Timeshare Sluts

We had been amateurs, timeshare virgins, settling for measly gifts of costume jewelry, baby boom boxes or a never-available flight to Vegas. We didn't yet have the know-how to break into the competition for the paragon of prizes; that timeshare pot-'o-gold waiting for us in Mazatlan, Mexico. But that…that was years ago. Now we have mastered the subtle art of hooking and toying with the fish, only to let it go. We are the sportfishers of resort viewing. We are timeshare sluts.

On our most recent excursion to Mazatlan, Timeshare Mecca, Steve and I were smug as we headed towards the airport exits, dawdling just long enough to make ourselves noticeable to the timeshare sharks that swarmed the lobby. We were willing targets as we were propositioned by representatives of the pricey resorts. Eager for their commission, smiling enticers offered us tickets to the local tourist fiesta, a fancy meal at the hotel restaurant and transportation to and from the airport. We casually allowed ourselves to be lured. We had sat through these 90-minute presentations before. They were cake.

We had our routine down by now. Yes, we are over 28. Yes, we have a major credit card that is not a debit card. And yes, we are married. You don't have to be, but it adds authenticity. We had, of course, practiced on the plane, to avoid the unfortunate mishap that occurred on our visit last year, when we were still engaged:

"Are you over 28 years of age?"
"Yes."
"Are you married?"
"No," I sputtered
"Yes," Steve answered simultaneously.
"Well," I countered pathetically, "We're planning on getting married." She gave us the tour anyway. She is, after all, on commission.

In the taxi ride to our hotel, Steve effused over the prizes we would garner…our biggest take yet. I sulked. I had really wanted that fabulous prize of the catamaran trip to Deer Island, the one we got last year, with the all-you-can-eat-and-drink buffet. It hadn't even been offered by the resort we were to visit.
"Don't worry, Honey," Steve vowed. "If that's what you want, there are plenty of timeshare hawkers on the streets. We'll do another presentation from town, and they'll have the prize."

Steve was right. The next day, while meandering through downtown Mazatlan, we were accosted by Siomara. Fierce bargaining ensued. She offered us another fiesta plus a bottle of tequila, a fifth of Khalua and a Mexican blanket, approximate retail value: $1.75. But we held out for the combo-pack: a breakfast buffet, the fiesta, $30 American cash and, most importantly, the catamaran ride to Deer Island. The agreement seemed dubious, but we had it in writing. She said she'd pick us up in the morning at our hotel. "Don't go with anyone else," she warned, threateningly. This business was cutthroat.

We arrived sans incident at the ritzy Grande Resort Mazatlan. The sprawling lawns, cascading levels of swimming pools and the crystal blue beach were inviting, but we had come on a catamaran mission, and we would not be swayed. We were seated in an antiseptic holding pen, at a table where Sergio asked us if we were ready to buy a timeshare. We'd be interested in looking, we told him, and we'll see where we go from there. We knew from our vast experience that honesty is generally the best card to play. Once, on a previous timeshare romp, realizing his time could be better spent elsewhere, the salesman gave us our prizes without any hullabaloo at all. But, not so in Mazatlan. Mr. Simpers, the heavy, from Canton, Ohio was called to our table.

"Mr. Simpers, hello."

"Oh, ho," he laughed . "Call me Ian," he said with well-rehearsed joviality. "So, Sergio tells me that you don't wanna buy a timeshare. I'm gonna cut to the chase, here. We might not let you go on the tour."

Now, wait just a minute. This is not the timeshare experience we know and love. In Seattle, we were coddled; led into a room for a PowerPoint presentation as the host cheerfully mugged to the audience. "How many of you were talking to the wife on the way over here sayin', 'Now, Honey, remember, we're not here to buy anything. We're just goin' for the prizes.' C'mon, raise your hands. That's right. Heh, heh, heh. Well, seriously, folks, I'm here to change – your – mind. Hey buddy, you with the cough…want another cigarette?" No, that kind of 90-minute presentation gets you a dinner-for-two coupon at Bennigan's and zirconium earrings.

