CLUE BUS
Here’s a Quarter, Go Buy a Ticket to the Clue Bus – Pt. 4
On an increasingly confusing service call to the home of Nando, a friend and client who lived in a 15,000 sq. ft. casita on the beach in Punta de Mita, I had stumbled upon an unused room the size of a small warehouse. Meticulously stored and displayed on custom shelving was an easy million bucks worth of unopened audio and video equipment running the gamut from pedestrian Best Buy stock to extremely high end components, many of which had originally cost in excess of $50,000 a pop. In fact, a million bucks was probably a conservative guess regarding the value of the room’s contents.
Nando (who had not been at home when I arrived) found me in the room and proceeded to explain the “Temple of Doom” as a memorial to his inability to grasp these electronics in a manner that should befit a person of his status. In short, he felt that as a successful businessman, he should be able to fathom the nuances of these electronic adult toys. Unfortunately, he had a black hole in the part of the brain that deciphered electronics and most likely, the only adult toy he was going to be operating had an on/off switch and vibrated. His epiphany had occured when he tried to operate the component he now presented to me like a favorite dog that had been run over by a truck: a Sony BetaMax HiFi Video Tape Recorder.
“Everything you’ve ever joked about me being clueless I hold in my hands,” he confessed. Sure the BetaMax had taken its’ brunt of jokes over the years, kind of the poster child for loser technology, which was ironic given the fact that it was superior to VHS on all counts except one. The one outstanding count being popularity…
“Jeez, Nando, my brother-in-law gave us one of the first BetaMaxs as a wedding gift 25 years ago and it took me the better part of a month to figure out that the manual was written in Sanskrit translated into Japanese and then into English. I seem to recall reading that ‘for best to recording times with many often programs as start then stop time, at first use pause.’ How could you expect to make anything out of that?” I assured him.
“Yeah, but that’s the difference between you and me. You ultimately figured it out. I just kept working myself into a rage every time I tried! And I didn’t stop there, I kept buying stuff like this,” he said knocking a box containing a virgin Pioneer Elite Laser Disc Player with the back of his fist, “…thinking I’d get it, but I never did.” I wanted to add that another difference between us was that he was a billionaire and I was struggling to achieve a financially respectable semi-retirement, but I kept quiet.
“Listen, Manny, back then there weren’t people like myself specializing in this technology,” I swept my hand in front of me to include his entire electronics stash, “for people like you who want to be able to enjoy it without having to dedicate a few years to learning how. Now you’ve got me. I’ll help you.”
“I should just nuke this room. It would be cathartic,” he said pitifully. I didn’t want to see Nando in this kind of funk, because I had a feeling it might lead to a drama queen episode, for which he was famous.
It struck me that a solution that would benefit both Nando and myself was at hand, and I longed to say, “How’s about I broker this equipment for a 60/40 split? Hell, make it 70/30. Then you can make this space into the Guest Bedroom Palace that your Shrine of Bathing Arts & Sciences Guest Bathroom so rightly deserves and donate the proceeds to charity.” By my quick calculations, even a mere 10% commission for me on the proceeds of what the equipment, some old but nonetheless collectible, would command on eBay, even after my time and shipping/handling costs, would go a very long way to evening out the bumps in the road that the shaky US economy was sure to continue producing. Anything over 10% was a Fat City gravy train.
And so, propelled by these genius calculations and brainiac business plan-like figuring, I said to Nando as the doorbell sounded in the distance, “You do realize, of course, that you’re totally mental?” Guilt plus friendship is such a terrible thing to waste. I am such a gentleman.
He smiled mischievously, “Was there ever any doubt, ‘bro?” and winked at me. At least he didn’t slap me across the face with a hitherto concealed glove and challenge me to dual. Or worse yet; cut off my Peñafiel supply. Thank God my remote supply of Peñafiel was intact.
Manny, who had been conspicuously absent during our time in the Temple of Doom, no doubt fearing some type of recrimination from Nando at my having found it in the first place, poked his head through the door, “There’s some Gringo kid at the front door says you have an appointment with him. And I agree with Landon, you are totally mental, Nandito!” He fled back to the kitchen before Nando could do anything except fume.
“God, I hate it when he calls me that. That’s what my grandmother used to call me when she wanted me to do something I didn’t want to do!” Then he got a far off look in his eyes for a very quick moment, then snapped back exclaiming, “I guess it’s a good thing the Diva broke down over the hill. I totally spaced out on this appointment. Thank God you’re here, you can help me,” he said catching my eye, my arm and dragging me out of the room and down the hall. Behind me I heard the innocent laughter of Marta playing with Boo the slob Newfoundland dog down the other end of the hallway.
