A Tiger Eye in Tampa

“Keep doing what you’re doing, Ted,” Jason booms, clapping my shoulder harder than necessary. He’s been my boss for five years; this is how he always concludes our monthly meetings. As usual, he talked for the entire hour. He doesn’t need anyone else to carry on a conversation. As we leave the small conference room, I glance at my notes from our session. Zero takeaways. Typical. The only outcome of our meeting was probably not on Jason’s desired objectives. It simply validated my opinion: he’s a blowhard tub of guts.

A simplistic explanation of my job for people who think insurance is just a legal mafia ring is that I’m basically a corporate bookie, analyzing the odds of bad things happening, and charging accordingly. I’m probably the only person you will ever meet who strategized and deliberately put “complex commercial insurance underwriter” on their ten-year plan. Jason, on the other hand, has stumbled through a series of fortuitous and clumsy trips up the corporate ladder, most recently landing softly in his position as my boss. He knew nothing about underwriting risk then, and he knows just enough now to be dangerous. He’s the first person to tell you that he learned everything he knows about business from being an Olympic athlete. It shows.

“What time is your flight tomorrow?” Jason asks. “See you at the airport?”

“Maybe?” I respond. No need for details—he stopped listening as soon as he stopped talking. I know I won’t be seeing him at the airport; I got his flight details from his assistant before I booked my own. “We should spread the risk of department loss across several flights,” I explained, but my real motivation was purely selfish. I pictured sitting within earshot of him after he’d downed a few whiskey sours and shuddered. Eight hours a day listening to his sober bellowing was plenty for me, thanks. Dealing with Drunk Jason would require hazard pay that the company was not offering.

Stopping at my cubicle, I shoulder my messenger bag and head toward the exit. Just in time. “That reminds me of when I was training for the Olympics,” I overhear Jason saying to our new intern, most likely apropos of nothing. If you were standing near me, you could have heard my eyeballs roll in my skull.

“Tina,” I say as I walk by, leaning in for emphasis, my eyebrows raised. “He won bronze. In badminton.” Since she’s new, the least I can do is offer her some context up front. Jason, grateful for the shoutout, grins and shoots finger-guns, the point of my statement blowing over his head like a cool evening breeze. Tina, however, picks up what I am laying down. “Really?” she asks, as if impressed, followed by a silent “wow” when Jason wasn’t looking.

Driving home, I ruminate over our meeting. Despite having the best results in the company, Jason clarified I wouldn’t be getting the Underwriter of the Year award. Again. I wasn’t even nominated. “I wanted to tell you now, so you wouldn’t be disappointed during the banquet. You just don’t schmooze enough with our agents, so I didn’t put your name through. Your satisfaction scores are positive overall, but you’re not getting scores like Darrell. Have you asked his advice yet?” Darrell is admittedly the nicest guy in the department, loves to take agents golfing on Fridays, and always remembers everyone’s favorite football teams. When it comes to his actual job though, he’s as sharp as a sack of wet laundry. He’ll probably win again.

Having advance knowledge that I’m not even in the running is deflating. I had been looking forward to a few days in Florida, hopefully squeezing in a little relaxation in the sunshine, but now wish I had opted out. I don’t do my job for awards, but everyone likes a little recognition once in a while. I hate these annual conventions normally, and usually book something personal at the same time so I have to decline with regrets. This year though, my results were so rock solid, I was sure I would at least be nominated. I don’t know if the preemptive buzzkill from Jason is better than not hearing my name during the award ceremony but decide to pull up my big boy pants and get over it. “At least I will enjoy Florida on the company dime,” I console myself with a figurative pat on the head. “There, there.”

Entering our house, I encounter the distinct scent of sage. My wife Stevie is smudging again, nevermind that she’s as white as the Norwegian snow from which her ancestors hail. You would guess by looking at her that she was named after Stevie Nicks, but oddly enough, I doubt she could identify her namesake in a lineup. She’s more of a Taylor Swift fan. She just happens to also love flowy skirts and layers of lace and fringe. She could be the pinup girl for vintage boho-chic. As for me, I think business casual Friday means a button up shirt in any color other than white paired with a bold-patterned tie, maybe a corduroy blazer if I am really feeling relaxed.

“What now?” I ask, indicating the lingering smoke with my scrunched nose and waving hand. She’s fanning it out the open windows with an eagle feather I am pretty sure she’s not supposed to own.

“Shhhh, I haven’t closed my circle yet.” She’s a witch too, I guess. She concludes her hodgepodge ceremony she cobbled together from Instagram influencers, then gives me a perfunctory kiss. “Just cleansing all of this trauma out of the walls.”

