Season 2 Chapter 9

A piece of driftwood I was. I had been part of a larger living organism, sprouting new life and granting shelter and refuge for other organisms. Now separated from that organism, I followed the tide wherever it pushed me. Maybe someday I’ll end up as someone’s coffee table.

Small talk with Apuri, coffee at the bagel shop -- the morning was so routine I almost forgot that I wouldn’t be driving to CNC. In my current frame of mind, I couldn’t quite wrap my head around the idea that I would be motivating others. What was I motivating them to do? Talking to an individual, hearing his or her story, and offering sound advice was one of my specialties. Maybe it’s a universal guy thing. Maybe it was a human thing. I’m good with the designer speeches to just one person even if I’ve only known him or her for five minutes. Spouting off generic words of wisdom to a large group without veering too far into platitude territory was an entirely different animal. Memorable delivery was going to be the key over actual substance. From my past speaking engagements to large audiences, I knew I’d been inconsistent in my delivery—yes, sometimes offensive. As a motivational speaker I should tell myself to view these shortcomings as opportunities for growth.

I had to figure most folks, if they sat down and meditated or prayed or just turned off the television, would come to the right conclusion about where they wanted to go and what they would need to do to get there. Most of those folks in turn would be astute enough to see the hellish road ahead and choose a less strenuous path. Some would be too stupid to see the obstacles and plow ahead anyway either to their own destruction or in some cases their miraculous success upon the severed heads of others. Some of those who failed might take another crack at it having learned a few things from their initial failures. A rare few would have the experience, brains, resources, and willpower to achieve their ultimate goals, enriching many including themselves along the way. It was all clear to me. I had been there. I had made it. But now I was somewhere else. Fran, my old protégé, was the one now pointing me in a direction. I say “a direction” because I’m not yet sure it’s the right direction. I had expenses to pay that would slowly deplete my relatively substantial assets, so I wasn’t necessarily in survival mode, but I definitely needed to be doing something to stay sharp and keep me off the FBI’s most wanted list. It was not my dream job of becoming an armpit deodorant tester, but it would do in a pinch. Oh, the sacrifices we make.

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I arrived promptly at the building that was home to the Nell Tanner Agency. The elderly security guard in the lobby was the epitome of the term “non-threatening”, wearing his Mayberry-style uniform and his megawatt grin. The security staff at the CNC building in their pseudo-secret service coats always seemed like they would rather be somewhere else. This guy apparently loved his job. Barney Fife checked my ID and, with a nifty little two-finger salute and a twinkle in his eye, sent me up to suite B on the eighth floor—the only portion of the building that actually had anything to do with the Nell Tanner Agency. The tall-for-a-woman and lanky Nell Tanner was there to greet me.

“Hello, Sheldon. It’s such a pleasure to meet you. Welcome to the Nell Tanner Agency.”

She held out her arms inviting me to take in the corporate Zen majesty of her office space. It was a small operation but well appointed. She had eschewed the dreaded office beige in favor of cool greens and dark wood-- maybe clichéd but not unwelcome.

“I hope you found us all right. Can I get you anything to drink?”

I really wanted to say, “G and T, please,” but I stopped myself. Nell introduced me to her two assistants/accounting clerks, Peter and Sunday. You didn’t really need gaydar to tell on which side of the road Peter drove, and Sunday was an effervescing young lassie fresh from the Midwest as far as I could tell from her accent. Sunday’s smile and exuberance was almost too much cuteness to bear for more than twenty seconds. Nell and I moved on to her cozy office to begin the process of feeling each other out—figuratively of course.

“Your friend, Fran, speaks highly of you. I’ve watched your show, and I have to say that I am impressed with your sense of humor, confidence, and your ability to connect with your subjects and viewers. Of course, public speaking is a very different endeavor. You’ll need time to hone your speaking skills and put together a solid presentation before I can unleash you on the world.”

Then she displayed her droopy-eyed smile which I could only describe as evil genius. I would see that smile many more times.

“A little bit about myself: I worked for many, many years in the corporate world as a customer service manager and management coach for a major communications company. I eventually got into consulting. I trained managers how to be better managers. I’ve always been interested in bringing out the best in people—motivating them to reach their full potential. It’s what drives me. How about you, Sheldon? What is your motivation?”