Obviously, he was not looking forward to this meeting alone, but thankfully he released his grip on my arm and I was lead instead by his pleading eyes through the kitchen, the massive Living Room/Media Center and finally into the vast entry foyer which seemed more spacious than usual.
“Where’s Fleeper?” I asked. Fleeper is Nando’s name for the humongous marble sculpture of a dolphin that normally graced the area. Manny & I had had an unfortunate run-in with the dolphin thanks to a rambunctious Boo, and the architectural column it fronted was the only thing that had kept us all from crashing.
I had thought that we had spared the sculpture from any damage, but Manny confirmed my fears whispering, “He chipped his dorsal fin.” He was trying to avoid Nando’s glance. I could never get the dynamics of these two. Manny was forever acting like Nando would wreak horrible vengeance upon him if anything outside the norm occurred. And while I had no desire to spend even a micro-thought about what might occur in the privacy of their bedroom, I knew that this was a self-inflicted role rather than a real scenario. Neither was capable of anything beyond extreme scorn and eye daggers. Or maybe I’m more naïve than I care to think.
“I’m donating it to PEACE for that park they’re putting together for the kids in the Punta de Mita village,” added Nando thankfully distracting my thoughts. PEACE is a local charity that works with school projects, abandoned and abused animals, spay & neuter clinics, recycling education and a lot more. The fact that Nando was donating what was likely a $10,000 blemished sculpture to them didn’t surprise me in the least.
What did surprise me, however, was the smirking blond kid in the open doorway. This apparently, was the appointment Nando was not-so-anxious about. And for good reason. Leaning against the door, one hand on his hip, the other twirling a pair of shades in a pose he had to have practiced in front of a mirror after hours with GQ or STUD magazine, was none other than Chad Boyce.
How to effectively describe this bottom-dweller without prejudicing the reader? Oh damn, I already did? Ah well. Suffice it to say that Chad was one of those unique people who feel as though the world owes them. A favor. A job. A shortcut. Whatever lowly mortals must work for, Chad assumed would be delivered free-of-charge to his doorstep.
Yes, he came from money, but it was tacky money; his father had scored big on late night TV with a series of “Wait, that’s not all!” gotta-have promotional cheesy products for bored and sleepless housewives in Dubuque and Topeka. This could have afforded Chad entry into any Ivy League or Pac10 school had he had the grades. But the grades that Chad expected on his silver platter didn’t get Ivy, Stanford, USC, Cal or UCLA. Oregon State said no as did Washington State, Arizona State and the same schools minus State and plus University of.
Alas, Chad had to slide a tier or two down in prestige and grudgingly accept a spot at Cal State Fullerton. He lasted two semesters before it became too boring according to his version of things. I'm sure Cal State Fullerton is a fine educational institution that, like any school, required its' students to actually attend classes and study. This probably didn't figure into the Chadster's plans. When no one was forthcoming with free A's and cheat sheets and hot and cold running naked coeds, he split.
Since his folks kept a second home in Puerto Vallarta, he had decided to strike it rich in the “new Wild West” as he called it. His first endeavor was, of course, time share, a pursuit that should have fit like a glove. Unfortunately at the end of his third week, Chad was caught half naked with the manager’s secretary smoking a joint in the closing room.
Next came a catering company that specialized in Gringo food delivery to hotels. Chad apparently hadn’t thought through the concept; after being banned from virtually every resort for stealing their room service biz, he was left with $15,000 of restaurant supplies, a VW bug painted with the company logo (Boyce’s Bits, called by its’ detractors “Boyce Spits”) and 4 pissed off former employees who were still reportedly trying to track him down for back wages. He was certainly a legend of sorts in PV and thus, due to the nature of his legend, he stayed to the north in Nayarit.
Where, unfortunately he found me. I encountered him on a job in Nuevo and having no idea who he was, found him mildly amusing in his puppy-like enthusiasm to learn a bit about the biz. But my amusement rapidly turned to aggravation as he began to show up at all my jobs pestering me for info and minutae and generally getting in the way. Little did I realize that he was sucking my brain and contacts for a move into my territory.
Then, one fateful day I showed up at a new project and was informed that the owner had switched contractors and wanted his deposit returned. The fact that I had a contract was beside the point when I found out that Chad (now billing himself as “Intelligent Choice by Boyce” had plagiarized my bid item by item and submitted it for 15% below my price. That 15% was more or less my profit for the entire project and I realized that the Chadster was willing to lose money to get this job.