In Mazatlan, Ian argued that it would be a waste of his time to allow us to sit through his grueling presentation. "Tell me why you think I should let you go on this tour?"

We had been picked up from our hotel nearly an hour and a half earlier, and our stomachs were grumbling. "Look," said Steve, "We're hungry. Perhaps if you gave us the breakfast you promised, we'd be in a better position to buy. It's a leap of faith. You qualify your buyers. We fit your criteria, and then you take the leap of faith. There's no guarantee in sales." My real-estate agent husband added, "But, you're ruining your client relationship. So, either try to sell us something, or cut us loose."

"Hey," Ian said, hackles raised, "I don't come into your place of business and tell you how to run things."

"We don't invite you to," Steve reminded him calmly.

"Give me a minute," Ian grimly countered, reaching into his jacket pocket. Instinctively, I leaned sharply backwards. Was he going for his gun? I wouldn't buy his timeshare, and now he's gonna shoot me? He pulled out a cell phone, whipped it open with a flourish, and swiveled into a standing position, like James Bond. He whispered into his phone for a moment. I could only imagine him talking to his own answering machine. "Okay," he said, returning to us stoically, "My boss didn't want to let you go on the tour, but I did."

Sergio led us to the breakfast buffet, shaking his head. "Sorry about Mr. Simpers. He can be difficult." Classic good cop, bad cop. Unruffled, we filled our plates with papaya, pineapple, mango, fresh Mexican breads and an omelet stuffed with salsa and cheese. Fresh squeezed orange juice sat in glasses sweating with condensation on white linen tablecloths. I took in the sumptuous view from the veranda where we sat…nothing but sun, sand and surf. Sure, I'd stay here, as soon as it appears in the Lonely Planet Recommended Budget Accommodations section.

Making conversation, Steve asked, "So, Sergio, are you married?"

"Divorced," he answered brusquely. He looked at us to prod him for details. We did not. "It's a long story," he continued, hoping we'd bite. We did not.
Sergio, unable to contain himself, suddenly launched into the whole bitchy wife saga. "She wasn't a homemaker. She refused to care for the house, always complaining about the laundry and the cooking. When I married her, she pretended to do all these things, but really, she was just lazy. I was always working hard, but when I came home, she would say she was so tired from taking care of the baby. Well, isn't that her one job, to be a mother? And now I only see my daughter on weekends." We were enthusiastically cooperative when Sergio suggested we move on to viewing the property.

We were led on a cursory tour of the spectacular grounds: ponds and pools, flamingos and peacocks, strutting around as proud as the suntanned elite preening with their margaritas at the bar. I felt like the Little Match Girl shopping at Tiffany's. Not guilty, really, just numbed by the fact that with my teacher's salary, this would never be my lifestyle. Abruptly, the tour ended, and we were corralled back into the holding pen; relegated to a table in the back, so that our sour attitudes wouldn't spread like the plague.

Sergio rambled on about the benefits of "vacation property". The word, "timeshare", apparently, had gotten a bad rap. So, like the pathetic prune, vacation property is now the pitted plum of realty. Of course, a rose by any other name would still stink if you're charging a $350 annual maintenance fee.

Then, Sergio started with the Yes Questions. "Do you like to have a nice vacation?"
"Yes." How can you possibly say no to that?
"Would you like to stay in a luxury hotel, scuba dive and golf for half of what you already pay?"
"Yes." Of course we don't golf or dive, but what's the use in arguing at this point.
Then, to Steve, "Do you love your wife enough to get her a vacation property to show her how much you love vacationing with her?" No kidding.
"We're really not interested," Steve finally conceded.

Sergio would not give up. He scribbled furiously, writing upside-down so that we could see; an unnerving talent we'd witnessed at other timeshare presentations and when we bought a used car. My eyes glazed over. "We've been here for well over two hours, Sergio. The presentation was supposed to be 90 minutes. Can we just get our prizes, please?"