“What gets me out of bed in the morning is the knowledge that there are things in the world that I’ve never seen or heard before that will just completely blow my mind. Everyone has the potential to create. If I can be the guy encouraging them to create in new and fascinating ways, then in a way, I guess I’m a lot like you, Nell.”

I tried out my own version of the evil genius smile. I’m sure it didn’t come close to matching Nell’s sublime expression.

“That’s fantastic, Sheldon.”

In my mind I was pretending she was responding to my smile rather than what I had just said.

“Fran explained to me a little about your situation, so one of my main concerns is ‘Are you going to be able to commit fully to working for the Nell Tanner Agency?’ The hours aren’t typical, but we still expect a lot. Along with speaking engagements, we operate a website centered on motivation. We like our roster of speakers to contribute motivating affirmations, tips, and tricks. Perhaps you’d be willing to write a feature article on a regular basis for the site. It’s a great way to build up interest—give people a taste of how rewarding a session with Sheldon would be.”

“Well, I can talk, and writing is just talking with your fingers, so I’m sure I can come up with some inspirational anecdotes. If you read the Fifteen Minutes blog, you’ll get a little taste of what I can do. That is unless they’ve already deleted any evidence of my existence at CNC.”

“That would be a shame.”

She displayed a brief look of concern, and then quickly returned to her standard game face.

“One of the benefits of having such a strong roster of speakers is that we have the opportunity on a regular basis to get together to practice our craft with each other. It’s a great opportunity to try out new ideas and gain constructive criticism from your peers in a safe environment. We’re actually having a session today, and I’d like you to sit in to observe and maybe gain some inspiration for your own presentation.”

“An orgy of motivators.”

Did I just say that?

“I would put it differently, Sheldon. You’ll really learn to tailor your presentation to fit the audience. If you’re giving the same speech you used with a group of high school dropouts to a group of executives at Goldman Sachs, you’ll miss the mark.”

“You’re right. I’d really have to dumb it down for the Goldman group. Is Goldman Sachs a client?!”

“It’s a hypothetical scenario. My own opinion is that a phrase such as ‘orgy of motivators’ would go over better with a group from Goldman.”

“Interesting. Now that I think about it, you’re probably right.”

“Most of the time, I am.” Nell’s deadpan was uncanny. “Let’s make our way to the presentation room.”

There was no dawdling on small talk. Nell was a woman of action. She did not mess around. I could tell if I was to make any kind of human connection with her, it would have to be in the context of work. We would never have one of those long arguments over the minimum tolerable thread count in bed sheets.

The presentation room contained a handful of people including Sunday. Peter must have been manning the phones. At the front of the room standing next to a large white screen ready to present was small thin man in a black cowboy shirt and bola tie. His silver belt buckle contained an intricate array of turquoise. His hair was thin in the front, but he made up for it in the back with a ponytail. With his thin moustache and goatee, he appeared to be going for some Southwest guru look. This was Dean, a former drug addict, and he was going to cover the portion of his presentation that dealt with time stealers—those pesky little devils that take your attention away from the things you should be doing. It was all too familiar. I felt like I was being sucked into a time stealer vortex.

The rest of us were to evaluate Dean’s presentation by filling out a form and sharing what we really liked and didn’t like about it. I hoped for Dean’s sake that he was above average.

Dean spent a whole fucking hour and a half talking about time stealers. He talked about procrastination sirens like television and the internet—pretty much the world I live in. He talked about saying “yes” to everything when we should be saying “no” more often. He talked about managing phone calls and email. He talked about getting it right the first time. He got us involved by having us share our own stories. He got us all to raise our hands and look around the room to see that we all deal with the same fucking shit. It was a masterpiece of common sense.

After Dean was finished, it was time to share our thoughts. Most everyone had high praise for Dean. They really liked the way he made the subject matter connect with them on a personal level. They appreciated his timely pauses to allow for moments of reflection. On content, a few folks mentioned they would definitely be incorporating some of his bullets in their own future presentations. One of the gals, Vivian, was highly laudatory. It was one big stroke fest. And then it was my turn.

