Waiting for the Electricity (24 page)

“Bob, did you say one percent?”

“That’s right. We always thought the challenge would be to sign up the banks. You need to get lenders to come in and change the value of business. If you look at the history of economics in our country, Jeff, you’ll see we did not have huge centralized call centers.”

“Extremely profitable. Look at the financial history.”

“It’s a history of innovation, Jeff. How else do you keep yourself in a competitive position? We went through a period of very vigorous competition and what we realized was this: we were going to have to empower consumers. The history of the market is not about ruthless competition. The history of the market is about innovative lending models. There’s always some resistance but at the end of the day
the businesses we deal with are entrepreneurs. You have a pool of consumers who love to shop and compare. We provide the content. At the end of the day, what will they say? That mortgages and financial services have been democratized. The information advantage shifted to the level of where the playing field leveled out …” Flwip.

“Do you feel like you need a nap in the daytime? Have you considered that your mattress might be the problem?” Flwip

“Giving you the shiniest, silkiest, sexiest hair you’ve ever had. Allows you to easily curl or straighten, and its extra long swivel cord allows you easy mobility …” Flwip.

“Hello, I’m Paul. I’m here to introduce you to a remarkable new product. I’m not here today just to represent my pharmaceutical corporation. I’m here to show you these pictures of actual people who have tried our new antiaging topical cream. My wife swears by it. I swear by it. You say, ‘Of course you swear by it. It’s your line …’” Flwip.

“Toughest guy pounding Harrison. I say if you don’t want to hit and be hit then don’t show up today. We’ve got the most physical NFL teams in the league. These teams understand that it’s still about imposing your will on others. Defense. Blocking. Tackling. But today on the field I have not seen the physical domination I expected …” Flwip.

“The greatest national product of America is its good heart …” Flwip.

“I agree, Maureen. What we’re seeing is fashion for every price option. Some of this stuff you can do for yourself if you’re handy with the sewing machine. You can even make this outfit …”

“Oh isn’t that cute!”

“… for your little dog.” Flwip.

“Ooh. And what’s this?”

“That’s our arugula pesto. Keep in mind that the problem with pesto is that people add too much of it. What I love about these products is that our package comes with its own wooden utensil …” Flwip.

I was beginning to understand that so much electricity allowed for a lot of televisual experiential diversities.

I got up from the TV and looked on Merrick’s computer to see if there was some sort of Georgian community in San Francisco, but I couldn’t find one. The last Georgian/American Commerce Meeting was held on March 23, 1996.

In the kitchen Charlie made us both an avocado and cheddar cheese sandwich. It was too slimy. “Let’s make an omelet,” I said.

“Merrick said I should eat more vegetables,” Charlie said.

“In my country eggs are considered vegetables.”

After we ate our omelets, I helped Charlie put together his dollhouse pieces. We made a miniature billiard table.

The next day Mr. Tetley brought what he called an “om machine” to our seminar. He asked us to help move the conference table aside so we could stretch out. “Slims,” Mr. Tetley said, “why don’t you stand where you have more room? Stretch your arms out. That’s right. Is everybody here? Everybody-ish? Today, for our introductions, let’s try something new. We get stuck in patterns of who we think we are. So instead of that let’s tell each other what body of water we are identifying with. I’ll start. I am Roger Tetley. Remember, when you say your name, emphasize the I AM. Today I am identifying with Clear Lake, a calm and clear lake that I recently explored in a kayak. Susan? How about you?”

Susan and Mr. Tetley had both changed into exercise clothes, or what Susan called a leisure suit. “I am Susan,” she said. “Today I am identifying with a shallow puddle with big red boots stomping up and down in it.”

Everyone laughed but me. How could someone change their personality so quickly?

“Slims?” Mr. Tetley said.

“Yes?” I said.

“What body of water do you identify with?” Misha yelled from the back.

“Truthfully, I wasn’t identifying with any body of water today,” I said.

Misha made sounds of annoyance. “But usually, I think about the Black Sea,” I said. People seemed to be satisfied with my answer.

