Grand Slam High Noon at Denny's

My Avon District Manager keeps emailing his troops with Exciting Promotions. Sell thirty-six bottles of Extraordinary - get six bottles free! Make your Fourth Quarter the Best Ever! Some months he throws incentive contests. The top sellers and recruiters get prizes like Avon demo jewelry or a nice dinner gift certificate. The competition can get a wee bit cutthroat. I keep out of the fray, keep sticking my brochures in the hands of the aesthetic hopeful, keep delivering small paper bags of coral lipstick and gently scented bath oil. The big jackpot is always just out of my reach.

One Monday morning this summer our manager told us about the Next Big Contest.

"Now, ladies, this is a sales opportunity you don't want to pass up!" He adjusted the computer projector and flashed photos of the latest and greatest Avon products on the gray wall of the sales center. His pants rested just beneath his belly, and every time he gestured his sports coat opened to reveal a shirt with a brown stain over the pocket. He described each new item and explained exactly how much money we would earn with each sale. He stopped the slide show, turned off the computer, and cleared his throat, an obvious dramatic pause.

"Top seller gets THIS!" He raised his arm and pointed at a gargantuan gift basket perched on the edge of the folding table. Skin-So-Soft, Anew Clinical boxes, lipsticks, mascaras, pajamas, eyeshadow, slippers, jewelry, a Hollywood Barbie doll - this basket held it all! It was swaddled in shiny pink tissue paper and along the wicker handle were taped ten Avon demo gift certificates. A murmur scuttled through the crowd and I saw the Queen Bees taking notes with sharp-nailed hands and staring down the competition. Whatever, I thought. I've got no chance in Hades. But damn, that's a mighty fine prize.

The next morning, I walked my own street, leaving books and samples for my regular customers. My boys walked ten steps ahead of me on the other side of the street, leaving my Avon treats on doorsteps and hanging from mailbox handles. I ignored them, kept my eyes on the sidewalk, tried to imagine just how many new customers I would have to hogtie in order to win those luscious goodies. Too many.

"Hey! Mom! Hey!" My older boy, 10, screamed and waved from behind a plump azalea bush. "Mom! Come here RIGHT NOW!"

I hustled across the street, expecting to see a bee sting swelling his hand, or a dead mouse maggot-rotting at his feet, or the biggest red ant hill he's ever seen. His younger brother, 8, continued up the street, carrying no brochures, his arms swinging in circles by his side, oblivious to 10's call of distress. I braced myself for the worst, but when I reached 10 and saw the reason for his yowl, I stopped cold chill dead.

10 held an Avon brochure by his thumb and forefinger as if handling forensic evidence. He turned it around so that I could see the back corner - the place where all good Avon Ladies stamp their name and telephone number. I quickly glanced ahead, one house, two houses, three houses up my street. Someone already hit it up! And by the name on the book, I knew just who. The fancy-shmancy big time recruiting Avon Lady with the huge hair who wins every damn contest, who makes Top Seller every month, and who knew I lived and worked Avon here.

This meant war.

I didn't sit and stare at Huge Hair's books for longer than a surf dude second. I didn't have to tell 10 what to do, either. I glanced up the street at the stocked homes and nodded my head with military precision. He took off, a stack of my brochures under his arm. I watched him run house to house, remove the offending literature and replace it with mine. 8 seemed oblivious to the operation. He sat on the curb scratching a neighbor's cat between the ears. I think I heard explaining to the Tabby that Data - of Star Trek, natch - has a cat named Spot. I rolled my eyes.

"Don't throw them away!" I yelled, when I saw my older boy head to a trashcan with Huge Hair's wares. "I'll stuff them in my backpack for now, ok?"

We blanketed my street and the three closest offshoots with my Avon goodies. No WAY was Huge Hair gonna grab that prize basket from under me. No WAY! I called her a hundred million mean names in my mind as we trudged home, and the moment I closed the door behind me I whipped out one of her brochures, flipped it over, and grabbed the telephone.

