I read this entry several times (and rewrote it several times) before uploading it, and yet I got an incredibly queasy feeling every single time.
The odds must have been about a billion to one that I would experience the most embarrassing episode in my life on a desolate highway thirty miles from the nearest town in "remote" western Nebraska (or anywhere else, for that matter).
But I did.
How do I come up with such astronomical odds, which I am convinced are not an exaggeration? Read on:
A few years ago, a man here in western Nebraska tried to recruit me to sell Amway products. There was no way on earth that he was going to get me into that line of work. No way. No way. No way.
Holding true to the Amway stereotype, the guy wouldn't quit trying to recruit me, and I kept refusing with as much bluntness as possible, without being rude. After some further back and forth, he finally said something that caught my attention. He told me that he and some others would be going to an Amway seminar in Rapid City, SD, in a few days and that I was welcome to ride along. As I say, I was not interested in becoming an Amway "disciple," but I was definitely interested in getting a free ride to Rapid City (yes, my life was that boring). I agreed to go along, but I warned him that I still had no intention of joining Amway. He was convinced that he had a new brainwashee, and I was convinced I was going to get a free ride to my home state.
A few days later, we departed on the four-hour drive to Rapid City. Besides me, there were four others in the car. They consisted of the driver (age 55), who was the owner of a local jewelry store. Next came the man who was trying to recruit me (about age 35). He just happened to be the general manager of one of the local TV stations. With him was his wife (also about age 35). Finally, there was a man (age between 35 and 45) who was a low-level employee at the same TV station. This employee, like me, was also a potential Amway recruit. I'll call him Joe since I don't remember his real name. The others don't need names. By the way, I was 30 years old at the time.
I rode in the front passenger seat, while the general manager, his wife and Joe rode in the back (they must have been trying to butter me up by giving me the best seat). All four of these people were total strangers to me, and I felt very out of place, especially since I was going to participate in something that was a total turnoff for me. I was starting to regret my decision to go along.
The five of us visited about various nothings as we drove out of town. I soon learned that Joe (the other "recruit") was a native of New York City. I was amazed that he had ended up at one of our two little TV stations in western Nebraska. I believe I asked him how he managed to end up here, but I no longer remember his answer.
About thirty miles out of town, in the middle of nowhere, the jewelry-store owner started talking about the barbershop quartet to which he belonged. I'm definitely not a singer and definitely not a fan of barbershop quartets, so I stayed out of that boring conversation -- for a while. As they were discussing possible songs to sing at future events, a totally random thought entered my mind -- random, that is, according to the laws of everyday mundane reality, but fated according to the laws of the universe. It was a song that I thought might sound good as sung in the four-part harmony of a barbershop quartet. During a brief pause in the conversation, I told them that the song High 'n' Dry, by Black Oak Arkansas (1973), might be perfect for them.
Why I thought of that particular song, out of the thousands of songs I could have thought of, I don't know. It was a certainty, though, that no barbershop quartet had ever sung it before. I knew it was a silly notion even as I said it, and I knew that he would never listen to me; however, I was just trying to make conversation with these strangers and maybe even introduce something unique into the annals of barbershop-quartet history.
The reader should know that High 'n' Dry is the only soft song on an album filled with exceptionally hard and loud rock songs, most of which have a grating edge to them. I have never been a big fan of exceptionally hard rock, and I figured a 60-year-old jewelry-store owner would be even less of a fan. Therefore, just in case he had heard of Black Oak Arkansas and was ready to dismiss me as a kook, I added an editorial comment to my suggestion. Basically, my entire statement went as follows:
"I know the perfect song for your quartet. It's called High 'n' Dry by Black Oak Arkansas."
Then, after only the briefest of pauses, and with way too much emphasis, I added, "Everything else they sing STINKS, but that song is absolutely great."
This seems to be a good place to let the reader know that Black Oak Arkansas was formed in Arkansas (as one might guess) in the late 1960s.
