I hadn’t bothered with the early morning coffee hour.
I was staying at a Motel 6 at least twenty minutes north. I spent too many decades as a theater pit musician to ever be an early riser, so it was already torture to get my butt out of bed by eight in order to shower, nuke something for breakfast, walk five blocks in the freezing April Atlanta wind to the commuter station, then a ten-minute ride, then haul it another block and a half and across the street to the convention Westin for a workshop at ten.
However, on Thursday, Dan (Daniel Nachman, my analyst) shattered his own anonymity rule and sauntered over to where I was standing at a high top at the mid-morning coffee station. I played it cool and kept looking forward. But he forced my attention enough that I had to sneak a peek, so I watched with a surreptitious side eye as he began a humorously charming ritual I’d hear about in a eulogy at his memorial four months later:
The Sugar Packet Flap
My esteemed analyst/colleague/friend dropped a small handful of sugars on the table. Then, one by one, Flap-flap-flap-flap-flap, tear, dump, drop, stir, taste, repeat. Flap a sugar packet five times, tear it open, dump the contents into the coffee, drop the empty packet and its torn corner on the table, stir the coffee, taste, then start all over with a fresh one. I don’t remember how many he used, but it was a large coffee, and this went on long enough that I’d been driven to roll in my lips—and then bite down—to block a coffee-spewing chortle.
Finally, he stopped flapping, I choked back a laugh, and we stood there, side by side, sipping in blessed silence until he said, “You really should go to coffee hour.”
“Why? You think I’ll find the sanguine conversation you hoped I’d find at the bar* that I did not find at the bar because I can’t afford eleven-fifty for a single shot of Southern Comfort on the rocks? And that’s the discount price. They upcharge maraschino cherries.”
***
*I kid you not!
That’s what my analyst said he wanted me to get out of this convention. Booze and somebody to talk to while drinking booze.
When I took the program guide to my session to get his input, he said, “I’d hoped you’d hang out at the bar for some sanguine conversation.”
What?
How many strings had he pulled to get me in on the sly? I think I was supposed to tell people I was in my training analysis, waiting to inherit his non-couch clients as soon as he could twist somebody else’s arm to get me in as a legal intern. But I didn’t blow out my dropped-from-heaven $5K opening limit alma mater credit card on this opportunity of a lifetime to sit around drinking and hoping somebody interesting would show up. Preferably to pick up my by-then healthy tab.
Then he said, “I want you to meet Nancy McWilliams.”
Who? Why? Whatever.
He would be pleased to know that I did have that sanguine exchange—optimistic and as positive as it gets, especially in the midst of one of the difficult situations in my life—with his best friend’s wife at his memorial, who hugged me and said, “You were a good friend to him.”
And I did eventually meet McWilliams.
***
“I’ll think about it,” I said, meaning coffee hour.
I love you, old man, I thought, but no way in hell am I getting up at six to make an eight a.m. I don’t care if Salman Ahtkar is giving away personalized autographed copies of his fancy Freudian dictionary.
Once again, Daniel Nachman got his wish. I was exhausted after only two days, running around a hotel six hours a day, bookended by hikes in the freezing wind, so Thursday afternoon, I caved, one of the twenties a friend gave me, and took a cab. Long story short, that cabby chauffeured me back and forth for the rest of my stay. He even hauled my luggage around in his trunk for a couple of hours on Sunday, so I didn’t get stuck paying for an extra night.
***
Friday’s speaker was interesting enough that I took a handful of notes, but I don’t remember the topic off-hand. The next session, though, was a game-changer.
On Saturday, the speaker was a consultant who worked with advertisers who used psychology to analyze their audience to maximize exposure and sales based on primary viewing. People who watch reality TV–Survivor, Keeping Up with The Kardashians, Dancing with the Stars–have a different market focus and different tastes than, say, my lawyer/judge home health client.
Judge Gordon amused himself and his wife with CNN, the presidential debates, and tormenting me over who I’d vote for. I finally said, “For God’s sake, Gordon, why can’t you watch Wheel of Fortune like a normal geriatric?”
This whole concept of marketing based on what you watch was fascinating, and I started itching to ask how these ad people would peg me.
I finally got my turn and explained I don’t own or watch TV but not for any grand reason, like religious preference. Bottom line? I’m cheap.
***
My late husband’s boxy little on-board VHS set died one day at noon. I was on the phone that night, saving fifty bucks a month by canceling cable. I did have the presence of mind to refrain from explaining in front of a roomful of Daniel’s friends and my hopefully one-day peers that it was really all Bill Gates’ fault.
“So, what do advertisers do to reach oddballs like me?” I said.
Barely a second between my question and his answer:
“You have the heart of a child.”
Click HERE or on the image below to read all about how Bill Gates Broke My TV:
Click HERE or on the image below to read Meeting Nancy McWilliams:
