March
1, 2014
Free
samples brings a stampede of folks, wanting to appear satisfied with empty
hands yet actually succumbing to the tendrils of complimentary plastic, paper,
metal rings at the end of nylon, bright colors and tacky fabrics, that entice
raccoons after curious shiny objects. The mob needing the instant experience of
something delectable, and unique, elbows to experiment the products before they
disappear. Herds plod the Convention Center, where, close by, the Dalai Lama is
presenting. A murmur of powerful awe leans into the staff behind our booth as
someone mentions his name. Most turn to peer around the arena, as though he
will round the corner at any moment, the incredible Spiritual Leader of the
Tibetans. Just talking of him gives us a little more hope.
Women,
following their spouse down the row of bottles of colorful alcoholic beverages,
show favoritism. The men nod to the “boss” in expectation of the next move. One
is always the leader. It isn’t always easy to distinguish which is the director,
from a distance. The chief tends to fess up, at some point, to beguile the
party into one more sip of enticing sample, to encourage another gift to the
bag, or turn away, moving onto better tastings. It is all the same to them.
Randy,
“The Barefoot Guy,” ambushes the thrill of camaraderie with his glow of
command. Three bartenders, the man in charge of all of North
America, two regional managers, and five workers bees crash around
under the perilous tent, aiding and abetting the consumers of spirits. We
almost get it kind of together and the next shift arrives. Giddy with relief,
we dance away into the crowd of tasters, mingling among them, disappearing into
nobody special.
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