Ed liked the Forest Service where he worked in the field, testing for everything from tree health to water availability to erosion to forest thinning. He was happy. He liked working alone or with people who didn’t look for constant discussion. But after three years, the Forest Service moved him, and then they moved him twice more over the next seven years.
Although Sally did not get pregnant during these years, Ed was not disappointed since the frequent moves created a difficult lifestyle and increasing tension in their marriage. Sally began to be less of an extrovert as job opportunities became more difficult and finally disappeared. Ed became even less talkative, to the point of almost mute, and spent more and more time on the job. He became a man of no hobbies, no humor and, after the fourth move, no wife. Sally packed up. When Ed left for Albuquerque, she went to Chicago, and a new teaching job and a new life.
The divorce papers reached Ed shortly after he settled in Albuquerque, and he signed them without argument. He understood Sally’s decision, and he realized he liked being alone better. Then, nine years ago, having supervised many field projects, he was courted by the National Environmentalist Society to become their president.
As he stared out his office window, Mundhill thought about his situation. I work with a bunch of jerks, but fortunately I don’t really interact with them except by e-mail. And the board members are a bunch of asses who don’t understand how little they know. But they’re a spineless bunch, and so they back down every time I challenge them.
Well at least I got rid of that bitch of a secretary I inherited when I arrived. I couldn’t stand her incessant chatter and her bossiness. Firing her felt good, but the dammed crying almost got to me. Wailing about her twenty years with the organization, you’d have thought she’d run the place. It was a lot easier firing her replacement. That dummy lasted just seven months. What a dodo. Now I’ve got Betty. Quiet, mousy Betty. If she’d stop flinching when I tell her to do something, it would be okay. But she’s no bother, and she’s halfway competent.
Mundhill got up and went to the small refrigerator, got a can of Sprite, sat back down at his desk, and looked around. “Well, when you get right down to it, this job’s not too bad. No one can tell me what to do, and the local offices shake every time I call them for fear I’ll ream their asses about something they’re doing wrong.”
He was having difficulty believing that trash talk was a worthy topic for a national meeting of his society. He did have to admit that garbage, or trash, as his colleagues preferred to call it, was a serious problem. But he thought if this meeting gets screwed up at all, I’ll have all the reason I need to dump that wishy-washy Schriff and that pain in the ass Schwartz. That thought brought a rare smile to his face.
C h a p
t e r 9
In the history of professional sports in the United States, there had never before been a meeting of the boards of the players unions from the NBA, NFL, NHL, and MLB. This dictum from the commissioners of each of those sports, that all players must undergo continuing education in areas other than their sport, rocked the world of these professional athletes.
Sterling Parsch, the president of the NFL Players Association, ranted, “What the fuck do they think we are? Doctors or something? Shit, we ain’t stickin’ our fingers up people’s asses to find out if they’re sick and we ain’t lookin’ into their brains. Why the shit should we have to go listen to lectures and read books and things. All the culture I want, I get in the bars with those sweet, big-boobed babes dancin’ in every city we play. They’re teachin’ me everything I want to know.”
“Hey,” said Bill Gladley, the player representative from the NBA, “maybe learning a little more about art and music and politics will help us. I don’t think it’s so bad.”
“That’s ’cause you went to Princeton,” chimed in Rex Hall, the hockey players’ rep, “so you think all that stuff’s great. Christ, I went to Southern Saskatoon Middle School. I’ll have to go looking for spelling bees.”
It was clear that there was little happiness in the halls and fields of professional sports. It was March — the off-season for many of the athletes. And the commissioners wanted the cultural, educational activities to start now.
Bobby Bends, the star of the Portland Giants, and one of the greatest home run hitters of all time, jumped into the discussion. “Hey guys, I saw an interesting ad in the newspaper a couple days ago that may provide at least one opportunity. It was about a meeting in Sarasota, Florida, in May that really sounds fascinating. We baseball players won’t be able to go since it’s during our season, but you other guys can. And in fact, it’s more suited to you lowlives anyway,” he said with a big grin.
Bobby reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a paper that he unfolded. “This was in the Portland Tribune two days ago, and I tore it out to bring to this meeting. Look at this. Some group called SES is havin’ a meeting in Sarasota on trash talk. That’s right in line with your specialty in basketball and football and even you hockey guys, although you’re more into trashin’ than talkin’.”
“Lemme see that,” said Parsch as he tore it from Bends’s hand. “Holy shit, don’t that take the cake. Man, this is an answer to our prayers. We can satisfy those jack-off commissioners while we polish up our skills. Hey, it says here we can learn from the experts. Shit, nobody contacted me, and I am the fuckin’ Mick Jagger of trash talk. I am the star trash talker of professional sports.”
Parsch’s statement was met with whistles and boos from his colleagues as they all left their seats to get a look at the ad.
The news of a four-day meeting on trash talk spread through the informal network of pro athletes faster than any newspaper could carry it. And it created more chatter among the players than anything since the previous NFL Commissioner was caught in a hotel room in New Orleans, dressed in panties and a bra and being thrown around by three professional lady wrestlers dressed only in football shoulder pads and helmets.
