The Northwest Institute
Where greatness begins
Suite 301
The Northwest Institute occupied a suite on the third floor. A receptionist directed me to a conference room decorated in muted colors. A podium stood at the front with a video screen beside it. Round tables were scattered about. Soft music was playing. A table at the back had bottled water and free coffee. Starbucks even. I should have known. I refilled my cup and surveyed the room. I hated attending these things alone.
The room was already filling. The smart attendees were grabbing the best tables, the ones in the far back. I sighed. I’d just have to buck up, sidle into an empty seat, introduce myself, and make the most of it. It was only one day.
"You look thrilled to be here."
I’d been so absorbed, I hadn’t heard anyone approach me. I turned toward the voice.
A fortysomething man stood beside me, sipping his coffee, his hand extended. "Roger Duncan."
"Leesa Winsome." I shook his hand.
"Here by yourself?"
I laughed. "What gave me away?"
"The lost lamb look." He grinned.
I wrinkled my nose. "That obvious? I’m terrible at these kinds of things." I lowered my voice. "I’m not even sure I want to be here." I knew I didn’t want to be here.
"Really?" Roger looked surprised. "Garrett is one of the best motivators in country. High rate of success. Highly recommended."
I remained uncertain.
Roger gave a little laugh. "And the rest of us won’t bite."
I let out a breath I was barely aware of holding. Roger looked like a nice guy. On closer inspection, I placed him at forty-five. I had a rule about men over thirty-six or seven. I didn’t date them. And men over forty, especially if they were confirmed bachelors, no way. They were likely to stay that way, mired in their selfish noncommittal ways. No real chance of reforming them or mending any bad habits, so claimed my women’s magazines.
"Glad to hear it." I paused. Roger inspired trust. I wasn’t trying to impress him. I tried to sound a bit flippant, put a smile in my voice, banish my skepticism so I wouldn’t offend him. He sounded like a true believer. "The truth is, my family signed me up. I’m between jobs, actually. And they thought this might help me focus."
Roger beamed. "Excellent. Fabulous! You’ll fit right in."
I think I looked surprised at his reaction. Who wouldn’t be? Joblessness wasn’t generally a cause for celebration, praise, or accolades.
"You have to meet my pal, Bud. He’s saving a table." Roger looked jubilant. "We’re both unemployed." He nodded to emphasize his point. "You have to join us, now. Swap war stories."
"Really?" I felt a little lighter. A fellow sympathizer.
"Oh, yes. Sacked. Laid off, technically. But forced out in reality. I was a marketing director. Didn’t see eye to eye with the jackass VP, an unethical, cheating, lying, loser. Been out for a year and a half. You?"
"A little over a month."
"Oh, well, you’re a newbie, then."
I laughed, appreciating his enthusiasm. "Not really. This is my third time in the ranks of the unemployed."
"No? Maybe you can teach us a thing or two then."
"I don’t know about that. A year and a half? You must be pretty adept at surviving. You look put together and, well, not exactly homeless." I hoped I wasn’t wrong, that I hadn’t overstepped.
Roger didn’t appear to mind. "I’m a single guy. I had a bit put aside. Bud and I room together, cuts expenses. We’re both former navy guys. I used to be a pilot."
Which explained his confident cockiness. It was kind of endearing, actually.
"Now I’m back in school with a bit of government help. I’ll have my degree in another semester."
"Good for you," I said. "What are you studying?"
"Nursing. Going to be an RN."
I did a comic jaw drop, trying to picture him in white or maybe a pale, muted frock with pastel flowers. Nope, couldn’t do it. "Why?"
Roger laughed. "I get that a lot. I was damned tired of being laid off, of corporate shenanigans. So I did a study of hot jobs, good pay, steady work, lots of openings. Stability was my number-one goal. Nursing. What with the baby boomers aging in droves, there’s a shortage. I plan to fill it. Going to specialize in operating room work."
I still couldn’t picture it. "Sounds good if you can tolerate the sight of blood."
"That I can. Never been squeamish."
I nodded.
"Bud and I run an informal club for the jobless. To keep our spirits up. Happy people are more employable than depressed ones. We studied it. So that’s what we’re about and that’s why we’re here today. To pick up pointers.
"We call ourselves the Job Camp Group, JCG. We meet twice a week for moral support and to hang out, have fun, socialize.
"Do a lot of free stuff. Go to parks. Outdoor concerts. Museums on the days they waive admission. Sometimes we splurge, go to a matinee. You’re invited to join."
I hesitated, a little uncertain.
"Amend that. You’re commanded to join. We won’t let you bail out."
I nodded like a robot. "Sure." But I still wasn’t. "Um, who else is in the group?"
Roger cocked his head and then grinned. "I see, a little worried it’s just Bud and me, are you? Well, don’t be. We have plenty of ladies who show up. We’re informal. People drop in when they feel like it. We usually have twenty to thirty people per meeting."
"Excellent." And I was relieved.
"What type of work are you looking for?" he asked.
"I’m an electrical engineer."
"A girl with a head for math and science. A real brain."
I hated being called a brain. It brought back memories of high school taunts. I winced.
"Sorry, that’s a compliment. Women should be smart." He took my arm. "Come on. Let’s go meet Bud."
We turned. As Roger scanned the room, there was a commotion at the podium. A man in dark jeans bent over a laptop. My heart stopped.
Mr. Fab from the coffee shop.
All that derogatory stuff I’d said about Garrett came flooding back. This couldn’t be. He couldn’t be Garrett! I guess he hadn’t saved my life. Right about then I felt like dying of embarrassment.
Roger spotted Bud. "Ah. There he is."
Roger took my arm before I could escape. "Bud secured us a table right up front. Excellent. Always sit up front, that’s my motto. That way you get all the attention and a clear, unblocked view."