As my utterance of the word, "stinks," was still ringing in the air, I noted an immediate and uncomfortable silence. No one looked at me or spoke a single word as we raced along that remote highway on the wide-open prairies of western Nebraska. I could tell immediately that this wasn't a normal silence, and instinct -- or, rather, ESP -- caused me to start feeling embarrassed, even though I had no idea why. Was my suggestion of a song by a hard-rock group that bad? Or had I been too crude in my use of the word "stinks"? The silence continued, and it was beginning to generate a distinctly uncomfortable quality throughout the vehicle, or so it seemed to my overactive mind. I was growing confused and embarrassed, fearing that I had, indeed, said something terribly wrong; however, I still had no idea what exactly it may have been. I could feel my face starting to turn red. I turned around and looked at the man from New York City, as well as at the general manager and his wife.
After some more silence, I finally said something to the general manager. I can no longer remember what I said, though, because his reply has blotted it from my memory forever. I may have commented to him, in an extremely roundabout way, about their odd lack of a response to my suggestion. That is the only thing that makes sense now, considering his reply.
He pointed at Joe and said very uncomfortably to me, "Joe was a member of Black Oak Arkansas."
I should just stop right there and let you imagine how I felt, but that wouldn't be right. I wish I could find the right words, but I cannot.
Suffice it to say that the interior of the car started to spin as the blood drained from my head. I think I went into shock because I couldn't feel my body anymore. I couldn't see straight, as I tried to look at Joe (who was originally from NEW YORK CITY!!!!!!!!!!! NOT [Blank]ING ARKANSAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!) and tried to converse with him normally, as if I had said nothing at all; but my voice wasn't working, and my neck refused to hold my head steady. I kept thinking that everyone must surely see it wobbling. I thought about trying to hold it still, but I feared I would overcompensate, like a drunk trying to walk straight, and it would then tip in the other direction.
I may have said to "Joe," with as much fan-like awe as I could muster, and in spite of the absence of all oxygen in my body and most muscle control in my lips, "Really? You were? Wow!"
I knew it was too late to explain that I hadn't really meant it like that, because, no matter how well I explained it, it would sound like a lie. I had said it with way too much emphasis.
We drove along in terrible silence for a while, during which I stared across the back seat, past Joe and out the side window. I couldn't look him (or anyone) in the face, but I wanted to "emit" feelings of "sincerest apologies" by looking in Joe's general direction as often as possible. After a sufficient amount of time had passed, I said, in general, to everyone (this is a very, very rough paraphrase), "You know, I really put my foot in my mouth. There's a reason I said that the way I did, but I don't think anyone is ever going to believe me now. I honestly didn't mean it the way it sounded."
Much to Joe's credit, he tried to ease my guilt. He said, "I only joined the band in their later years. I'm not an original member of the group."
That didn't make me feel better at all because he had obviously chosen to join that particular band because he liked their music (music which I had just said "STINKS"). All the rest of that long, long night, while in the car, then in the seminar and later at a Perkin's Restaurant in Rapid City, I visited with Joe like there was no tomorrow. I tried to apologize for my comment several times without overdoing it, because I was driven by a guilt such as I had never experienced before. He continued to tell me not to worry about it, and he really seemed to mean it. He was a sincerely nice person, and once I dropped the subject, we had a good time discussing other topics (in fact, during the seminar, we had both had fun whispering obnoxious comments and jokes to one another about the various Amway speakers). I still felt like the lowest form of life on earth.
In conclusion, picture the scene: The vast plains of western Nebraska, 30 miles from the nearest town, 1,000 miles from Arkansas, 1,500 miles from New York City, in a car heading to an Amway seminar in South Dakota with four total strangers, talking about barbershop quartets, and I had managed to pick, and then insult, the one band, out of the tens of thousands of bands on earth, that had a former member right there in the car with me.
Final Note 1.) In spite of this horrible incident, High 'n' Dry remains one of my very favorite "feel-good" songs of all time.
Final Note 2.) Oh, yeah..., and I never joined Amway either.
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[Just Because - SF - 2016]