"Hi! Is this here Diedre?" I tried to disguise my voice by talking in a deep Southern accent. "Well now honey, I need some of that Skin-So-Soft, so if you tell me where you live, I'll just drop on by and pick up a brochure from you and drop you a check."

Huge Hair took the bait. She rattled off her address and told me she would wait until I arrived. Ha! I thought. You do that, Big Bad Avon Lady. You do that.

I hauled two boxes of stamped brochures to the back of my van and promised the boys a Slurpee apiece if they behaved.

"Now, kids, I'm going to be honest. We're going to do something kind of sneaky. You know how that lady put her brochures down OUR street? Well, we're going to put our brochures down HER street!"

My boys slapped me high five as I backed out of the driveway. I turned the radio up high, and we rolled across the overpass connecting olde towne with the patchwork of newer identical subdivisions. Diedre lived in one of these square villages. Each house we passed had three matching palm trees in a triangular arrangement and an iron mailbox stuffed into a printed terra cotta planter. I parked around the corner and watched my boys turn into secret ninja Avon warriors carrying messages of beauty and redemption. They snuck from home to home, leaving my books and samples on each doorstep. They took their job seriously. 10 kept his back against each side fence, sidled up to each house with eyes darting back and forth. 8 crawled quickly from bush to bush, a trick learned from Star Trek, no doubt. I'm sure in his mind he set phasers on "stun."

One hundred drops later, we were done. I opened the back hatch of my van and scooped out Huge Hair Diedre's books - the ones she left along my street - and ran them to her very own porch, left them wilting in the afternoon sun.

Three days passed. I forgot all about the prize booty. I didn't get a single call from Diedre's neighborhood. She must have discovered my dastardly deed and removed the evidence, I figured. My boys and I continued walking our beat, knocked on our regular doors and collected our regular small orders for blush and soap and deodorant. It would have ended there, plain and simple, but the Avon Gods intervened. I received a gift certificate to Denny's in the mail - a thank you gift from the PTA for my volunteer assistance over the school year.

"Hot dog! Boys, we're going out for lunch! You've been such excellent helpers!"

The Denny's sits at the corner of the biggest boulevard in town and the I-5. Queen palms separate north from south. We shuttled past the Japanese restaurant and the Albertson's grocery and pulled in to the parking lot the Denny's shares with the Motel Six. I carried an Avon purse stuffed with brochures and my gift certificate and I hustled the boys inside.

"You guys can pick out whatever you like! This is going to be a party, ok?"

An older waitress wearing a white and black smock escorted us to a booth along the picture windows bordering the restaurant. I sat against the glass and noticed a hundred tiny palm prints from someone's loose toddler. The boys perused the menu and debated the fine points of burgers versus pancakes and I glanced around the room, happy to be able to treat my boys as well as have a meal requiring no dirty dishes. Three waitresses leaned against the counter. I could barely hear their gossip about a co-worker and her hot fling with the Tijuana man who makes homemade tortillas. I smiled, thought how a man who kneads dough for a living must have talented hands. I turned to see what might be behind me, and then I saw her. Huge Hair. Diedre, the Big Bad Avon Lady. With a yuppy customer, drinking coffee and eating apple pie a la mode, and demonstrating Avon eyeshadows and lipstick.

"Boys. Figure out what you want to eat. Let's order. And then we're gonna take that woman down."

I picked up a menu and perused the shiny photographs of simple foods with tacky names. Hmmmmm. Should I get the Grand Slam? Or the Rooty Tooty Fresh 'n Fruity? 10 broke my concentration, poked my menu and whispered sotto voce.

"Uh Mom? That lady is like three times bigger than you! And she looks mean, too. I don't think you should beat her up."

I set the menu next to my paper napkin. I looked at both boys. They looked from Huge Hair Diedre to me with fear in their eyes. Our waitress hovered near our table, saw us in deep conversation, retreated to the long formica bar.

"Uh, 'take her down' is just an expression, boys. Have I ever beat up anyone before?" I asked the question with one eye raised and a laugh in my voice but 8 answered with a wavering yelp.

"How would we know? We're always in school."

He had a point.

