The Sell.

"We are a 501(c)(3), and while our taxes are non-existent, our expenses are not," he replied.  

"Yes, but..." the chairman paused,  "how can we validate our contribution?"

He sat there, pondering the question, poised but relaxed in his suit and tie, fresh off what even I had to admit was a stunner of a speech.  He wowed them, tapped into their Christian guilt, juiced their First World altruism, and now he sat with the Board closing the deal.  He was across the conference table from us, sitting back in the stuffed leather chair.  One hand rested in his lap, the other on the table, clicking a ball point every so often.  In the plush cool of the boardroom, the fluorescent lights above hummed ever so slightly.

"Gene, Isaiah 4:4.  Trust in the Lord to wash away the filth of the women... All I can show you is these photos, our video.   You can see we have touched lives for the better.  I have no better testament than that."  He leaned forward looking intently at the boss while tapping ever so slightly on the paper.  "We are there doing His work.   Look, you are welcome to come visit any time.  Any time."  He sat back.

Easy for him to say.  He kicks junk, starts a 501(c)(3) in Africa, and probably drops these open invitations to donors like candy.  I studied him from my seat across the table and wondered who shows up.  Probably no one, so he's free to do what he wants, when and how he wants.  The boss shifted in his seat and shot me a sideways look.  The question was mine, and I made him ask it.  I had to. His proclivity for writing checks to charities is directly proportional to his advancing age. This one stood to be the biggest yet, but all we had were glossy brochures, a slick, well-produced video, and the naked word of a benevolent rock star with a great back story.  

In some small way, I wanted to respect him.  It's not easy to kick.  I'd been on it way back when, and but for the boss, who knows where I'd be.  Usually, there is a bond, an energy, between us former users.  An understanding.  We know we are different, and we bond together for the strength not to go back.  But I didn't have that with this one.  I knew his flash all right, the pitch, the con.  The cold, desperate sell.  I wanted this to work, but how could we know.  

The boss leaned forward.  "Randy, I trust in the Lord, and I trust you.  Those gracious to the poor lend to the Lord, after all."

The chairman signed, and passed the paper across the table.  He smiled back, easily, languidly.  His stance relaxed ever so slightly.  The deal was done.  He clicked the ball point with his hand one more time, leaned forward and steadied the paper with the other. That hand, now in the open, was more reddish than the other, puffier.  He'd missed the vein.  We'd been had.