Sam Handwich stumbled back into the office and came reeling after me like an enflamed orange terrier just as I prepared to adjust the timeclock by 20 minutes and punch out for the day.

     “Fang! I’ve got to talk to you about something IMPORTANT.”

     For a moment I was afraid that Ralph had failed the drug test. I mean, again, I knew Ralph didn’t do any drugs.  But the inexpensive Dr. Milo was perfectly capable of letting his liverwurst sandwich crosscontaminate  a urine specimen in his “Lab,” and then mistaking the results for positive methamphetamine use. There really was no defense against a false positive. You could produce subsequent clean samples -at your own expense- from a different lab, but then Dr. Milo would claim that you’d flushed your system since the first test, and Handwich would yell at you and then fire you anyway.

     “Fang! I need to Proactivate you in a Primal Position for Retro Cab. Are you prepared to step on your Career Accelerator?” He clapped me on the shoulder. Things were looking somewhat better, but any contact with Sam Handwich was dangerous. He was crazy, and not clever.

     “You know that I am always ready to give one hundred and ten percent for Retro Cab, Sam. This place is like the stately pleasure dome in Xanadu to me.” I said, straightfaced. That took ten years practice.

     “Zanadoo’s that strip club over near Bloody Run off I-94, isn’t it? I’ve made a lot of satisfying business contacts in places like that,” he looked at me like I was his new first-born son, “what’s the rate for like seven minutes in this pleasure dome?”

     I dodged the question, “Sam, as a businessperson, I have to stay clickety-clack on the track of Career Advancement. Did I hear the Opportunity Siren keening my name?” Sam prefers to talk like that when he’s talking about business. It keeps it from meaning anything.

     “Yes, that’s it on the nose, Fang! When I first hired you were looking for a job! Now look at you, strapped to the warhead of commerce and heading for the stratosphere of success. Pack your bags, Fang, you’re coming with me to Sunny Orlando, Florida, for this years’ Taxi-to-Trucking Transportation Industry Convention/Fiesta! I need a savvy young representative to attend the meeting with me so that I can skip all the Business functions and golf and drink as befits an executive of my status. You’ll be learning many fascinating things about Federal Highway Regulations, New Software and Staff Solutions for business, and speak with many exciting salespeople! There will also be an opportunity for you to network with prospective clients from massive corporate entities. Shrimp Bars and Fruity Drinks! Raffles for Valuable Prizes! I’ve booked us a flight tomorrow, and two poolside luxury huts at Alligator Al’s Central Florida Jungle Fun Compound. It’s an all-expenses paid business bacchanal!” he stepped back and waited for me to shriek like a newly–elected prom queen.

     “Sam, I know that you, as a entrepreneur of excellence, are aware of how totally enpsyched and prothused I should be at the prospect of wallowing in a sea of the Premium Suitboys of Transportation. Someday I’ll thank you with tears in my eyes, Sam, but right now I’m just…overwhelmed. So forgive me if I seem…depressed and twitchy. How long does this conference go for, anyway?”

     “Five days, Fang. Over those five days I myself already have at least fifty-three hours of golfing and drinking tightly scheduled with certain other captains of the industry…Hugo Bfori of Constolid Trucking, Mac Asquith of Lavender Limos, Morvis Spontaine from BVR Nextday Delivery…you, Fang my boy, will be the proud host of Retro Cabs’ folding table of rates and services in the Carved Fudge Forest Conference Facilities at the Ice Cream Indulgences! Hotel and Resort of Orlando. I have also signed you up for fifteen seminars on Transportative Topics, because as President I enable Management to further their education when it seems like it might be profitable. That’s my Credo.”

     “That’s nice, having a Credo. What time do we leave tomorrow? And you’re sure you wouldn’t prefer to take Horst?”

     Sam Handwich stepped back and slowly scanned me with rheumy eyes, “Your technique of Agenda-Driven-Modesty is admirable. You’ve read  I Know You Are But What Am I? by Branch Steele, clearly. Don’t deny it. As you have just “persuaded” me to admit, Horst is not good with people. Once, at a trade show, this salesman came up to Horst and offered to sell him a Taxi Software Solution, and Horst broke both of the man’s thumbs. I was just coming back from the wine bar, and I saw the salesman, cradling his hands, staggering for the door and Horst screaming after him something about how he should go seek an Emergency Room Solution or a Doctor Solution. Our flight leaves at 8:35 AM, so I’ll see you at the airport at 6:30 AM. Here’s your ticket,” he thrust an envelope into my hand, smacked me on the shoulder, and went into his office to call Morvis Spontaine and discuss golf handicaps. 

     This was the worst possible news. Five days of dodging Handwich, slimy salesmen and annoying prospective clients in an unmapped location. I didn’t know the broom closets or fire escapes, I had no slack support staff, and might be forced to actually do some amount of work, talking to absurd losers who took themselves far too seriously. I spent an additional half hour at work looking at the website for the convention/fiesta, printing out the five day schedule of events and horrors in Orlando, the creamy strip-mall center of Florida.

     Worst also because of five days away from Vampirella, Natasha and Tibor was exactly four days longer than I had ever been away from them before. I’d been able to manage to bring them along on previous business trips, but this time we just couldn’t afford it, due to the short notice and our recent wasteful consumption of food, housing and utilities. It killed me to be away from my wife and kids even for the 4 to 6 hours a day that I ordinarily had to pretend to be at work. To be away from them for 120 hours was unthinkable. I punched out and climbed creakily on my bike to go break the news to the family.