“What trauma?” We built our house last year, and the most traumatic thing either of us have experienced is student loans.

I am sorry I asked, because she’s only too happy to answer, and, as someone holding an advanced degree in applied mathematics—you know, actual science—it’s nothing I can relate to. Something about her tarot reading, the planetary alignments, and the phase of the moon. She’s an astrologer too. Did you hear my eyes roll again?

Once there’s a lull in her metaphysical monologue, I interject. “Are you already packed for tomorrow?” I had paid out of pocket for her to come along and was looking forward to time away together. She worked at an art gallery and we rarely enjoyed the same days off.

“You’re not listening to me! I was just talking about that.”

Steeling myself, I tell her, “Ok, I’m listening. But can we pack while we’re talking?”

“Now don’t freak out about what I’m about to tell you. Mercury is Retrograde and Saturn and Mars are in an angry sort of alignment, and in my Tarot reading, you got the Tower card, but I just did a protection spell and saged, so everything is going to be fine. You will just need to keep this Tiger Eye crystal in your pocket until we get home.”

I take a deep breath before responding. I want to be supportive of her little hobbies but I had done deep research on every element of this trip. Our marketing exec asked me to review their short-list of options for the annual convention last year before they signed any contracts. I studied weather patterns, local social issues, other events taking place at the same time, and selected Tampa as the best bet. I even researched the airline least likely to delay our flight or lose our baggage before I booked our tickets. Everything is going to be fine, but it won’t be because of the little rock she wants me to carry. I take another breath and accept the brown and amber stone from her, pretend to appreciate it for a moment, and slip it into my pocket. “Thank you,” I reply with a wan smile and another sigh.

“What on earth is happening with your aura?” Stevie asks with a perplexed expression on her face while she examines something only she sees. “What’s wrong?”

I tell her about my meeting with Jason, and she gasps.

“It all makes sense now!” Stevie begins ranting about something happening in my midheaven. I interrupt her. “Wait, what are you doing?”

I nod toward her hands spilling forth giant blooms of panties. She’s already stuffed that many into her overnight bag. It’s a four-night trip.

“I TOLD you. Mars is in my 6^th house and Saturn is in yours. You should probably pack extra underwear too.”

“We’re going to Tampa, not Tijuana.”

“Prepare for ANY contingencies.” She’s mocking me, using a lower vocal register as she quotes one of my favorite mantras. “Pooping your pants might be one of them. Just trust me.”

I don’t know how to respond to this. I’ve been potty-trained since I was two. I turn to my closet and begin making decisions on suits. Black or charcoal? I’m not the President and we’re going to Florida, so I could probably get away with the tan if I wanted.

While I consider the planned events and which suits would be best for each, she leans in front of me with a dead-pan expression on her face, opens my underwear drawer and grabs at least a dozen pairs of briefs. “I already packed Imodium,” she offers in a sultry whisper. I laugh in spite of myself. If a suitcase full of underwear makes her feel better, that’s fine with me.

“Anyway,” Stevie returns to her predictions. “On the surface, it seems like this trip is a disaster waiting to happen, but I think against all the astrological odds, something amazing is going to take place. I think you’re going to win that award. But you still might poop your pants.”

“Now you’re the one not listening to me. That award is a manager-nominated thing. If Jason didn’t nominate me, there’s no way I’m getting it.”

“We’ll see,” she smiles.

***

The flight goes perfectly, other than the marital prescription of passing on the meal options.

“Chicken Alfredo or salmon and roasted potatoes?” the flight attendant asks. Stevie produces two protein bars from her gigantic purple carry-on with a little flourish and a pointed stare in my direction, then leans across me and sweetly answers for both of us. “No, thank you.”

I accept the protein bar and glance back at her. “What about the fruit and cheese plate?” I counter hopefully.

Stevie looks up at the flight attendant and repeats, “No food, thank you.” Leaning into my ear, she whispers, “Your pants will thank me later,” and pats my arm. When the drink cart comes by, she requests full cans of Coke with no ice, and thus our meal service concludes. Thirty minutes later, the line to the restrooms begins stacking up and getting a lot of activity. “See?” she giggles. “Just trust me.”

***

The convention goes as expected: each day is filled with various continuing education classes, silly team-building activities, and opportunities to network with industry experts and visitors from vendors our company frequently utilizes. All of which are precisely the reasons I usually opt out of these trips. Meanwhile, Stevie enjoys the few days off work, catching up on her sleep, indulging in some spa treatments, and soaking up the sun either by the pool or on our hotel room balcony. Each evening, she asks with her eyes twinkling, “Any rumors about the awards banquet?”

