Perfection

“I mean, we’re in marketing, right? We should know what people want!”

This restaurant must have the slowest service on the planet! The waiter was attentive, but lunch needed to arrive in the next five or we’d have to split! Here we were, Bob from Wiffle Industries, the joke being that all he sold was a bunch of piffle, me, outranking anyone ‘cause I work for this huge company that everyone has heard of and wants to do business with, and Emma, the no-nonsense kitchen specialist from Kitchener. Well, not so. She lives there, in sunny Ontariario! Works for I forget. I should ask her again. Not that I need to remember since she is buttering me up so much, wanting to expand her company’s profile on our platform. I’m at this conference because we need to sign up more associates. Oh, I almost forgot. You can call me Dan. Like I said, I'm along for the ride.

Our food arrives, finally. No one is answering my question. So, I ask again. What do people want? Bob starts, talking with his mouth full! Ugh. We press on. 

“People want perfection. Pure and not simple.” Bob picks something out from between his front teeth with a finger. Wipes his hand on his suit pants. Emma and I both ignore it.

Emma is constantly running her hands through her blonde, exquisitely cut hair. I don’t know what to call her hairdo. She nods when Bob finishes speaking.

“I agree,” she says. Then she turns her head and stares at me. “That’s why you’re seeing so many product returns!” 

I’m thinking, this isn’t about me, is it? She’s attractive, sure. But then again, getting a boatload of new associates isn’t a walk in the park! Do I have time for this?

 I’m forgetting to eat. I haven’t touched my fresh-from-frozen personal pizza with these miserable-looking brown things. Anchovies? I didn’t ask for that! Waiter! He hustles over.

“Yes?” he asks, bending over a bit, a pasted smile on his face.

“This is the wrong pizza! I never asked for anchovies!”

“I apologize, sir! Let me have a look at your order. New York Special, is that what you ordered?”

“Yes!”

“It comes with anchovies, Garlic butter/ricotta cheese base and spinach, red peppers, and chicken. I can take it back, sir!”

I roll my eyes. Then I pull one off my pizza and wriggle it before everyone. “Do you want to return to the kitchen, you naughty anchovy?” Emma and Bob laugh.

“You better leave a big tip!” Emma says.

“Like hell, I will!” I reply. “They should warn the customer when sea creatures die on their food!”

Bob chortles, “This is fun! What did you say your name was again?”

“Dan!”

“The man!” jokes Emma.

I smirk and enjoy it.

#

Perfection and personal service. Not to mention low prices. The three P’s! Price, Perfection, and Personal Service. Or so our presenter says in a cavernous auditorium that has seen better days. Everyone here got a cut rate on the price of attending the conference, so that is the price. Hotel room too. (lower than off-season rates) Personal service, as in being paired off with people who had the same answers on the pre-attendance survey, though I seriously wondered if Bob was just a bit of throw-up in our little group. No other place for him? Perfection? Still working on it.

Oh, yes. Chat service for any problems. 24/7 or I should say 24/2 since the conference is only for two days. I tried the chat—very slow response time.

CSR: How may I help you?

ME: This hotel has seen better days. Any suggestions?

CSR: I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Might I suggest a room upgrade? We have a bridal suite available for just another 49 dollars.

ME: Seriously? It’s the hallways—the dying flowers. The carpet has ingrained dirt that even a vacuum could never suck out!

No answer. The chat server must have barfed. Crashed or something.

#

Dinner time. We ditched Bob. Lost him somehow—no great loss. Emma says, “Where’s Bob?” like she doesn't know what we’re up to. I tell her that he’s getting his teeth cleaned. Or maybe his suit. The hell, I know.

This woman never stops laughing. Am I that funny? We arrive at this run-down restaurant-looking place with tired brick that is supposed to look shabby in an upscale way but mostly looks like its time is up.

“We’ve got coupons for this restaurant,” I say.

Emma started riffling through her purse, and all of her coupons fell on the floor. “Oops!” she says. She picks them up.

“Dry cleaning coupons, car rentals,” she lists them all. “Even one for this chicken place with two-for-one dinners!”

“This whole neighborhood is a dive. The conference auditorium, hotel, everything,” I say. “We’re here, not there. Might as well pile in.” No one greets us. Seat yourself, the sign says. The place is practically empty, but we’re early, so it might not be the food.

The waitress is the beamy type. Everything you say gets rewarded.

“I’ll have the special,” I say.

“Two,” Emma says.

The waitress bounced off without even asking if we wanted anything to drink. Sloppy.

“What’s the special?” Emma asks once the server leaves.

“Me,” I say.

“That’s very forward,” she answers.

“Well, it's like this, Emma. Perfection can exist anywhere. Cut to the chase, to what everyone wants. Or doesn’t want.”

“You can’t be serious!”

“Perfectly!”

#

The food could have been better. It was every bit as bad as I had imagined it would be. However, I had an expense account, and coupon use was mandatory—no sense getting in a twist about it.

We walk just a little down the main thoroughfare between the restaurant and the hotel.

We ran into Bob. He was lying in an alleyway just off the sidewalk. Mugged? At first glance, it looked like he was dragged partway into the alleyway by someone and then given the chop. I was not inclined to find out. There was almost no one around. Emma inhaled sharply, her hand to her mouth.

“We’ve got to do something!” she says pretty loud, but not so loud as to attract attention. It was quite dark, twilight, not pitch dark. Why have a conference in such an area as this? Such bad planning.

"I'll call 911,” I say.

“You aren’t going to do anything?” Emma shouts.

I ignore her. I am already talking to an operator. I name the cross street, and that’s that—time to go.

“Leave it to the experts, Emma. They know exactly what to do.”