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A New York businessman, Ben, a professor from Buffalo, Dr. Hale, and I traveled to Flagstaff, Arizona to discuss a possible business partnership with a high roller who said he had access to billions of dollars. He had reviewed our business plan, which proposed purchasing and converting a defunct copper smelter in El Paso, and was very excited about the opportunity. Before presenting our case in person, the three of us met over breakfast in the hotel cafe to put the finishing touches on our pitch. Satisfied we were fund-worthy, we returned to our rooms to freshen up, including brushing the pearlies, and gargling with some mouthwash. Nothing will create a bad impression quicker than bad breath, body odor, flatulence because you didn't get in your morning dump, and putrid after shave. See, when you're supposed to be discussing and thinking about the business at hand, you can't keep on task because of distraction of the offending odor. You also form a negative opinion about the offender. All you want to do is escape. The investor or venture capitalist (pick one) named Cheatwood met us in one of the hotel conference rooms at 10 AM. He had the look of a tall, Egyptian pharaoh, sans headdress. Slightly offsetting was that this six-foot-six man had the dainty hands of a five-three lady. Maybe that's why, instead of shaking hands, he gave us each a long, lingering, brotherly hug. That kind of familiar intimacy from a stranger was not comfortable for any of us least of all Dr. Hale who grimaced and stiffened. I figured I could put up with the inappropriate greeting if Cheatwood was going to pony up millions for our project. At least he didn't impart a breathless "oh, yeah" in the middle of the hug or seem to have a woody. Now that would have been creepy. As we settled in, Cheatwood took the floor and recounted his ventures in business, making movies, and singing in the church choir. He loved listening to his long, boring discourse assuming he was being impressive. It was like listening to a reading of a book of logarithms or the Book of Mormon. Mark Twain referred to the latter as chloroform in print. "...and I have responsibility for controlling twenty billion dollars; I really do," Cheatwood concluded with a self-satisfied smirk. After thirty minutes of discussing various aspects and details of our project, Cheatwood announced with a broad grin that he was "in". "Be at peace," he said, "we're going to do this!" We hadn't quite finishing congratulating ourselves (and Cheatwood for his foresight) when a rather thin, thirty-something, redhead in a green business suit entered the room, and sat down beside Cheatwood whose countenance changed to full-on, high-beam. You could tell the guy was sweet on her, and had her join the meeting to make an impression about what a big cheese he was. (You know, a typical guy trick...) "What's that smell?" Ben said quietly to me. "Who defecated?" said Dr. Hale too loudly. "Did someone step in dog feces?" "I don't know," I said as quietly as possible, "but I think it's coming from over there." I glanced toward Cheatwood and the lady. "This is Melinda," Cheatwood said with a broad (and loving) smile. "She will be writing our...ah...ah...business procedures." I could see (yeah, that's it!) behind his eyes. The guy was positively giddy with delight that she was there beside him. You could also tell (Hey, I know guy tricks!) she was his work-in-progress; that they hadn't made the "connection" yet. She was probably thinking the same thing I was: Business procedures? What the hell is he talking about? "Why don't you tell them a little about yourself, Melinda?" he said sweetly. When Melinda opened her mouth, the source of the odor was identified. Not only was it putrid; it was even somewhat painful when inhaled. Please, please, please don't use any h-words, I thought, like HHHarvey or HHHouston or hhhow. She told us about her experience as a technical hhhwriter, and did so a bit sheepishly (thank God she didn't project), probably figuring out the last things in the world that would be value-added (at least in the beginning talking stages) were so-called business procedures. That stuff is boiler-plate. Every once in a while Cheatwood would interrupt to amplify her remarks, once mentioning she sang in the choir with him. Poor choir! Meanwhile, Ben, Dr. Hale, and I were figuratively diving-for-cover to avoid her halitosis, which filled the conference room. Brutal! There was no escape. "I wonder if it'll be absorbed in our clothing?" I said to Ben out of the side of my mouth. "Have to burn 'em for sure," he replied. Cheatwood seemed totally unaffected, and continued to fawn like a horny, wannabe lover. You know the expression: love blinds? Well, apparently it disconnects olfactroy senses as well. "Geez, what shit breath!" Ben whispered to me. I nodded slightly hoping Cheatwood hadn't heard. Dr. Hale's eyes widened. I shook my head at him, silently willing him not to speak. Hale spoke the typical stuffy, academician-speak of his ilk, but incongruously had a tendency to drop an f-bomb here and there when under stress. "Good f**king heavens!" Dr. Hale blurted out while Melinda was in mid-sentence. There was immediate silence. Every head turned to him. "Why, it's so strong one could chin himself upon it!" "What is?" said Cheatwood sounding a bit angry. "Uh, uh, the presentation," I covered quickly though it made no sense. "Please continue, Melinda." I glared daggers at Dr. Hale. He looked into space and covered his nose with a handkerchief. Dr, Hale moaned out loud, "Oh, my god!" When Melinda concluded, Cheatwood gushed over her some more, and thanked her for coming. We were grateful to see her leave and take her putrid, green fog from the area. You know how some farts are hangers? Same deal with poor Melinda's breath. It took 45 minutes for the environment to clear. Good thing the room was paneled. Paint or wallpaper would have peeled. It was like we were in some kind of fart museum--the SBD (silent-but-deadly) room. After additional discussion, Cheatwood looked at us and said, "You were rather rude to Melinda. I could see you making smart remarks." Dr. Hale was like a light source with no dimmer switch. He said, "Well, my word, the stench from that lady's mouth was unbearable!" "What?!" yelled Cheatwood. "What are you implying?" He was hot. "I don't like that huggy guy!" yelled Dr. Hale. "It was her breath," I said gently. "It was pretty bad." "Bad?" said Dr. Hale loudly. "It was positively a toxic dump!" "Yeah, shit breath," added Ben. Cheatwood rose shaking with fury. "Gentlemen, this meeting is over. Good day!" He turned on his heel and stomped from the room, nose in the air. "Maybe the air is fresher up there," said Dr. Hale. "Well, guess we didn't get the deal," said Ben. "Guess not," I sighed. We left with nothing but another "lesson learned". You know, I have quite a few of those... Copyright 2011 by Gene Myers Author of AFTER HOURS (2009) from Strategic Publishing Group, New York, NY. (www.strategicpublishinggroup.com/title/AfterHours.html) Author of SONGS FROM LATTYS GROVE (2010) from PublishAmerica, Baltimore, MD.
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