My husband’s two favorite words in the English language are complimentary and sex, and if he ever sees them used together in a sentence he’s going to stroke out. I exaggerate. Still, I am concerned that his lifestyle is becoming, how shall I say, A GREAT BIG FAT SPOILED PROBLEM.
Sherwood is a computer consultant with the brand new title of Director. (Maybe it means he’s a computer consultant who directs . . . computers? I don’t know what it means.) But here’s his job description: rich “clients” pay him to tell them what they want to hear; they give him large amounts of money to be at their beck and call; these “clients” pay for his food, lodging, and transportation; sometimes they take him to dinner; often they treat him as if they own him, and he is often propositioned and made to feel cheap and used.
My real concern isn’t how Sherwood does business; it’s that he likes it so much.
For the right amount of Marriot “points” (complimentary points given by the hotel chain in some incomprehensible rotating scale that pass as a kind of faux currency to be used in an ivisible Marriot black market) for the right amount of points, my husband will do anything. For the right amount of points he will take cold showers, sleep in dirty beds, stay in hotel rooms without alarm clocks, channel changers, or sheets. He is “saving up” and when the service is deplorable he barters for more points. If he collects enough points he can trade them for cruises, free hotel rooms, and ownership of a small Greek island.
He says when he gets “enough” points we will spend a weekend alone in a Marriot, of my choice. I don’t believe him. I don’t think there are enough points in the world to satisfy the bottomless pit of hunger that “living on the road” has produced in my husband.
At any moment, day or night, he can tell you the exact number of points he now has, how many points he will soon acquire, and how many points he needs to get the good stuff (presumably that Greek Island.)
“Only ten million more to go,” he will say, a savage gleam in his computer-directing eye.
He can even quote you the total number of points he will have accumulated at the exact moment of his death—based on various longevity studies. The rest of the family finds his idiot savant ability somewhat unnerving, but then again, sometimes we take him to parties and show him off.
In addition to the endless pursuit of complimentary points, Sherwood has developed an entire value system based on all things free. If it’s on a plate and looks like it’s not tied down or wax, he will help himself. I watched him come out of an apartment leasing office with his mouth and hands stuffed with complimentary cookies.
“These are great,” he mumbled, cookie crumbs spewing onto his shirt.
A nice young leasing agent stuck his head out of the office as Sherwood left and said, “Hey, Mister, those cookies are for the kids.”
“Run,” Sherwood shouted around chocolate chip dust.
We ran. He turned to me as we leapfrogged over a hedge and asked, “Want one?”
“You’d eat dirt if had the word free on it.” I raked a branch of evergreen from my hair.
Complimentary is a serious business in my husband’s Marriot Rewards Program world-view. Even now, when I travel with Mr. Computer-Director it is customary for him to wake me gently at 6:00am with a sweet whisper. “Come on! There’s a complimentary breakfast bar. Let’s hit it and hit it hard. Oh, and wear your pants with the big pockets.”
Actually it’s become our family motto—Hit it! And hit it hard! No, really, we’ve embroidered it on stuff.
Our family crest is a field of complimentary pillow chocolates with two rampant toothbrushes riding on an ice bucket.
Linda (Complimentary Upon Request) Zern
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