Since learning about the promotion, I’d been envisioning my manager suite. It would come equipped with its own bathroom and sitting area. I’d mentally furnished it with local art and tchotchkes, clay pots, and rugs. But that morning, self doubt wormed its way into my daydreams. What if the complaint hinderd my promotion? Maybe I’d have to live in my drab quarters and field tourist foibles for another three years.
I shook away the depressing thoughts; as the self-help gurus in O magazine proclaimed in bold font, it wasn’t productive! I would remain positive!
I checked my phone to see if Anita had sent a reply to my e-mail, but the cinder-block walls of the old building jammed the wireless signal.
Amongst our crew, only Blythe and I took advantage of worker housing. Roberto used to live across the hall, but moved to Santa Maria, forty-five minutes away, after he got married. Oscar lived three blocks away from Roberto, with his wife and three kids. Manuela stayed with her family in nearby La Crucecita, but that made no sense to me; she was twenty-six and had to share a bedroom with two sisters. I once tried to convince her to move to Atlantis, but she lectured me about how Atlantis was a make-believe town and she preferred to live in a real town with real stores and real people.
Even though I appreciated the simplicity of living on the resort — it kind of reminded me of a university campus — I understood what Manuela meant. I often ventured into La Crucecita’s noisy streets on my days off for a dose of reality. I liked to watch people rush to work, do their banking, take their kids to the dentist. Each time, I’d wander into a grocery store and purchase a single mango, or a bag of Sabritas chips and bring them back to my rectangular room.
Minutes later, as I rinsed my hair in a lukewarm shower, “Royals” stalked my thoughts. I imagined the irksome tune hiding out in the faucet, escaping through the uneven spray, landing on my scalp, and colonizing my mind.
∆
At 9:45, I joined Manuela and Oscar at the ampitheatre entrance. Together, we created a chorus of “good morning” and “welcome” as we handed out orientation leaflets. The tourists reciprocated with their own replies of “good morning” and “thank you,” and the cheerful din brought back my headache. Blythe climbed onto the stage and adjusted a microphone stand.
“We’ve just been talking about Nancy at Waves,” Manuela stage-whispered once the hall had filled. “Do you know her?”
“Yeah.” My first year in Huatulco, I spent all my free time with foreign tour reps, including Nancy. We travelled in a pack, a dozen American, Canadian, and European women, nightclub-hopping and lying on the beach. We leaned on one another when homesick. We gossiped, had arguments, made up. It was like summer camp for grown-ups. Eventually, I grew bored with it and drifted from the group.
“It’s a disgrace on our profession. I’ve worked in the industry over twenty-five years and nothing like that has ever happened,” Oscar muttered.
“We don’t know the full story, guys.” I fumbled with my phone to check my e-mail. Still no reply from Anita.
“Good morning!” Blythe sang into the microphone. An electronic squeal ricocheted around the theatre, eliciting a collective startle response from the assembly.
Oscar hurried to the stage in a half-jog, his sciatica making his movements jerky. He adjusted the amplifier’s dials and I covered my ears while Oscar and Blythe performed sound checks.
“Sorry! Let’s try that again. Good morning!” Blythe yelled. This time, the audience droned a feeble reply.
“Okay, we’re going to tell you all about the resort and the excursions in just a moment. But before we do that, we’re going to play a little game!” The audience rustled its discomfort. I rubbed my temples, craving caffeine.
“All right, stand up if you are here in Huatulco for the first time!” Nearly everyone stood, except for a line of bored-looking people at the back.
“Stand if it is your first time travelling with Oceana! … Stand if you are from Toronto! … Edmonton! … Montreal! … Ottawa! … Buffalo! …” The flock, mostly persuadable, bobbed up and down as Blythe screamed out their hometowns.
“Who’ve I missed?” Blythe yelled.
The college-boy group I’d seen at the airport called out, “Hamilton!” The sound of my hometown caused a quiver in my belly. But maybe that was just Enrique’s Atlantis Mantis.
At the conclusion of the “fun” portion of the presentation, Oscar joined Blythe onstage and together they performed a soft sell of the various crocodile, turtle, beach, city, and waterfall tours on offer. The harder sell would come later at the tour desk; we knew how to make each excursion sound both compelling and essential for a successful vacation. For example, the risk for dengue fever was very low in the region, but I referenced its dangers and sold bug spray for three dollars more than the gift shop did. Roberto said the waterfall tour was a place where his “ancestors communed with the Gods.” Manuela flirted with men until they agreed to shopping trips.
I was no longer surprised that our tactics worked and wasn’t bothered by the manipulation; shilling for Oceana wasn’t all that different from the other jobs I’d held. I’d door-knocked for the local children’s hospital while in university, telling plaintive stories about kids on ventilators and amazing leukemia remissions. After graduation, and not sure what to do next, I tagged along with a friend to Birkenstock College, paying off my student loans by selling sensible footwear. Later, I followed the advice of a travel agent friend, got my tourism certificate, and sold vacation getaways. I’d learned how to use my bright smile to talk people into buying things.
Manuela and I left the assembly to open our tour desk. We joined Roberto, who was already there, unlocking and unfolding doors, cupboards, and counters. We set up stools on both sides. I unpacked our receipts and forms, Manuela warmed up the computer, and Roberto restocked the brochure racks. We performed all of these functions quickly and wordlessly, and within five minutes we were ready.
∆
A couple in their thirties approached me an hour later. They were deeply tanned, obviously not part of the recently arrived cohort. I recalled seeing them around the resort in the previous days.
“Excuse me.” The woman had an Italian accent, olive skin, and coal-black eyes. “The Viva representative is supposed to be here today, but I don’t see her anywhere.” She linked her long fingers with those of the man, who was shirtless.
I looked over at the Viva kiosk, where a CLOSED sign hung. The tour company served European vacationers. “I don’t think she’ll be back until tomorrow,” I lied, hoping to sell the couple an excursion. Although I was already above quota, the extra sales would look good to Anita.
“Oh, too bad.” She pushed her lips into a pout.
“Can I help you with something? Are you interested in a tour?” I smiled first at the woman, and then at the man, holding each of their gazes a moment too long.
“Well, we leave here in two days. We haven’t gone sight-seeing yet,” the man said hesitantly. He and the woman shared a look, and then she shrugged and nodded.
“Oh, I see. Well, you can go with Oceana to see the crocodiles tomorrow, if you’d like.” The man’s muscular chest swelled. A brush of thin curly hair ringed each of his nipples.
“Tell us more about that,” the woman said, lowering to sit on the stool in front of me. She leaned forward, rested her elbows on the desk, her forearms framing her deep cleavage. “I’m Serena, and this is my husband Sebastiano.”
“Ameera. What a beautiful name.” Sebastiano’s eyes locked on my nametag. “Do you lead the tours yourself?”