C h a p
t e r 10
Jordy couldn’t believe the success of his ad campaign, and Arnie couldn’t believe what was happening. It was mid-April, and they now had almost 500 registrants. In the first two weeks of April, they got more than double the number of registrants than in all the time prior to that. Arnie had to spend two days negotiating another thirty rooms at the Hyatt. But 130 rooms — even with two persons per room — left him far short of what was needed. Most of the more recent applicants were requesting single rooms with king-size beds. These late registrants didn’t even mind when they were told that there were not enough programs printed, and so they would not receive their information packages until they arrived in Sarasota. Jordy’s ads were sure drawing some newcomers to the environmentalists meeting.
Arnie was schizophrenic. He was thrilled with the incredible degree of interest in environmental issues, but was panicked regarding the logistics. He was also very puzzled about the interest in single rooms regardless of price. That’s what the office help had been told by many of the registrants who had phoned recently. The office staff assumed that their environmental groups must be more affluent than those with which they were familiar. Arnie and Mr. Schriff had never even heard of the Orioles or Cardinals or Hornets and some of these other environmental groups. So they had instructed the office staff, and in particular the temporary help that they had employed to handle the extra work and phone calls, to not even ask for affiliations any longer.
Arnie had received two calls from Ed Mundhill since he’d gotten the go-ahead for the theme. Mundhill expressed some amazement at the attendance figures and questioned who these attendees were. At each call he reminded Arnie of the dire consequences of a screw-up. What did Arnie tell Mr. Schriff? He told his boss that his boss’s boss was happy with the progress.
With help from Pamela, Arnie and Melissa scoured the area for more accommodations. Reluctantly Arnie had reserved forty single rooms in the new Ritz-Carlton. But the late registrants had gobbled them up with no concern
about rates. This shocked and relieved Arnie. He was able to get another fifteen rooms at the Ritz, which also were immediately claimed by another horde of registrants.
Arnie and his staff worked diligently to cover all bases. More rooms were reserved at the Holiday Inn on Route 41 and a few other motels until finally they believed they had enough. They booked a large block of tickets at the Van Wezel for the Kenny Rogers show on Tuesday, the 28th of May. The ballroom at the Hyatt, now expanded to its maximum size, was booked for an opening-night mixer on Sunday and a major banquet on Wednesday. Arnie wished now that the registration fee was higher than the $100 charged, but that had been a major issue at the last national meeting when many of the attendees complained about the increase from $75 to $100. Fortunately, the Van Wezel tickets had to be paid for separately by those attending the performance. This year there was little complaint about the $100 registration and, in fact, some of the late registrants had asked on the phone whether that was a daily fee.
It was all sort of puzzling to Arnie and the rest of the committee, but as the arrangements began to fall in place, they were overcome with a feeling of joy and excitement. Arnie was so pleased that he was taking the committee to the Bijou Café, one of Sarasota’s more upscale restaurants, for an end-ofthe-week dinner this Friday evening. He was even more pleased that he was able to convince Mr. Schriff that this was a business expense.
The dinner was a festive event. Arnie, the first to order, chose shrimp cocktail and filet mignon and a Caesar salad in order to show the lack of limits and encourage the others to order anything they wanted regardless of price. Melissa, trying to watch her diet, had a mixed salad with vinaigrette dressing for a starter and blackened grouper, her favorite seafood. Pam, less inhibited and less worried about her plumpness, ordered a crab cake appetizer and veal Milanese. She loved the breaded, pounded veal chop and not many restaurants served it. All the while she was ordering she was thinking of the desserts.
“Does the chocolate soufflé have to be ordered in advance?” she asked the waiter, and was assured that it could be quickly prepared if ordered at the end of dinner.
Jordy threw caution to the wind and reverted back to his affluent teen years when his parents took him to dinner often and at the very best upscale San Diego restaurants. “I believe I’ll try the foie gras appetizer, a Caesar salad, and the breast of duck with raspberry sauce. Hopefully I’ll still have room for that soufflé.”
The waiter beamed as he took the order.
Finally Arnie ordered a modestly priced bottle of champagne.
And before starting on their appetizers, they toasted each other and had a special toast to Jordy for the most successful ad campaign in the history of the National Environmentalist Society. At least as far as they knew. They ran through the arrangements during dinner. Media rooms secured, enough hotel rooms — hopefully — meals arranged for some days and restaurant lists to be provided for others. Taxi companies and the Tampa and Sarasota airports were notified. A shuttle was arranged from the Sarasota airport to the hotels on Sunday and Monday and back to the airport on Thursday and Friday. Lists of activities in the area were printed up as part of the meeting package. Inexpensive briefcases made of a biodegradable material were ordered and received. Tablets of recycled paper and a pen, also biodegradable, were placed in the briefcases along with the meeting agenda and all of the helpful lists. All speakers were confirmed, audiovisual needs determined, and equipment secured.
With three weeks to go, the committee was pleased that arrangements were in place. Dinner was good, the wine was pleasant, and the ambience of the Bijou Café was comforting. Life was good for Arnie and his committee.