"Well boys, this Denny's is our own private Starship Enterprise. And I'm the Captain. You know how when the Enterprise is in trouble, they don't always fight back with photon torpedos? You know how they use their noggins and try to outsmart the Borg?" I used images my boys would understand. They knit their brows in unison.

"Too bad we can't just remodulate the dilithium matrix field," 8 muttered.

"Or teleport her to the moon," added 10. I had to agree.

I waved Madame Denny's back to our table. The boys ordered club sandwiches with piles of fries and I opted for a piece of coconut cream pie and a banana milkshake. The waitress dropped a basket of crayons in the center of the table and the boys chose their favorite colors and began coloring their combination placemat-menus. I watched them fill in a rinky dink crossword puzzle and complete a word search, kept my eyes glued to the colors swirling across the page, and it gave me an idea. I opened my purse, took inventory, grabbed a bag of rose lipstick samples and stood on the edge of my booth seat. My boys didn't notice.

"Attention, ladies! Gentlemen, too, if you know what's good for ya!"

I swooped my arms in the manner of all great carnival barkers and bowed at the waist.

"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Birdie. I sell Avon. And not just ANY Avon, but the very best in lipcolors in this known universe! Lipstick can change your life! Who needs a touch up? Come on down. Don't be shy."

Every eye in the joint was on my teetering body, on the shimmering plastic package I held high over my head. My boys continued coloring, and I noticed 10 squirm a bit in embarrassment.

"Like I said, Lipstick can be a savior! It gives you confidence! It gives you flair!" I continued hawking the joys of Avon lipstick as a crowd formed around my table. All the waitresses gathered around, too, and I saw a cook with stringy hair under a black net peek around the delivery counter. I didn't dare look in Diedre's direction. I handed out book and sample after book and sample, passing my compact around so each woman could freshen up, look her best.

"Behold the power of lipstick!" I added a few more phrases I remembered from my Gramma's passion with Benny Hinn, and considered pressing my hand against a forehead or two but thought the better of it. I had their attention, so I moved in for the kill.

"And anyone who places an order with me today, gets the lipstick of her choice, for free!" And that, as they say, was that. I collected a few hundred bucks in orders, and swapped contact info with nearly every woman in the house. Diedre slunk out the side door. I caught the hair squishing against the door frame, and noticed her customer was now standing in MY line! Whoopee!!

I organized the orders, and sat down to eat, and aw, man. The boys finished their sandwiches, fries, cokes, and MY pie and milkshake. Well, serves me right, I figured. At least I made out ahead! I didn't forget that prize basket back at Avon HQ, either, made up my mind to finish off the campaign with a flourish.

A few weeks later, I dressed up in my best blouse and my trademark kilt. I even wore heels and as much Avon as I could cram on my face. I was ready for my anointment as Grand Champion. I sat in a front row seat,and Diedre glared at me from the corner of her eyes from her seat on the opposite side of the room. Our beloved manager stepped to the podium to announce the winner. I could barely breath! I stared at the basket, knew my sales must be top this campaign, and folded my arms in anticipation.

"Ladies, thank you for a bang-up campaign! I can't believe how much you all sold! Now,I promised the gift basket" - and here he made a motion with his perspiring arms like Vanna White - "to the highest seller. But something unusual happened. I received a few anonymous calls about some unsportsmanship-like behavior from two of our top representatives, so I've decided to award our third seller the prize! Jade, come on up!"

Tiny Jade made her way from the middle to the stage, her body wrapped in a leopard print dress and her gorgeous Filipino skin carefully made up in the Avon beComing line colors. The goodies were nearly her size, and she hoisted the booty in both arms and tottered back to her seat. Damn. Goodbye velvet slippers. Goodbye total makeover. Crap.

I didn't need to wonder who made the "anonymous" calls. As I waved goodbye to the women at the completion of the meeting, Diedre passed me. Her hair brushed against my shoulder, and I managed to give her a Sorry smile. She stopped for a moment, looked me over head to toe, then winked. An evil dark-rimmed-eyeliner wink.

As I told my boys that night, sometimes the stupid Borg DOES win the battle. Sigh.