One afternoon, the light on my answering machine is blinking. It’s a prerecorded message from a woman giving a ditzy, overly-enthusiastic next-door neighbor delivery. In all her forced merriment, she wants to let us in on a little secret:

“Hey you guys! Listen, call 1-888-859-2157, because there’s this RPM Promotion Center and they’re giving away, like, 30 trips to Las Vegas! Anyhow, you just call them, and I want you to choose so you can get some great stuff. So call them – NOW!”

I playback the message several times:

“Hey you guys! Listen…”

On the fourth playing, my reaction is “Oh my God!” I can’t believe how lucky and blessed my pink little ass is, some strange company has the sole intent of sending me to Las Vegas – no strings attached!

Fumbling for the phone, I call about getting my “great stuff”(I like great stuff).

“Yes, I’m calling about my free trip to Vegas. Vegas! Vegas!” I scream. “Can I leave right away?”

“No! You have to come down and watch a 90-minute presentation on vacation packages,” Molly of reservations fame, states in a somewhat unpleasant tone.

I make an appointment for my girlfriend and I under the pseudonyms Ken and Kathy Baker. For some reason it’s mandatory I bring a major credit card, which I need to show upon arrival.

90 MINUTES OF PURE ANNOYANCE
“Vegas! Vegas!”

Sunday afternoon at 2pm, we go to the Shell Vacations office. To stress our love for Vegas, we wear matching Las Vegas Hard Rock Café sweatshirts. I top off my look with a Las Vegas visor and used copy of Fodor’s pocket Las Vegas guidebook (to flip through and spout random Vegas facts).

Inside, occasional clapping comes from other rooms. Balloons are tied to chairs (what are the balloons about?). Hawaiian vacation music is piped in. Other couples, a bit older, wearing fancy sweaters, fill out questionnaire forms.

“We’re here for the free Vegas vacation,” I state to the receptionist with a bold “I-wanna-go-to-Vegas” smile. “Can we go right away?”

Three men wearing ties quickly turn and shoot me dirty looks. The receptionist laughs. “You mean, you’re here for the vacation package presentation,” she clarifies.

Then it hits me. The balloons! The clapping! The couples with nice sweaters! This isn’t about giving people “great stuff.” No. This place has a creepy hard-sell atmosphere one would expect from a cult or Amway. This is all about vacation timeshares and the selling thereof. Bah!

“Ken and Kathy Baker?” announces our timeshare salesman with the firm handshake, red face and generally greasy look. He goes by the name of George. He’s going to play timeshare hardball with us. I’m going to stand my ground and pressure him into sending me to Vegas, just like he’s going to pressure me into buying a needless timeshare (Vegas! Vegas!).

LET’S DANCE THE TANGO!
George takes us to the wheel-and-deal room (the origin of the light clapping). Our small, round table doesn’t have balloons.

Having someone talk to me about timeshares is the like someone talking to me about our Lord Jesus Christ; it’s something I could do without, but I know they’re going to be very persistent.

I commence our conversation, veering all topics and concerns to Vegas. George tries to take charge and turns the timeshare tables.

“Do you like skiing?” he asks.

“No.”

“Do you like swimming?”

“No.”

“Is there anywhere on this list you would like to vacation.”

“Vegas!” I say with finger extended. “Vegas! Vegas! You’re sending us there, right?”

Red-faced George is a trained professional. He has many rebuttals.

“It’s like if you had a friend who drove a really nice Jaguar. He’d drive it one week, and you’d drive it the next week.”

Timeshare is sort of like being a swinger. And somehow, I think those two cultures DO intersect.

George pulls out colorful vacation magazines, which he uses as visual aids.

“If there were one place on earth you’d like to vacation, where would that be?”

Pondering the question, I remove my Las Vegas sweatshirt. Underneath is a T-shirt that says “Las Vegas.”

“Ve-gas! Ve-gas! Ve-gas!” we chant.

“Okay, Okay, besides Vegas, where would you like to vacation?”

I sit there in silence for a moment and ponder a place that isn’t Vegas. Finally when it starts to get uncomfortable, I pipe in with, “I guess there’s nowhere else we’d really liked to go. We really don’t like vacations,” I add.

“Nowhere?!” George makes an angry face.

“Okay, I guess Moosejaw, Canada. Do you have any timeshares up there?”

Signs of frustration are showing through. He’s offered us a discounted subscription to a vacation magazine. No go. Inexpensive access to a health club. Uh-uh. More clapping comes from the other room. George’s already red face is much redder.

“I tell you what, why don’t we go to the big map in the other room, and you show me where Moosejaw is?! Huh!” he says, sounding like he’s testing my manhood. “I want to see where Moosejaw is!”

I think George has snapped.

“Sure, I’ll show Moosejaw on the big map.”

We parade to the other room (filled with light clapping). More people in nice sweaters sit at small, round tables. Sure enough, there’s a huge map of the whole entire world.

George folds his arms. “Now why don’t you show me where Moosejaw is!”

I look long and hard at Canada.

“It’s somewhere in here,” I say, rotating my palm over a large portion of the continent.

As luck would have it, I randomly spot Moosejaw out the corner of my eye. “It’s here!” I scream. “Moosejaw is here!”

George is annoyed at my map-reading proficiency.

We parade back to our table. Pulling out a pen and paper, George starts telling us the monthly payments and how much we need to put down for our timeshare.

This plan involves paying $18,000 with monthly payments and an annual renter’s fee topped on that. Once that’s arranged, we’ll be able to enjoy timeshare luxury hotel rooms around the world for roughly $79 per night (we’d still have to pay airfare). Somehow this isn’t even a good deal.

“I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but we don’t really want to buy a timeshare. We just want to go to Vegas,” I state once again.

THE CLOSER
“I’ll be right back,” says George, looking flustered. Moments later, George returns with Vince. Vince wears a black suit. Vince is the closer. Vince is soooooo smooth, he could slip right through your fingers when you shake hands, leaving a greasy residue, of course. Vince is brought in for those hard-to-sell cases. I hate Vince.

“Now, when we go to Vegas, can we stay at Circus Circus,” I ask Vince-the closer-when he sits down.

“Vegas! Vegas! Vegas!” George says, outright mocking us.

Vince-the-closer is smooth. He goes over the exact same payment plan as George, but throws in an even lower payment version.

“So how do you want to pay, check or credit card?” he asks smoothly (that’s why he’s the closer) with the confidence of a blackjack dealer.

I pull out my credit card, put it back, pull out again, then put it back.

“We don’t want a timeshare, we just want to go to Vegas,” I restate my mission statement. “Can we go to Vegas now?”

Vince-the-closer is so smooth; he knows when it’s time to move on.

“Well, you can go redeem your vacation certificate,” he says like we’re about to go collect a big giant turd.

They leave pissed we didn’t buy a pointless timeshare (without the benefit of looking at it). But we get the last laugh, for we’re going to Vegas – FREE OF CHARGE!!!

I swiftly fill out the claim certificate to be mailed in. Reading over the Terms and Conditions, they forgot to mention that I have to pay $89 for hotel and airline tax. What?!

“They should have told you about that when you phoned,” says the receptionist with a hint of a smirk, adding, “Even on the Price Is Right, they still have to pay taxes on the prizes.”

Bah. There is no Santa Claus.

Harmon Leon’s new book The Harmon Chronicles is available on Amazon.com