Candy Little Girl?
I just got back from the Biometrics trade show in Tampa, Florida this week where I was running a hospitality event for my company. The event went off without a hitch. A good time was had by all, and if I had managed to snag a bite of the nibbles on offer I’m sure I would have agreed they were delectable.
I learned a few things about trade shows that up until recently I’d only filed under the heading “Urban Legend.” I never really thought there was any credence to the idea that a LOT of flirting, infidelity and general borking around happens at these events. That was before I actually went to one, and saw some of the prowlers in action.
First, there was the guy on the tradeshow floor who blatantly stopped and checked out my ass as I sauntered by. He was one of the booth personnel (not our booth, thankfully. I’d hate to lose my job over destroying one of my co-workers.) I skipped his booth.
THEN, the adorably gentlemanly but much older greeter at the exhibition floor called me a “really beautiful lady.” Twice.
I felt a little like Miaka in the first episode of Fushigi Yuugi, astonished that she gets flattered by two guys in one day. “Could it be that the way I look is attractive in this world?” Of course, neither of my particular suitors had long flowing hair, Heian-period kimono, or giant swords. So much the worse for me.
The coup de gross (no typo there, folks) came after the hospitality event. I’m heading to settle up the paperwork with the event manager, and I get caught in one of those dodge-dodge-dodge episodes coming off the elevator. The guy says “One more dance, but then I’m really going to have to go.” Gracious enough.
Fast forward twenty minutes. I’m getting on the elevator, and I hold the door for the two people coming on. Much to my surprise, one of them is… you guessed it, my dance partner. I couldn’t help but laugh.
“You missed me, huh?”
“Of course! I miss you every day!” Okay, points for being charming. And British… but in sort of a smarmy, Ricky Gervais meets Stephen Fry sort of way. And he was something like 40. Still not creeped out, though. Elevator door closes.
“Ah, I know. I’m all the way in Boston. It’s hard to be so far away from me.”
“And yet, I’ve forgotten your name. My facial recognition though, is dead on.”
Okay, so this is sort of a smooth way to get someone’s name. I introduce myself (no last name) and he does the same. Steve. Smarmy, British Steve. It could have been worse. He could have been Scottish.
At this point, the kid in the elevator is utterly perplexed by this exchange, and is all too happy to get off at his floor. Ding. Door closes. Still not creeped out.
“So lets go get dinner.” Steve says. It was something to this effect, although I can’t really remember the exact words since it was at this exact moment when I started getting creeped out. I try to be gracious.
“Ohh, sorry Steve. I’ve got a really early flight. Thanks though!”
Not to be deterred, Steve “gets turned down for a fiver and asks for fifty grand” as Hornby so eloquently put it. We’re at the 20th floor. Steve is at 24th. I’m at 25th.
“Oh, well at least let me buy you a piece of cake. All girls love chocolate, right?”
DING! Steve’s floor. I’m now smiling to hide the horror.
“C’mon, it’s right down this way.”
I let him make the bush-league move of getting out of the elevator before me.
“Sorry Steve! Can’t tonight. Thanks though!”
“Aww if not now, then when?” He said, still wearing the million-dollar charm. I have to give the guy credit, he had a titanium set on him to think he could bribe a 27-year-old into bed with chocolate cake. Good thing he didn’t say crème brulee. The story might have had a different ending 
Actually, I wanted to tell him that it would happen when hell froze over, but the elevator door closed.
Actually, there were quite a few good comebacks that didn’t emerge from the fog until I was back to my room. Oh well. Esprit L’Espalier.
1. You should have promised me a golden retriever puppy, Steve. I don’t get in someone’s van for just any old thing.
2. We don’t pronounce it “cake” in this country, Steve.
3. (Courtesy of my sister) I suppose then you’re going to want me to blow out your candle too, right?
And so ends my tale of being, if only for a day, a raving trade show beauty in the land of sun-kissed exhibitions… and exhibitionists.
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