Take my card — please

(From the Register-Pajaronian)

Once you have a business card, you know you’ve arrived.

During most of my life, I believed that. For years, I had visions of myself striding confidently into a hotel bar (the Hanoi Hilton, perhaps, or maybe some Sheraton in a climate so balmy as to make any fabric heavier than seersucker a novelty that compels the locals to run their hands over your coat to reassure themselves that it’s real) and ordering a smart cocktail with a broad, easy smile. I’d lean back on the mahogany bar and let the light streaming in from the cabana play over my rugged features and sun-bleached hair as I savored the first swallow of a very expensive martini.

Then a dark-haired woman with high cheekbones would rise from her booth and come feel my summer weight jacket and introduce herself. The high-end stock of my business card would make a pleasing snap as I flipped it out of its case with two fingers and said, "Farley. Universal Exports."

Of course, that was before I realized that they let just about any jackass have a business card these days. The guy who changed my oil last week, for instance, offered me his card, as did the woman who cuts my hair. It’s not that I am unhappy with either person’s service or that they don’t deserve to be remembered. It’s just that the romance of being invited into someone’s life via index card is somewhat diminished when they’re wearing a zippered jumpsuit and asking if Penzoil will be OK or if you’d rather step up to the Havoline.

This is the first job I’ve had where I needed a business card. It’s nothing special, but sure enough, it has my name on it (though the phone number is wrong) and I’m unreasonably proud of it. At a Christmas gathering last week, I waited like a lion in the brush for the perfect moment to deploy my card on unwitting prey.

By 11 p.m., no opportunity had presented itself and I was beginning to despair. What good is working at a newspaper if you can’t lie to anybody about being famous? Then, as I was heading for the bathroom, I passed one of my buddies while he was talking to a girl we knew and heard him say, "Yeah, I think I have a card here somewhere."

The trap was sprung.

"I have a card right here," I announced, going for my wallet. Just as I cleared the holster, though, he found his and brought it forth into the light. I clapped a hand to my forehead and just stared. The card was a magnificent affair, resplendent with gold leaves and intricate scrolling and his name writ large in a special font. The phone number was probably even right.

It suddenly dawned on me that my own business card looked like I had embossed it myself with a flathead screwdriver and gone back over the impressions with a magic marker, so I jammed it back in my pocket. The girl took my friend’s card and looked over at me.

"Can I have one of yours, too?"

I furrowed my brow. "I’m not sure what you mean."

"Your business card."

I nodded gravely. "Right. I don’t use those. Hell on the rainforests. In fact, I wouldn’t trust anybody that just carried them around with him."

"But you just said..."

"Anyone want a drink?" I exclaimed. "I’m going to go get a drink. Would you like a drink?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, I think I’m good." She left.

My friend gave me a halfhearted shot in the arm and said, "So, do you, like, plan these things, or do they just happen?"

I looked at him levelly. "I don’t have to answer your questions. You’re killing Mother Earth. What are you drinking?"

"Rum and Coke. You’re a strange guy, Matty."

"Good looking, though," I said. I noticed he was still holding a bundle of cards. "Will you put that away? You’re giving me a complex."