C h a p t
e r 11
It was Saturday, May 25 at about 5:00 p.m. when Chuck Barkey and Max Gordon deplaned at the Sarasota Airport. Max was happy to be traveling with Chuck, who had not only been a great player before he retired and became a TV sports announcer, but was up there with the best of the trash talkers. Max was hoping to optimize what he could learn at the meeting by hanging around with Chuck. In addition, Chuck had a reputation for finding fun spots and attracting women wherever he went. Some even referred to him as the most eligible bachelor in the country. Max was hopeful. Since they had come a day early, the shuttle was not available so they cabbed it to the Ritz-Carlton, which was only about ten minutes away.
“Not a bad lookin’ place,” said Chuck, “but looks a little dull. Hey cabby, any hot spots in town?”
“Yeah,” said Max, “where the hot chicks hang out.”
“Ain’t too much around, boys,” said the cab driver, a thin, wrinkled, black man with white hair who looked about eighty years old. “But they’s a few. One over at the quay close to your hotel, then there’s the Outer Limit and a couple others. You can start there.”
“Thanks pal,” said Barkey as they pulled up in the driveway of the Ritz-Carlton. He handed the driver a $20 bill for the $6 ride and said, “Keep the change. Thanks for the info.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s mighty generous. Enjoy your stay.” And away he went to look for another fare.
“Man, this looks pretty nice. Not bad digs for a little city,” said Max.
“Yessiree, Max,” said Barkey as they entered the lobby trailed by the bellman carrying their two suitcases. Barkey spotted the very attractive young lady behind the registration counter.
“Hello, ma’am,” said Chuck. “We’d like to check in.”
She looked up and her eyes widened in a look of surprise. “Why certainly. Hey, you’re Chuck Barkey, the basketball guy, aren’t you? I’ve seen you on TV.”
“That’s me, honey,” said Barkey, “and I’m here in Sarasota just for you.”
“Sure,” said Leona, which was the name on her badge, that also said “trainee.”
“I see you’re a trainee and, luckily, I’m a ‘trainer,’ ” said Chuck.
“Yes, I bet you say that to all female trainees. Why are you here in Sarasota?”
“We’re here for the Trash Talk meeting,” said Max.
“That’s right,” said Chuck. “Meet my friend Max Gordon. He plays for Orlando.”
“I’m surprised you guys have so much interest in the environment,” said Leona.
Max and Chuck, puzzled, just looked at each other.
Chuck responded, “We love this environment. The Ritz-Carlton is our favorite hotel and you make this environment heavenly.”
“Oh brother,” Leona responded. “I better get you checked in before I faint from the compliments.”
Leona was a striking beauty at five feet eight and one hundred fifteen pounds with long shining auburn hair and almond eyes. Although only twenty-five-years-old, she could hold her own with anyone. She was an army brat, born of a Filipino mother and an American father who was a career officer in the military. Her father had met and married Leona’s mother while he was stationed in Manila, and Leona was born one year later. The family was transfered numerous times, so Leona went to elementary school in Georgia, high school in California, college at Bryn Mawr outside of Philadelphia, and got an MBA at Columbia University in Manhattan. The last was not chosen because of family location but rather because of the reputation of the Columbia business program and Leona’s desire to live in “the big city.” Throughout her academic years, Leona was an outstanding student. She was the valedictorian of both her high school and college graduating classes. She was also an outstanding tennis player at both the high school and college levels and an all-conference basketball player in high school. Her varied life experiences and outstanding personality gave her a maturity well beyond her years. In a word, Leona was dynamite, and even a Chuck Barkey did not intimidate her.
“Hey Max,” said Chuck as they got on the elevator to go to their rooms, “let’s get together at about seven-thirty here in the lobby and check out the town and get some dinner.”
“Sounds good, Chuck. Catch you at seventhirty, no ties just sport shirts. Okay?”
C
h a p t e r 12
The big day finally arrived. As Arnie drove north on route 41 from his two-room apartment near Phillipe Creek, it took all the control he had not to greatly exceed the speed limit. He had gotten one speeding ticket in his driving life and that had been right here on Route 41 and for only six miles over the 45-mile-per-hour limit. Ever since that incident seven years ago, Arnie had remained a law abiding citizen. Today, however, he felt like throwing caution to the wind and so held his nine-yearold Toyota right at fifty with a new feeling of power and authority. This week Sarasota was his city!
Arnie drove first to Sarasota airport where he was relieved to see signs outside the baggage claim area indicating a shuttle stop for attendees of the Trash Talk Conference. He stopped the car and hopped out quickly to take a look around and make sure there were some signs inside. As he got a quick look inside the door and noted at least one sign, an airport policeman blew his whistle and told Arnie to get his car out of there or it’d be towed.
If he only knew who I was, Arnie thought. He had been disappointed that an article in the Sarasota Herald Tribune about the conference didn’t have his picture. He mentioned that to Jordy and hoped that during the conference a newspaper picture of him might run.
Arnie arrived at the Hyatt at 10:13 a.m. Melissa and Pam were there in the registration area of the convention center. Trash Talk signs with Jordy’s garbage can picture were on easels in several areas of the hotel and the attached convention center lobby.
Trash Talk Page 3