“No,” I reply. I am not one to stand in conversation bouquets and speculate over stuff we will know soon enough anyway.

“Ah, shucks. Ok,” she would sigh with resignation. Then she’d lean into me conspiratorially and ask, badly stifling a smirk, “What about this: has anyone pooped their pants yet?” I want to be too smart to snicker at scatological humor, but I just can’t help it; that girl cracks me up. Every day.

***

The last day finally arrives and I’m more exhausted than when the week began. There’s always a hope that a destination convention will feel like a vacation, but the increased human interaction and constant sense of being “on stage” for twelve hours a day always makes me feel like I’ve run a marathon. An insurance marathon. On a course consisting of long, lushly carpeted hallways from one hotel ballroom to another. You tell me: what could possibly be more riveting? I have barely set foot outside since we landed.

My morning coffee is struggling to overcome the sedating effects of the CFO’s breakfast presentation where he regaled us with a forty-slide recap of the company’s financial performance over the last fiscal year. I glance at my itinerary and see that the next ninety-minute session is going to be led by our Chief Security & Compliance Officer on the topic “AI & U.” What is it about C-Suite guys and their fascination with AI? My guess is that this session will be just as captivating as the last. I glance at my watch: I have enough time to act out of character and on an impulse, but more importantly, on a desperate need.

I consult my work cell and check my team’s vacation calendar for availability, then put my name on it for next week. Next, I call Stevie’s manager to extend her vacation. Jean-Paul seems put out, but he owns the most upscale gallery in the city; he seems put out by everything. She has Monday and Tuesday off every week anyway, so I was really only asking for a few days. Once I’m sure we could both have the time off, I pull up the airline app and change our flight to next Friday. Finally, I stride to the hotel lobby to extend our stay, prepared to move to a different room or hotel if necessary.

“We’ve got you all set – you can keep the room you’re in and check out next week instead of tomorrow,” the receptionist says brightly after clicking her keyboard with her impossibly long nails for what seemed like too many keystrokes.  

Knowing I will have time to enjoy some actual Florida sunshine and some actual fun adventures with my wife gives me the spring in my step to finish my Insurance Marathon strong.

***

After the COO wraps up the final day of C-Suite daytime events, I have just enough time before the awards dinner to return to my room and change. Stevie is already dressed for the one event she’s allowed to attend, stunning in her shimmery gown that somehow qualifies as formal, yet is still boho-chic approved. Her skin is sun-kissed from days spent at the pool. I put on a fresh shirt with my dark suit and we head downstairs.

“Do you still have your Tiger Eye?” Stevie asks in the elevator.

“Yes,” I pat the breast pocket of my blazer with my right hand.

“Honey, listen,” she says in all seriousness. “If the dinner is fish, or involves any creamy or cheesy sauce, just pass on it. Skip any shellfish, don’t eat too much salad, and if the dessert is cheesecake, decline. We’ve come this far!” she says with a squeeze of my bicep. We grin at each other as the elevator stops on the 8^th floor and Jason gets on with a few of his manager buddies. I try to control my face from falling.

“Hey buddy!” Jason booms and pumps my palm in a crushing hand-shake. “I’ve barely seen you all week!” He reaches for Stevie’s hand, but I’ve warned her. She lifts her right hand—strategically holding a clutch—in a polite declination and they say hello to one another. She and I telepathically conspire to lose him once off the elevator.

“Have a great evening,” I say to my boss, then guide my wife toward the reception bar outside the ballroom before finding our seats. There is another reception table inside the ballroom, and a hotel staffer asks for our names so he can provide matching nametags written in fancy script which proves unreadable in the dim lighting. They are useless and only serve to ruin the elegance of everyone’s attire. “You’re at Table 3, up front,” the staffer instructs. Stevie looks down at her shimmery gown for a suitable place to adhere her sticker without it pulling the beading later, her hand paused in midair. I grab her sticker and put it on the back side of her clutch, put mine on my lapel, then grab her hand and guide her to our table.

“Assigned seating,” I say in her ear over the loud music booming through the sound system. I point at our names and notice that Jason’s name is in front of the charger plate to my left. Stevie’s face falls in empathy.