“Dean, fantastic presentation. I don’t want to repeat what’s already been said, so I’ll get right to some of my other observations. A lot of people take eye contact for granted, but you really nailed it. You shared your gaze with everyone. Maybe it was little heavy on the right side of the room—mainly in Vivian’s direction, but that’s cool. You need an anchor. Some folks try to lock you into their gaze like it’s a tractor beam or something. That kind of thing freaks me out. It’s like we’re in a staring contest. They’re trying to hypnotize me. You had just the right amount pupil connection—not too little; not too much.”

Dean nodded his head effusively.

“We’re also supposed to talk about what bothered us. There was one thing that just sort of grated on me during your presentation. You have this hand gesture. I think you use it to emphasize a point, but you end up using it so much, it begins to lose all meaning. You’re chopping broccoli the whole time. You’re practicing kung fu up there. There were a dozen or so sentences where you were bringing the hammer down on every word. I know they tell you not to put your hands in your pockets when you’re speaking publicly, but, man, I almost wanted you to do just that. You got to lay off the karate chop up there.”

Dean was actually going to fight me on this.

“You’re referring to my ‘power move’. I derive a lot of strength from performing that move. It adds weight to my presentation. If it seems I’m using it too much, it’s because every word is important.”

Vivian, whom I swear I’d seen on a real estate ad billboard somewhere, rushed to Dean’s defense.

“Nell, I don’t think we should be able to stop someone from performing his signature move. It’s not just for the audience. It helps focus the presenter. You need to understand this, Sheldon.”

Yep, Vivian Oglethorpe. I see that horrific sign heading up the 101 through Agoura and Thousand Oaks. Nell stepped up to regulate.

“So how does everyone else feel? Is Sheldon alone in his disdain for Dean’s handiwork? How many of you also felt uncomfortable with Dean’s gesticulations?”

The majority of the room sheepishly raised their hands. Dean looked utterly demoralized. The vein on his temple was about to explode.

“Dean, it appears you’ll need to find a way to keep your ‘power move’ under control. Good catch, Sheldon.”

I could add two new haters to the already long list. I should be trying to find ways to shrink the list. I tried to smooth it out with Dean after the session by seeing if he wanted to get a drink, but he had plans. I was guessing the plans were with Vivian.

Before I took off for the day, Nell introduced me to her library of books on the subject of motivation and motivational speaking and invited me to mine it for ideas. I easily spotted John Wooden’s They Call Me Coach. Nell had a handful of recommended, which I took as required, reading, and she even provided me with a presentation template which I could use to get started. Like she said earlier, she likes to see people succeed.

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For being fired the day before, I expected a lot more emails and phone calls. I got only one phone call from the guy I hate to love, Hans Reitherman. He wanted to meet up to talk about what happened. I showed up at Versailles for some Cuban-style roast chicken and what I thought would be some farewell party. It was just Hans.

“Howdy, Hans. You know Fidel whines about U.S. influence, but we have to put up with his jazz, chicken, potato balls, etc. I think we’re pretty even.”

“I’m glad to see you’re in good spirits, Shel. I mean Another Fifteen Minutes was a big part of your life.”

“Yeah, it actually sort of was my life, but that’s all behind us now.”

“It’s pretty shitty what they did. Everyone had to sign an agreement to not talk to you for a year.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here, Hans?”

“I’m the only one who didn’t sign it.”

“Yeah, you’d be the only one who could do that and get away with it.”

I proceeded to tell Hans my side of the story, and he agreed with me—I was a complete dumb-ass. About half way through the meal, I got a call from Artie. Hans didn’t mind munching on some fried plantains while I chatted with my agent.

“Shel, the story is going to hit the trades soon, but it’s already been leaked, and I’m getting killed on the phones and the blackberry over here. I’m getting calls from E!, VH1, Bravo, Spike, Food, everybody. They all want to know your availability, and you know what I can do about it? Not a fucking thing, Shel! I swear I’m that Tantalus guy in Hades right now. You have to promise me that you’re coming back to this biz when the year is up.”

“I don’t know, Artie. This new motivational speaking gig is the bee’s knees.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Shel. We’re talking about money.”

“And I’m talking about pollination. Can I call you back later, Artie? I’m eating with Hans.”

“Yeah. Call me in a year. And tell Hans when he gets tired of Suzie and everything she doesn’t do to get him more money, I’m here for him.”