The Hard Sell

by Rebecca Schoenkopf

Yes, we would love to attend a timeshare presentation at Kona Resort in exchange for $150 cash and lunch. I mean it. Love.

Paul was worried. He had never endured a hard-sell for a timeshare before, had never selflessly signed up so as to get gifts he could then present to his loved ones. I got this boombox for you, Mom, and I didn’t just buy it, I suffered for it, because I love you like Jesus does. Greg and Annie, please accept this weekend in Catalina. I said no to a timeshare salesperson for a very long time in order to get it for you. I love you, Greg and Annie. Love!

“It’ll be fun!” I kept explaining to Paul. Doesn’t he understand about things being so awful that they become exquisite? That just like pure perfect rage excites the same part of the primitive brain as drugs or sex or candy, pure perfect loathing excites our adrenalin centers, and not only that but it would be a loathing shared between the two of us, and later we could laugh and cackle about it together? Doesn’t he know the joy of loving things you hate?

And so we arrived at our appointed time, or they would have charged my credit card for the $150 they’d already given to us in crisp bills, and Kona Resort was everything we do not want in a resort, but every resort is everything we do not want in a resort. In fact, on my previous trip to the Big Island, with my sweet son, I stayed at Kona Village Resort, a lovely place that hosts the likes of George Clooney and his pals, and is exquisitely understated and has grass huts with no locks on the doors, so that is very awesome, but the whole time we were there, I wanted to kill myself. I felt locked in, rather than feeling that the rest of the world was locked out.

So Kona Resort is no Kona Village, and that’s okay. It comprises sort of grotesque large buildings of yellowish condos on nice grounds overlooking the sea. I am not a resort person. Even on an island, I want to be on the move, picking up hippies in Pohoiki, or grabbing a beer with the daytime drinkers in Pahoa, the outlaw town, or driving north of Kona to Kua Bay, a perfect little state beach that’s gentle and sheltered, about 20 people body-surfing and bobbing along in the fairly big waves as the sun sets on the turquoise water directly before us. I do not want to golf, or swim in your pool. It’s too easy to forget you can leave, and that there are places to go.

And so here we are, and we’ve been assigned a lovely young Hawaiian woman as our salesperson, and we try not to give away right away that we definitely won’t be buying a timeshare, lest that mysteriously void our $150, and she’s nice and we’re nice, and then it’s time for the group presentation with the Closer, an old and delightful man who is the best salesman ever for all time, except that we still don’t want to buy a timeshare, and here is what he says:

Nice thing, other nice thing, if my wife asks me to turn off the game and go with her to the store, I DO (after I’ve recorded it, guffaw!), because I realized that was what matters in life. Vacations! With family! It lowers stress and keeps you from getting sick! Look what happened to that football player, who retired to be with his family and then three months later DROPPED DEAD! YOU COULD GET PARKINSON’S AND DIE! DON’T DIE! OR GET PARKINSON’S! BUY A TIMESHARE! And if you do die or get Parkinson’s, you can will your timeshare to your kids and grandkids. In perpetuity! Like Jesus. Forever and ever, amen.

Really, it was masterful, and all the couples in there but us responded that yes, if he gave them $35,000, they would give it right back to him for a guaranteed two-week vacation every year for ever. We said no, because ew, but when he asked why we wouldn’t give them back the fictional $35,000 they’d offered us, I couldn’t come up with a reason beyond “flexibility,” and then offered, like a dick, that we had just been to Cuba. What I meant, but couldn’t put into words until later, was that I like to put my boy in the car and drive, starting at home and ending at home, and discovering weird, terrible, wonderful places in between, which would have been much nicer than pooh-poohing them for not being cool enough to have a place in Havana.

Our lovely Hawaiian girl was no longer waiting for us after the main presentation; they had done some triage and found us wanting. Instead, they put us with a guy who said don’t worry, I’m not even a licensed real estate agent, because we totally figured out you guys don’t want to buy a timeshare already. So how can we redeem this situation just the smallest bit—shall I, with a face betraying complete disinterest because I hate you, show you this limited offer of like two vacations for a couple grand? No? Not that either? Okay then bye! Also, while everyone around us lifted the bamboo lids off their delightful-smelling lunches, we didn’t get any. And they smelled really good.

But we got in the car and drove—up into the hills for a plate lunch in Kealakekua and then back north to Kua Bay—and we laughed and cackled. Together.

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