***

The dinner has proceeded as these things always do. The service is great, with two servers assigned to each table, but the food is bland and overdone. At Stevie’s silent suggestion in the form of a foreboding hand on my arm, I skip the shrimp cocktail. “Not gonna eat that, Buddy?” Jason asks as he reaches for it. I gesture that it’s all his. “You either, hon?” he points at Stevie’s. She shakes her head no, and passes the coupe for me to hand to him. He energetically attacks the prawns for a few minutes. It’s the only time since he sat down that he hasn’t been talking.

I push my fork around through the twice-baked loaded potatoes without indulging. My jaw is tired, possibly from chewing the overcooked steak, but definitely from clenching my molars every time Jason opens his mouth. We’re an hour in, and he’s already told two “that reminds me of when I was in the Olympics” stories. He’s crushed the hands of at least a dozen innocent men, attracted the attention of half the room with his loud guffaws, pointed at his rocks glass three times that I noticed, asking for another from whatever server happened to be around, and has man-handled all the garlic bread in the communal basket on our table for eight. After dominating every conversation and saying “Actually…” to every woman sitting at the table at least once, mercifully, the awards ceremony begins.

Our CEO Trinh takes the stage to polite applause, and introduces a change this year in how the awards have been determined. At this announcement, the clanking of silverware and the rustling of clothing seem to cease. It seems like everyone is holding their breath. I know I am. I chance a glance at Jason. It’s his turn to be clenching his jaw. A vein throbs in his forehead.

“In years past, we’ve had every department manager share nominations and present awards from their team, based on varying criteria that was not uniform or consistent from department to department. This year, winners will be announced based on performance data, anonymous peer and agent reviews collected over the course of the year, and quality assurance assessments. Each award will be announced by the national department lead instead of regional managers. And this year,” she pauses for theatrical effect. “This year, each winner will receive a five-thousand-dollar award!” The audience erupts. Years of employee survey responses suggesting that annual awards should be more than acrylic trophies must have finally paid off.

I look again at Jason. His forehead and upper lip are sweating. Suddenly he stands up and throws his napkin on the table.

“Bad timing – I don’t feel so good,” he stage-whispers to those of us seated near him. He backs through the passage between tables, pausing occasionally, pursing his lips and looking down. One of the hotel staffers pauses near him, presumably to ask if he’s ok, and Jason shakes his head but says he’s fine.

I turn to look at Stevie to see if she is catching this. She’s also pursing her lips, but she has the tell-tale expression she wears when she is trying not to laugh. “You don’t think Jason’s going to….” I whisper to her, trailing off before completing my sentence, but I mouth the words “poop his pants” with wide eyes. She snorts in laughter and pretends to cough in her napkin to cover her outburst.

***

Jason returns a while later, saying he is fine and admittedly looking less sweaty and intense. I am trying to remember if he was wearing black pants or blue earlier. It doesn’t matter.

He pauses before lowering his haunches all the way and notices the Underwriter of the Year Award in front of me. A cloud moves across his brow, then he gives me his trademark finger-guns. “Congrats, Buddy! I knew you would get it this year! Didn’t I tell you, Randy?” He claps the shoulder of his peer to his left. “My guy got the award! I knew he would if he applied himself. This reminds me of when I medaled in the Olympics….”

***

Entering our room, Stevie grins at me. “Wasn’t Jason’s expression when he saw your award hilarious?”

“Not as funny as him taking credit for my performance the rest of the night.”

“When Trinh started talking, he was breathing like an angry bull. Although it IS hard to say if it was corporate outrage or gastric distress.” Stevie’s eyes crinkle as she giggles.

I get a text notification. Setting the glass trophy on the dresser, I check my phone. It’s Darrell. “Speculating here, but Bev just told me that Trinh sent Jason a meeting request for Monday morning.” Bev is Jason’s assistant. Trinh doesn’t often meet with managers – not that we’ve ever heard about, anyway. I pause with my head cocked to the side considering the notion. No, I decide. If Jason had ever met with Trinh before over anything positive or even benign, that’s surely something he would have boasted about.

I tap out a reply. “Sounds intriguing. If it’s anything, I am sure we’ll find out soon enough. I’m off next week. Text me if you find out.” The possibilities ranged from mundane to intriguing.

Turning back to Stevie, I say, “Let’s celebrate. How do you feel about driving out to Clearwater and having a glass of wine on the beach?”

“Sounds wonderful, but we have an early flight.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you!” I explain my decision to extend our stay for a week.

She jumps and claps like a child at Christmas. “See! I told you this trip would be amazing! You won the award you deserve, just like I predicted! And you didn’t even poop your pants!”

“We still have a couple more days. Let’s not count our clean underwear before we pack.”