So I made it my mission to never EVER lose a job to him. For starters, I did something I had never previously sunk to do in 30 plus years in the business; I convinced the owner of this home that, asides from being unqualified to install, program and maintain this project, Chad was an idiot, a flake and a charlatan. The chances of his successfully completing this project were slim to none. Oh yeah, and I knocked off 10% for pain, suffering and unprofessional conduct above and beyond the call of duty.
Now, as I stared at this excuse for a homo sapiens twiddling his surfer dude shades in the doorway with his perceived macho pose, I couldn’t help but think of the grief he had caused me over the past year; dogging me on every project, making me undercut myself just to get the jobs, having to justify my expertise after he developed the not-so-surprising tact of badmouthing me everywhere he went. It was all so much BS, and now here he was standing on the threshold of one of my best customers. How had he weaseled his way in here?
“I believe you two know each other,” said Manny advancing on Chad to get him into the house while nervously ponging his eyes between me and the creep. “And Chad, this is Manny who answered the door for you. Please, come in, come in,” clapping his hands tightly like a dance instructor impatiently trying to move clod students around. We were all beholden, and I for one was dying to find out what the hell was up.
“Okay, well, the reason I wanted you two here is a result of the conversation Chad and I had at the Rainbow Room last weekend. He intimated that he might be able to help me out with my little problem, which you are now aware of as well, Landon,” proclaimed Nando. The only problem I could remotely fathom Chad helping Nando with was sharing treatment methods for the crabs. But I hadn’t been informed of Nando having crabs, so that wasn’t it. What was I missing here?
“Time out NANDITO,” I interjected. That got his attention toute de suite. “Sidebar in the Kitchen, STAT.” Nando was a big Law & Order and ER fan. He got the message and looking like a kid who has been told to stop punching his little brother, he huffed into the Kitchen with a capital K behind me. We sat at the Italian marble counter, our backs to the odd couple stranded in the space vacated by Fleeper.
“Nando, what the hell is going on here?” I whisper-yelled. “Do you have any idea who that scuzbucket over there is? And what is this, some kind of setup? Did you fake the system breakdown and the smashed remotes and the car breakdown just to get me here to meet with this slime? Did he happen to mention that he knows me? For that matter, did he happen to mention that he's spent the last year following me around and attempting to steal my customers? I can’t believe I’m sitting here with you- my friend and great customer and having to tolerate THAT guy under the same roof. Did you have no idea?” I sputtered out.
“I know you’re not going to believe me, but I know what I’m doing. Just bear with me. And for the record, yes 6 times, and no, he didn’t come right out and say he steals your customers. Now trust me and let’s move on. Get over it, you’re my friend- I won’t screw you. There’s a method to my madness. Just follow my lead,” he said and stood back up and walked over to the Fleeper zone.
“Well, now that we have THAT out of the way,” he glanced over at me where I remained in the kitchen, forcing him to raise his voice as though addressing a crowd, “Chad let me know that a friend of his who had worked here a few weeks ago, noticed the Temple of Doom. And Chad suggested that he could help me liquidate the merchandise, so to speak. My thought was that the two of you could put together a plan for its’ liquidation and we’ll all review it. Then we can proceed. How’s that sound?” asked His Cluenessness, living up to his title in a way heretofore unknown.
Chad turned red as a strawberry margarita and blurted, “No way am I sharing anything with that has-been. It was my idea” He was looking straight at me and the absolute revulsion that traveled between the two of us was palpable.
“Now-now, boys & girls, settle down.” said Nando as he walked up to Chad and planted his palm firmly on Chad’s butt and escorted him out of the room disappearing down the hallway.
I turned to Manny. Our mouths were both agape, and I managed to sputter, “Did that just freakin’ happen? I bet Chad thinks he's going to get a look at the goods in the Temple of Doom, bet he doesn't realize the only thing down that hall is Nando's Bedroom.”
Manny looked down at the vacated former home of Fleeper, shook his head and sighed, “Hermano mio, the Master Bedroom was called the Temple of Doom long before the other room got that name! I think there are three people getting royally screwed here tonight and one of them doesn't know it yet.” Email to a friend
- to be continued
Landon Hollander
E-mail: landon5123@mac.com
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Landon Hollander consults, designs and sells audio and video systems (landoplan.com) and handles sales in the Riviera Nayarit for the PVMirror. He can be reached at: landon5123@mac.com. Landon is currently teaching his dogs French to see if they will obey commands in this language as they appear not to understand English or Spanish.
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