Going to have to cram for the final

My wife and I flunked Psychology 101 a couple of weeks ago. No, that

isn’t quite accurate. We flunked the mid-term exam. We haven’t

finished the course yet, but no matter how well we perform the rest

of the way, we can’t beef it up to more than a “C.”

This academic failure took place not in a formal school, but in a

challenge of the real world that I suspect a good many of you have

either experienced or considered. For some years -- ever since our

income got above what developers consider the poverty level -- we’ve

been receiving invitations to enjoy a free vacation at newly

constructed resorts. The only hitch, we are told, is that we must

give our host an hour or two to show us around his place.

We’ve resisted these invitations out of deep suspicion that if we

ever accepted this largess, we would be caught in real estate

tentacles that would squeeze us the rest of our lives. This was a

disquieting feeling because it forced us to face the concern that we

were neither smart enough nor tough enough to resist the

entrepreneurs we would go up against.

As a result, every time one of these invitations came, I would put

it in my save pile rather than throw it away. There, it would expire

quietly until the next one came.

That was the situation when friends from Portland, Ore. arrived

for a visit. We had just received a resort promo, and it was fresh on

my save pile when we discovered that our friends were on their way to

take advantage of the same offer. So we asked them to report to us

after their stay.

They did, and were downright ecstatic about the experience. When

they finished describing the pleasures of the resort, we asked them

rather timorously if they had bought anything. “No,” they said, “of

course not. We listened and said we weren’t interested at this time,

and went back to enjoying our vacation.”

So my wife and I decided we were surely as strong as they were,

and it was time for us to take advantage of this offer. So I phoned

the number on the invitation and set a date. We had to pay what

amounted to about one-third of the room cost, but we also got a $100

credit to spend as we saw fit at the resort. All of this was tied up

with remarkable efficiency by the people on the other end of the

phone before we took off.

Our quarters were delightful, we enjoyed a splendid dinner on the

house, and we were feeling quite mellow by 11 the next morning when

the sales pitch was to take place. I had envisioned a roomful of

people like us who would be shown a slide presentation of the resort.

There would be questions afterward and a signup sheet for those of us

who would like to look at the models. Salespeople would then be

available to discuss terms with any interested parties.

That vision wasn’t even close. There was no mass meeting, no slide

film and no voluntary sales sessions. We were one-on-one from the

get-go, without breathing space to prevent our mental faculties from

turning to mush. We recognized this as it was happening, but we were

always one step -- sometimes more -- behind the process.

And it was slick. I like professionals, whatever their gig happens

to be, and these people never missed a beat. Even though their

technique was for the most part as obvious and predictable as their

persistence (two of the salespeople, for example, told us they had

fathers named “Joseph”), we were still carried along.

This was largely because a routine that had been proven successful

in selling people like us a piece of the ranch was followed

scrupulously, regardless of any diversions we might introduce. And

also because they were very good at it.

We dealt with three different salespeople: Good Cop, Bad Cop, Good

Cop, all of whom played their roles impeccably. I don’t remember

their names, so we’ll call the first one Jim. He was the new guy on

the staff, kind of bumbling, but likable and determined to plod

through his script and use all of the sales tools in his arsenal. We

were finally helping him along, mentoring him a little. He showed us

the models, and they were splendid, but we told him that although we

were intrigued, we were not ready to make this kind of investment.

So he took us to the Bad Cop. We’ll call Cliff. No warm, fuzzy

affection here. He was the tough guy, showing us in broad strokes on

a pad how we were already spending more on vacations than this plan

would cost while seeing far less than the variety of hotels and

resorts in their catalog, all of which we could access by a rather

complex point system. When we told Cliff this was all very

interesting, but we would have to think it over and talk it over

before we could make any such commitment, he was astonished at our

failure to jump at such an offer.

That’s when he pulled out the black book with the large type

listing the special inducements -- including a bundle of points -- if

we would make a decision now. He had us teetering until I asked if

these inducements would hold until the next morning so Sherry and I

could talk it over tonight. He said, “No, you must either decide now

or pass up the inducements forever.”

And Sherry said, “You might have had us, but you just lost us.”

Cliff shut his book and was gone. I thought we were, too, but then

Jim led us to Henry, an avuncular sort who truly hated to see us lose

all those goodies. So he had an idea. If we would sign on for a

truncated program that would give us four nights at our present site

plus enough points for another four nights elsewhere, he could fix it

so they would hold the original offer, with all its inducements, open

for 18 months. That’s when we flunked the mid-term exam by joining

up.

So now we’re getting letters from our new time-share pals

welcoming us to the “family” and even giving us a certificate number.

I’m not sure of its function, but it feels good. They sign their

letters “with great expectations,” and I don’t know if we have the

same expectations they do. But I have 18 months to find my college

psychology book and see how they nailed us.

I hope when we go back, we don’t get Cliff again.

* JOSEPH N. BELL is a resident of Santa Ana Heights. His column

appears Thursdays.