly make up little stories about imaginary people, is somehow less important than adding up lines of a spreadsheet or compiling torts. The evening often concludes with me saying something like, "You can take your MBA and shove it up your fat wife's ass!" Which, obviously, casts a pall over the relationship subsequently.

So, a few hours later, I found myself sitting across from Jeff simply amazed that we were discussing, at some length, Oakland Raiders football. Jeff didn't have equitable knowledge as compared to me, but he seemed to be at least passably male in the bonding sense. Our wives were deep into a discussion of their own across the room. No doubt the words "Martha" and "Stewart" were being uttered.

"So, Tod," Jeff said, "are you looking to invest your disposable income?"

That's an odd question, I thought. A series of amber flags rose up in my mind but I let them flap for a moment. "I don't consider any income disposable."

"I agree. 100 percent. I think you're just the right kind of guy for a business opportunity I have."

This is not about to happen, I thought. I looked for my wife, but at the same moment she was leaning forward and listening intently to Diane. Bad sign. "I'm not really looking for any new opportunities."

"Who ever looks? Am I right, Tod? Listen. Do you have five friends? Five friends who trust you, Tod?" I nodded because speech had eluded me. "What are their names, Tod?" I told him. He drew a large circle that contained several other circles. On each circle, he put one of my friend's names. "Wouldn't you say that five people who trust you, Tod, would take your advice about what kind of soap to buy?"

Why does he keep saying my name? It must be some kind of mind control thing. I turned again and looked for my wife. She was still leaning forward, listening to Diane. One of her hands, however, was balled up in her lap making short work of a napkin, tearing it into tiny little pieces.

"Amway is a way of looking at life, Tod. I'll sponsor you. You'll get your own distributorship. Look at Diane and me. We're living our lives on other people's hard work now. Sounds pretty good. Especially since you can't really think your work is all that great. Right? Not all of your ideas will be good. But everyone always needs soap, Tod. Look at these circles and tell me what you see."

Across the room, Diane was busy drawing a picture on a yellow legal pad, which allowed for my wife to bore a hole into my head with her glare. I met her gaze and studied her face. I decided it was trying to say "Offend him greatly and then make a scene." I nodded in understanding and returned to the picture before me.

"I see communism," I said. "I see you sucking the lifeblood out of the worker and taking all the rewards for yourself. What you call `sponsoring' and `distributorship' I call the ice pick of Stalinism."

Jeff stared at me with his mouth slightly ajar.

"I beg your pardon!"

"Jews died because of people like you," I said. I stood up then and made a big show of grabbing my wife and exiting the restaurant.

"What just happened in there?" my wife asked once we were safely back in our own Amway-free car. She seemed a tad agitated.

"I called him a Jew-killing commie, basically."

"Why?"

I told her.

"So, for offering you soap?"

"Essentially."

My wife sighed audibly. "You're the reason we don't have any friends."