The Land Man. May 1995, Branson

"Today’s Tom Sawyer, he’s a mean, mean man…"
-Rush, "Tom Sawyer."

Back from Key West, waiting tables again, unhappy and unstable, I was desperately in need of a career change. My friends were of some help, but the humiliation of failing to succeed at anything in Florida was my own burden, and I really didn’t carry it well. The same drudgery I had left took on sharper pain, coupled with the memories of freedom I had tasted and abused. I had worked at an Australian-themed restaurant for three and a half years before moving, telling everyone I knew I’d never do that again. Then, a year and a half later, here I was; again. 1995 was not a real fun period.

One Sunday morning in early May, I was looking through the want ads, when I came across a bona fide opportunity. The ad said a new advertising agency was opening up in Branson and they needed ten dedicated individuals to be trained, then train others for a career in advertising and marketing. I called immediately, thinking to leave a message for someone on Monday. My future boss Jim answered on the second ring.

I had mentally practiced a message and wasn’t prepared for a conversation, but was also pleasantly surprised that I’d gotten a response without trying too hard. I wanted to know more about what employment there would require. He said the agency was based out of Chicago, and that he was one of the Principals overseeing the start-up operation, but not much more. Would I like to schedule an interview? Yes, that’d be great. We set a time and he gave me directions. Tomorrow, my life would change in ways I couldn’t yet know.

The next morning at 9:50, I pulled up to the house. I had not expected to see a house, but the address matched. I don’t know what I was expecting, but this wasn’t it. Situated almost on top of Mount Branson, the front yard overlooked a panoramic view of the old part of downtown.

I knocked on the door. I was greeted by a man who bore more than passing resemblance to "Mr. Burns" of The Simpsons. After a brief introduction, he had me sit down and get comfortable. He then began to tell me an anecdote about a restaurant promoting a special so popular they couldn’t keep up with demand. The problem was the pans in which the entrees were prepared were too large to fit in the steam table on the line. The transference and extra waste were the weak links to the situation. "How would you fix it?" He asked.

"I’d get smaller pans that fit the steam table." He smiled and said, "That’s marketing. Getting the message or the product to the people it’s intended to reach. But it’s also about the processes involved, too."

He had been making pretty direct eye contact throughout the conversation, then did a double take, smiling at first, then direct, intense, and expressionless. When no confusion registered in my eyes and expression, when he understood I understood, he smiled. I was sharp, articulate, and not easily intimidated. That day, I became his right hand man. I became "Waylon Smithers."

The first week or so, he would talk for hours and I’d take notes. Then he would give me exercises to perform, like culling phone numbers from every boat dealership throughout the region, using multiple directories. Then I called these dealers for their proper mailing address. All this information (Phone numbers, addresses, and contacts) was then entered into a database. The process was then repeated, this time with Recreational Vehicle dealers. Then with farm equipment, followed by realtors with large tracts of land in the immediate area.

He was methodical in gathering and assimilating the information he required. It was fascinating to watch, to participate, and to grow continually more aware of the processes involved building the database. As the pool of information grew and locked together, the implications of the "Bigger Picture," as seen through his eyes, began to form for me, also. Branson was ready to usher in its second wave of economic development: Conventions, Trade Shows, and Expositions. And this man wanted to be in the middle of it all when the money started flyin’ around. To him, it was simply a matter of numbers and proper preparation.

Branson hosts between four and six million tourists a year. Some visit every year, some every two years, and some only come once, etc. Eventually, randomly, the numbers will synchronize so that, rather than four to six million, ten to twelve million people will descend on Branson during the same season. His intent was to prepare for this statistical explosion and usher in this second-wave economy, thus becoming "King of the Trade Shows." Huge, but for the moment, I am still working on commission, and no money has changed hands yet.

I quit waiting tables to work more than full time at the Agency. I had $800 in savings. I figured that, when I ran out of money, I’d either quit, or I would already be making money. I ran out of money in less than two and a half months.

There were four others working for him. All of us worked very hard, logging the long hours required, for nothing at all. Strict commission was definitely his game. He "spun" long distance service between Sprint, MCI, and AT&T. He had graphic artists prepare renderings, fully intending not to pay them. He had me serve a subpoena once (Boy, were the recipients surprised!). This was the problem: People sensed that he was not trustworthy.

He was from The City. He was slick. He looked like Mr. Burns. He was intelligent and intimidating, when he so chose. People’s distrust of him didn’t bother him in the slightest. "Keep knocking on doors, Lance, and eventually someone will let you in." I was also his "face," or Advance Man, reeling in prospects via letter, phone, or in person.

During this time of two and a half months, he had four tenants, two women and two men, stay in the spare bedroom of the Agency/house, one at a time. Their average occupancy was about two weeks. The women were both in their early 20’s. Initially, he talked with them in warm tones, ignoring the interruptions to our progress. After awhile, he became cross with them, then ignored them completely, then evicted them. A new tenant would then move in. The men were of marked lower intelligence and rather creepy in demeanor. He had little to do with the men and would become cross with them if one should venture into the living room during work.

He had visits from associates from Chicago. They arrived in BMW’s and Mercedes, parking next to his 1970 GMC pick up truck. They came to discuss future development for the area surrounding Branson. It was a fascination. These obvious heavy hitters coming to speak with their brilliant, eccentric peer/mentor, in the middle of his living room, some low rent boarder wandering in and out, surrounded by his "employees," his people, all working for free. They visited six, maybe seven times.

Not only was I observing I was also a key player -- his heir apparent. I trusted him, but not entirely. I was in too deep to quit and in denial about our collective chances for success. By the end of my time there, I’d begun to feel panicky and react with panic, like I did in Florida.

He had health problems, like the beginnings of kidney failure/bad back/emphaseyma, and was constantly in pain. A few days before I quit coming entirely, he began to pull out two of the front bottom row of his teeth, wiggling, then extracting them, in front of us. During this episode I thought "It’s happening again…What is happening here? Is this real?"

The very end came one day in a meeting with some people with property near a major road in town. The lot could easily hold 100 RV’s. The people were willing to do business, but he kept adding stipulations, violating his own first rule of business: Don’t Get Greedy. But he did get greedy, and the people balked. So no contract was signed, no money changed hands, and no money was made.

I had run out of money. I freaked out. I completely lost my shit on him, screaming, "You’re breaking my heart! Why are you doing this? Why won’t you help me?" Whatever trust I had in him was broken, reminding me, in the process, parallels to my recent trust disappointments in Key West. The denial, the humiliation, the pain of the recent past…I wasn’t yelling at Jim in the present. I was yelling at ___, in the past, over circumstances that could no longer change.

I ran out the door, sobbing, still screaming at them. I didn’t go back, ever. I couldn’t face making such a big mistake after making such a big mistake. The implications were too much for me.