After everyone had identified themselves with a body of water—Misha, of course, had identified with a river, the Dnieper River—Mr. Tetley said, “We will now try to feel the water of our own bodies by om-ming.” Taking a deep breath he reached his arms toward the ceiling. “Since our bodies are mostly comprised of water, this is a technique to get in touch with the liquid currents of our bodies. It’s called being ‘in the flow.’ When you’re in the flow, you’re heading toward prosperity. You will find that if you practice this every day, your health and your intimate relationships will improve. Not to mention your pocketbook. We’re all here for that.” He sat down next to his machine, turned it on, and instructed everyone else to sit down on the floor too. “With this next exercise,” he said, “we will create a feeling of unity and one-heartedness between us. Take a deep breath in on this note.” Mr. Tetley pulled out the bellows. “And exhale with the word
om
on this note.”

I think I breathe more slowly than Mr. Tetley because he was pushing those bellows in and out a little too fast, speeding up our breathing so that soon I was hyperventilating. I was trying to watch his breath, to create one-consciousness and one-heart, but Sergei, behind me, stopped om-ming and began chanting, “Wah wah wah … wah, wah, wah.” Mr. Tetley halted. “Stop,” he said. “Everyone stop. Some of you may not understand the point of this team-building exercise, but once you start working for a corporation, having to deal with the demands of some power hungry, cocaine-addicted CEO, you will realize the benefits of om-ming together as a group.”

Sergei, in the back, said, “I like to chant individually.”

After lunch Mr. Tetley changed back into his gray suit. Now was the scheduled time for individual consulting. When it was my turn we sat at the conference table with a bottle of water between us. “On their list of exports,” Mr. Tetley began, “many countries boast of plastics or rubber products. Steel. Redwood. Pig iron. I see here, Slims, that
you are interested in packaging fish. Let’s expand our vision a little. What products, besides fish, and oil transport, of course—we can’t forget about that—is Georgia best known for?”

“Georgia is best known for its liquids,” I said. “Wines and waters. Brandy. Perfumes. Tangerine juice. Besides fish, I think the best business for me would be to get involved in exporting Borjomi water, especially because it comes from the park behind my village. That would be the logical thing. I mean thinking purely pragmatically. Purely business. Do you agree?”

“Borjomi?” Mr. Tetley asked. “I’m not sure what that is.”

“But you know the word
KGB
,” I said. “How can you not know
Borjomi
?” I pointed to the bottle of water between us to give him a little hint. “It was the Coca-Cola of the Soviet Union, the drink of choice for the Soviet elite. Mineral water. Borjomi. It’s the same word. Just this year, so far, the Georgian Glass and Mineral Water Company has earned fifty million dollars in revenue, that’s ten percent of our exports. I heard that French financiers have invested twenty-five million dollars. I think I could do it for less. The biggest problem is the shipping expense.” I lowered my voice so Misha couldn’t hear. “And there are many counterfeiters in Moscow who just add salt and baking soda to their tap water and say, ‘This is real Borjomi.’ I am sure that seventy percent of Borjomi water is Moscow tap water. But it doesn’t have the magical qualities in it and people can taste that.”

“Magical qualities?” Mr. Tetley asked.

“Now you are telling me that you don’t know about the magical qualities of Georgian water?” I asked, incredulous again. “But even our street bards sing about the famous fizzy water in Tbilisi and how it gives you a long life! You can add tarragon flavor, chocolate, orange, or even a chocolate-orange combination. There are always so many people at the Borjomi Cafe who want to try that water that people go just to watch who has the patience to stand in that kind of line.” I tapped my pen on the table. “There are some logistical problems we must take into consideration, though. We must export the water to Russia, through Abkhazia and Chechnya and there, I’m sure you know, everyone is always shooting each other. I know that a percentage
of Borjomi water is always stolen by customs officials. I’ve heard it’s not a high percentage, though. They steal a lot more from other businesses in the region.”

“But the climate over there is starting to improve, yes?” Mr. Tetley asked. “In fact, business can only get better, I think. Anyhow. What I’ve learned is that the real challenge in doing business in former Soviet republics is getting rid of the old way of doing business. I was consulting with a company in Kazakhstan a few years back. A rubber plant. Anyhow, in order to make this company viable, not only did we have to retrain the managers, but we had to cut back on all those services and benefits that Soviet-style companies used to offer to their employees.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Business cannot support kindergartens. Nor can they sustain sanatoriums, hospitals, or summer camps. You’ve got to get rid of those burdens and focus on the product.”

