I got a call from a group of mysterious people in Florida who pleaded with me – and almost demanded – that I come down to Florida and help solve the marital problems of a prominent golfer whose name they refused to reveal. But it was obvious whom they meant. They referred to him only by his code name: “Mr. T.”
The caller introduced himself as Greg Watson, Mr. T’s executive manager of policy and development and spokesperson. I wanted to know why they were coming to me. I insisted that I was no expert in that area. Greg said I was highly recommended by the executive planning group that surrounds Barack Obama for the wonderful work I did for the Democratic party recently.
“I did wonderful work for the Democratic party?!” I exclaimed. I thought only in politics could a disaster be proclaimed a victory.
Greg said it was imperative that I come down from Canada and address the problem. Any reasonable fee I would charge would be acceptable and a private jet would pick me up at the airport and bring me back from Florida when the project was completed.
I said: “Wait a minute! Haven’t I read that there all kinds of costly marital motivational schemes in the U.S. involving weekends of deep therapy available for very rich people in troubled marriages?”
“Yes and they’ve all failed,” said Greg. “That’s why, in desperation, we’re coming to you. It’s extremely important that you help us out.”
I thought: well, Florida is a nice place to go during our winter and if only they could grow maple trees, it would be a nice place to live. I said, “Yes, I’ll go but I don’t hold out much hope for the success of this project.”
“Neither do we,” said Greg.
He and I boarded a glorious private jet in Toronto bright and early the next morning, with a host of charming stewardesses looking after me so well that I could hardly blow my nose without one of them offering me a Kleenex. There was a group of eight of Mr. T’s people waiting to greet us at the airport in Miami – nobody over 30, they were expensively, but casually, dressed and were comprised of both sexes. They had one thing in common. They all looked apprehensive and not very optimistic. I could see they were not too impressed with me. They looked at me as if I was a race track tout down on his luck.
When we arrived, Greg ushered us into his large, posh wrap-around window office in a downtown building in Miami with a fantastic view of the ocean. We then gathered around his big desk.
I asked Greg, “When do I get to see Mr. T?”
“He’s here. He’s in the next room. Mr. T is not available for interviews. He is aware that you’re here and he’s anxious to learn what your proposal is. He’s grateful that you’ve taken the trouble to come here. I assure you that I will present your proposal to him. Mr. T is a very private and very rich man – an international celebrity, with his marriage in trouble as seen on TV and in the print media, on the stage, on talk shows, in clubs and bars and restaurants, on the street … everywhere! And guess who’s to blame for all this hullabaloo? He is! He’s spending a fortune to try to solve this problem.”
“I can solve the problem.” I said bravely.
“You can?!” said Greg.
“Yes. Mr. T’s got a big hole in his life and only God can fill it.”
“You say only God can fill it?”
“Yes.”
“You sound like any dime-a-dozen, Bible-thumping TV evangelist!”
“Greg, you haven’t found a solution to Mr. T’s problem and you never will where you’re looking. Mr. T will always be in trouble with his game plan. It’s never worked and it never will. Now, take me out to the airport. My job is finished. I just announced it. You can take my fee and give it to Mother Teresa’s charity.” Silence pervaded the room.
Greg thought before he spoke. “Who knows – you just might be right.”
He took me out to the airport and we flew back to Toronto in that lovely private jet with all those charming stewardesses.
The sad news is they can’t grow maples in Florida.