"I have to fill seven pages, or they'll fire me. I'm already on probation," he said, trying to play the pity card. "If I don't sell a property this week, they'll probably fire me, anyway." We were unmoved. The yellow legal pad was cluttered with oversized dollar signs, underlined for emphasis. Columns comparing impossibly unrelated figures proved that if you stay seven nights in a luxury hotel you'll be saving more money than if you camp in a tent on a riverbank in Montana. Twenty minutes later, Sergio wouldn't let us go until Ian had had one final crack at us. He was the closer. But now, Ian was going to make us wait. He had fish biting, or so he pretended, and paid us no heed, trapped at the back table.

Three hours invested, Ian finally sat down with us hurriedly. "So, what's the problem?"
Sergio gave him the run-down. "They don't want it. It's too expensive. It doesn't suit their lifestyle."
"If I offered you the package for $5,000 right now, would you take it?"

Considering the maintenance fees were more than we generally spent on a month-long vacation's worth of hotel rates, we declined. Ian stood up, flushed, in a huff. He made faces of astonishment and let out small, high-pitched squeaks of disbelief, drawing as much attention to himself as possible. "Wow," I commented, "You're very dramatic. You should have been an actor."

Momentarily stunned by what he perceived to be flattery, he blushed, and then smiled, puffing his chest out, "I 'd like to be!" Suddenly, remembering his rampage, he returned to his Mr. Hyde persona. "I signed for you to go on this tour. I signed my name and had faith in you," he burst out, channeling the likes of John Proctor in The Crucible or Martin Luther posting his signature on the church door. He reddened with righteous indignation, and it looked to me like his eyebrows might pop off. "You'll need to talk to my boss, Mr. Martinez. We may not give you the prizes. You misled us."

We were exhausted, worn-out and frazzled. Did they really think that at this point we would turn around and say, "No, no, please, because we want the prizes, we will take the timeshare." I held my tongue, as I realized that Steve was much better at maintaining a reasonable façade, whereas I was likely to turn into a raging nutcase. We were steered towards Mr. Martinez, a short, rodent-like, bald man.

"What? What's the problem here?" Mr. Martinez sputtered like a busted teakettle. "You come to our resort, eat our breakfast, don't buy a property, and then expect a prize? What is wrong with you people?" he spat at us. "Do you think you can just waltz in here and walk off with prizes?"
"You invited us," Steve reminded him gently.
"Yes, but we didn't subpoena you!"

The exchange had risen in volume and potential suckers were beginning to take notice. Despising confrontation, I turned away from the scene and began walking towards the lobby. I could hear Steve continuing. "Look, we've met our end of the bargain." My usually calm husband's voice rose to a bristly pitch. "We've listened to your sales pitch and spent over three hours here!"

Glimpsing backwards, I saw Mr. Martinez thrust the prize claim into Steve's hands. Lowering his voice he muttered, "Don't come back," as if surely, when we are retired and do choose to buy vacation property, this would be the first place we'd come.
In the lobby, the smiling concierge informed us that their resort does not offer the catamaran ride we had been promised as a prize. We had it in writing, we said, but they had, of course, misplaced our original agreement. We settled for a small motorboat ride out to the island, where we snuck off and joined the fun-loving catamaran gang for volleyball and kayaking.

Weary, but not beaten, Steve and I strolled several miles down the length of the beach, the posh resort shrinking to a speck behind us. At the end of the peninsula, we reached the colorful fishing boats and the homey, outdoor restaurant shacks that were so noticeably absent at the pristine resort. As the sun began to dip its fingertips in the water, a fisherman sold us a mouthwatering slab of freshly caught marlin, which the restaurateur cheerfully slathered in butter and garlic. As we relished the warm evening air, a cold can of Tecate and the spicy frijoles, we decided it would be at least a year until we braved another presentation. Even timeshare sluts have a bad date once in a while.