The Opposite of Love is Using People
How Far Would You Go to Be a Winner? One of the Envied People?
**This entry was difficult for me to write. The story is true and disturbing. At least I was disturbed. I don’t know that readers who have grown up blasted on all sides with the message that happiness is a by-product of buying things, particularly things that others envy—will find what occurred disturbing at all. I don’t blame them. I hope you are disturbed.
This bone-chilling event happened on Day Two of a marketing conference, ranked and priced as the top of its kind in the nation. To prepare your mind for what is about to occur in the small auditorium at the Los Angeles Airport Hyatt Hotel, first read The Opposite of Love. Or fill up a large pail with ice and pour it over your head. Keep the bucket nearby. You may need it for the return of your lunch.
Day Two opened with a cheer session from a sparkly man in a four-thousand dollar suit. I know the cost of the suit as he used the shocking price tag to demonstrate how far he’d come as a writer in the four years since he’d acquired the marketing secret he was about to share. By ‘how far he’d come as a writer,’ Mr. Suit was not referring to advancements in his writing craft or locating an excellent editor. In fact, he warned his fledgling writer audience, including me, against wasting months and years on re-writes and writing classes.
Mr. Suit said: “With what you learn today—you will make however much money you want to make from that pile of writing now laying back home on your desk! You will learn that quality is not as important as your English profs told you. They call themselves artists, but in the business, we call them for what they are–losers!”
The secret method was quite simple, really. Unless you have a soul. Or two remaining cells of a soul.
Mr. Suit began.
Step 1. “Remove the bright white sheet of paper from your folders.” Hey, even I did that part right. “Now,” Mr. Suit continued, “make a list of your ten closest friends.”
That part took a few minutes as we honed our lists. Ah, a moment to think of fonder times. I was lagging behind. It’s hard to decide between who’s number ten or number 11 or if the whole idea of 10 should be at least 20. Luckily Mr. Suit was on top of the situation.
Step 2. “Now,” Mr. Suit instructed: “Put a star next to the names of your friends who make more money than you do.”
I’m lost at this point. Definitely a loser. My friends and I had never compared bank balances. But I want to keep up and not miss the big secret, so I took a stab at which of my friend’s made more money.
Step 3. “Now,” Mr. Suit said, his volume building, “Now, draw a thick line through each person on your list who makes less money than you do.”
What? I froze. I lost my ability to function. My head was focused on calculating the best route to the beach. But Mr. Suit kept right on going as if he was giving a weather forecast that culminated with pots of gold falling out of rainbows.
Mr. Suit said: “The people who you have drawn a line through? These are the people who are holding you back. These unfocused people have to go. Your association with these so-called friends is keeping you from having the life you want and the life you deserve.”
I looked around for allies, others ready to toss the speaker and his Four Thousand Dollar Suit into the pool. No one appeared troubled. I was plenty troubled picturing all my friends who would be scratching me out of their lives. I was picturing how I would inform all my priest and teacher and writer friends that in order for me to have the life I deserved--they had to go.
Around me participants were scratching their loser friends out of their lives like compulsive gamblers clearing silver strips on lotto tickets.
I was out of there. I hopped a taxi to the ticket window for the California Angels and bought a grandstand seat for the game that night. Mr. Suit would surely approve my ‘winner’ attitude. I did just what he suggested. I was confident that each and every Astros buddy on the field made more money in a month than I’d made if you added up every cent I’d earned since my first babysitting gig.
