This is a culture I don’t know anything about, Dave said as we walked back to the pool, both of us dripping in our freshly soaked swimsuits, taking a short pause from our swim.
Let me set the scene.
It felt like we’d been lured into a dark alley in some seedy corner of Vegas. A man in a trench coat opens it up to reveal rows of sparkling diamond-encrusted watches—Rolexes galore. He rattles off prices and bonuses, and before you can blink, the stars in your eyes and his pressure have you with bling on your wrist and your wallet feeling light as air.
That was the vibe.
From the moment the man extended his hand—a bear hug of a handshake—and practically dragged me to the back of his truck, I had no idea what he was selling. Then out came the laminated card: glossy photos, bold prices, and beside him, his co-pilot practically levitating to the tailgate to pop open an ice chest. Inside were boxes—meat boxes. Steaks, chicken, shrimp, lobster.
“$399 for the combo,” he said. “But for $599 you get the whole deal and all the seafood thrown in.”
“That’s $8 a pound—unheard of!”
Is it? I wondered. But there wasn’t time to wonder.
“Filet mignon—that’s what the women like most,” he added.
Do we?
My hesitation was obvious. I could feel Dave’s, too. But my indecisiveness and insecurity started quietly nodding along. I imagined myself reaching for my card—how easy it would be. Another $100 off? What a deal. Is it a deal?
The rapid-fire pitch felt like being blindfolded, spun ten times, and then asked to confidently walk forward, into one safe square out of a hundred, the rest dropping off a cliff.
Somewhere in the chaos, I heard Dave’s no, though he never said it directly. I stepped back.
“You’re dealing with him. I can’t make this decision,” I muttered.
It was a no. A no to the desperation in this meat man’s voice as he pleaded that they were almost out, just a few boxes left, then they could make the trip back to Columbus—an hour and a half away.
It felt like I could help him. Save him. And with the swipe of my card, maybe even quiet the anxiety in my own chest.
I’ve said this before: I lose my personhood in moments like these. Whether it’s a telemarketer or the bargain beef guy, I slowly but surely shrink into someone voiceless, someone with no needs. I become a number to them, and in that, I feel less human.
And for some reason, a memory dings at the door.
I was in ninth grade and had been invited to my boyfriend’s house for dinner. I wasn’t Mormon, but his parents had accepted me. I felt honored, like I’d made it into the inner circle. There were two missionaries at the table that night. Midway through dinner, their heads turned to me, and suddenly, I was the target. The attempt to convert me was not subtle.
I froze.
I realized the truth of the invite and the depth of my naivety. It was a punch to the gut. I wasn’t one of them. I never would be.
I broke up with him—I don’t remember how long after. But the obviousness of the situation made the decision painfully easy. There was no world where he and I could work after that.
I didn’t mean to get all heavy here. But damn.
I’ve mentioned this story before in another post, but I don’t think I’ve ever fully recognized how messed up it was. I’ve wanted to message him. His parents. Tell them how badly they hurt me. Like maybe it would change them. Make them see the power they had, the damage they did.
Or maybe I could just say this:
I’m grateful.
Not for their actions, but for the clarity. For what that pain revealed in me:
A deep, aching need to be seen. To be understood. To be protected.
And they were not my people.
Maybe you’ve felt that too—that moment of knowing. It hurts, but it also tells you something true. Something worth listening to.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 