“I think your capitalism is about as effective in Georgia as a private hobby, like stamp collecting,” I said.

But Mr. Tetley was really tenacious; he wouldn’t give up. “What other products do you have besides Borjomi?” he asked.

“Hazelnuts,” I said. “But I already sold ours in the market. I couldn’t get a high price.”

“Ah, that is where you must change your thinking. Why didn’t you wait until there was higher demand for them? Then you could charge more.”

“But then they would have dried out and weighed less,” I said.

Even though I knew that all week long Americans look forward to Friday—“TGIF! TGIF!” the radio announcers always said—when Friday finally came, I was exhausted. As we say in Georgia, “The cat which did not reach the sausage said: ‘Anyhow, it’s Friday.’” Along the marina the gulls were pecking at paper bags. Little children, like everywhere, were digging for gold on the beach. I had the opportunity to become a businessman. Slims Achmed: a man with a capitalist plan.
When I used to drink homemade
chacha
with Malkhazi under the combines, or sing peace songs at Soviet pioneer camps, I never imagined that I would one day be in America, encouraged to come up with a business plan.

At home I made a tuna fish sandwich and sat on the sofa, staring at the TV, which presented a documentary about a man who made fifty thousand dollars a month while sitting at his kitchen table in his underwear. But I was interested in neither nudism nor “telecommuting,” so I switched the program to Oprah. She was talking about how to make friends with yourself.

Merrick’s father stopped by, saw me watching TV, and told Merrick that he should be arranging more cultural activities for me. “He comes from an ancient culture,” his father said. “You need to show him that we have some traditions here too.”

“It might be a very good cultural experience for me to study the law here,” I suggested to Merrick.

But instead, Merrick took me hula hooping. “This is the one day of the week when I really need my truck, in order to carry the hula hoops,” he said. “But my sister’s boyfriend is still borrowing my truck. Do you mind carrying some hula hoops for me?”

“In Georgia we like to carry swords these days,” I said. “I feel insecure not carrying something.”

We walked down Geary to the gas station where Merrick had organized a peace vigil ever since the American war with Iraq had started. “We meet here, in front of the gas station,” Merrick said. “You see Slims, we can’t stop the war in Iraq but nobody can stop us from protesting every third Friday of the month. Our little peace group has become a San Francisco tradition,” he said, propping up some “political art,” as he called it, that he had made out of pieces of cardboard. “The Marin newspaper even wrote an article and called us ‘Hoop for Peace.’ I don’t like labels, but I like to think of ourselves as concerned citizens and people who love America.”

Merrick began to rock his hips back and forth, suspending his
hula hoop over his hips. Behind him was the 3-D cardboard gas pump he had set up, actual size. It showed the current numbers of soldiers who had been killed in Iraq. Tonight, the number was 602. Merrick said that last month it had been 204.

Like his sister, Merrick was a
multitasker
. While he was hula hooping, he spurted fake blood out of one of his homemade oil derricks. Then he worked the levers on his infrared, remote control toy tank he had bought last Christmas season for twenty dollars. “I discovered this thing was manufactured by Halliburton. It gives me great joy to use their own propaganda against them,” he said and fired off six plastic missiles from the front of the USA Freedom Force M-1 Tank at a 4x4 driving by while a computerized voice said, “Enemies crushed.”

“You understand the technology on this thing?” Merrick asked. “The batteries alone would have cost almost ten dollars on the shelf. They were included. This tank was subsidized by taxpayers’ money!”

Some men dressed in uniforms had started to congregate. “Uh-oh,” I said, pointing at the soldiers.

“They’re forest rangers,” Merrick said. “Most of them have never been politically active before in their lives. But they always come out for this.”

As I learned how to hula hoop that evening, Merrick, from inside his hula hoop, lectured to passing pedestrians about the dangers happening to our environment, about black oak sudden death syndrome that was killing all the oak trees, and about the glassy winged sharpshooter—an insect that all the vineyard owners in the North were terrified would demolish their seventeen-million-gallon-a-year wine producing region.