I didn’t want to sit up front. I wanted to hide out.
Newton’s First Law—an object in motion will stay in motion unless acted upon by an opposing force. In this case, I played both the object and the opposing force. But Roger managed to propel me forward to a table directly in front of the podium anyway. Now I’d have to look like I was paying attention to the presentation every solitary minute and . . . think fast!
I went over scenarios in my mind. Walk right up to him, make a flippant comment, laugh off my faux pas? Bold plan, if I could muster the nerve.
How about this? Catch his eye. Flash a small apologetic look.
"Leesa, Bud Fields. Bud, Leesa Winsome."
I shook Bud’s outstretched hand and tried to concentrate. "Pleased to meet you."
"The same." Bud pulled a chair out for me, a chair that sat sideways to the podium. "Have a seat."
I hesitated. Roger made a sweeping "your chair awaits you" gesture. What could I do? We all sat.
"Leesa is an unemployed engineer." Roger proceeded to spill out my story, in an overly loud voice.
I wasn’t as pleased with his mega volume now that Garrett, alias Mr. Fab, was within earshot. He didn’t need any more details of my down-and-outness.
Bud gave approving nods.
To divert attention away from my troubles, I addressed Bud. "Roger says you’re looking for work, too. What do you do?"
"A bit everything. When I met Roger I was a technician. Used to work on some of the equipment on Rog’s plane. When I got out of the service, Roger got me on at the help desk at Ventig Computers."
"Really?" I tried to appear fascinated and focused on Bud and Roger when in reality, I was all too aware of Mr. Fab at the podium and my own embarrassment.
"Yeah. I’ve basically been following Rog around and mimicking his career. Up to now. I haven’t got the stomach for the medical profession. And I’m not ready to put a uniform on again."
They both laughed.
"Ventig pink-slipped Bud three months after me. I think I tainted him. He’ll have to tell you the story someday." Roger shot Bud a grin. "About how Ventig asked him to work out of his home because they were short on office space and then fired him for not showing up at the office. Those corporate shenanigans I was talking about."
"No way?" I said. "You should sue them and make big money."
Bud shrugged. "It’s in progress."
Bud gave me a few details of the lawsuit. Interesting as it all was, I only listened with half an ear. The other half was cocked toward trying to listen to whatever Mr. Fab said to anyone.
I did, however, ask the odd, polite question. Several times during the conversation, I thought Mr. Fab looked my direction. I put on the apologetic look and prepared the flirty wave only to be mistaken and have him gaze right past me.
"Something bothering you?" Roger looked around, trying to see what distracted me.
"Just a fly." I swatted and waved at the air, shooing an imaginary bug.
Roger frowned. "I don’t see anything."
"The little gnat kind," I lied. So much for alluring waves.
Bud, I gathered, was also single. Divorced for some time. Looked a lot like you’d expect a guy named Bud to look. He was closer to my age, but as he was stocky and under six feet tall, I didn’t feel inclined to run through the checklist a third time inside an hour.
Finally, Mr. Fab stepped to the mic, which boomed with a burst of feedback, interrupting our conversation.
"Welcome to the Breakthrough to Greatness Seminar, ladies and gentleman." The silky, sexy tones of Mr. Fab.
I cringed, waiting for him to confirm he was Garrett, and put on the apologetic look in case he looked in my direction.
"I’m Ryne Garrett, head of the Northwest Institute."
This was one of those times I wish I’d been wrong. But no. He was the head of the institute. I broke in to a full-body blush. To cover my embarrassment, I shifted in my chair, fanned myself and whispered to Rog that it was warm in here. Someone should turn up the air-conditioning or we’d all swelter.
Garrett’s assistant, a French babe he introduced as Sophie Billaud, handed out notebooks, workbooks, and pens. Sophie wore pure black, a straight short skirt, a summer sweater, spike heels, and looked like sex on a stick. She must have been all of twenty-five.
Bud and Roger seemed to enjoy getting an eyeful of her. They followed her progress around the room with unabashed obviousness.
Appropriately enough, she wore her deep brown hair in an elegant French twist. She was the kind of woman men loved to ogle and women loved to hate. I was no exception. She walked with a slight sway to her hips and spoke with a soft French accent. She’d score at the top of any man’s checklist.
Ryne began his presentation. "You can go where you want to go, do what you want to do, and be the person you want to be."
I wanted to be anywhere but here and anyone but me.
Ryne gave a course overview and told the inevitable success story. He might have been aiming the story at me, but I didn’t look up from my "note-taking" to verify. Instead, I surreptitiously studied the classroom so I could fill Alice in, let her know what I had gotten for her money. As for course content, I had the book, didn’t I?
Ryne finished his introduction, pressed a button on his computer, and looked up at the screen on the wall in anticipation. The screen remained blank.
I shot him a quick look.
He frowned. He did some fiddling.
"We seem to be experiencing technical difficulties," he said. "Bear with me a moment." He fiddled with his software.
I sighed. He had no idea how to fix the problem. This was too amusing. Some people had no technical sense.
The crowd grew restless and began whispering to each other. Roger shot Bud a look indicating he should help Garrett.
I had a favor to repay. Besides, I didn’t want to be in class all day. I zipped out of my seat before Bud could move. "Let me take a look." In less than two minutes I diagnosed the problem and had Garrett’s presentation up and running.
I sat back down.
Ryne offered his thanks with a heart-melting smile. "There’s a girl headed for greatness. She embodies the spirit of one of my main points—helping others get what they want. In my case, a presentation that works. Many thanks." And he had the decency, too, to look a little humble.
"It’s an engineer thing," I said, smiling.
A lot of the day was pretty boring. It went something like blah, blah, blah, hope. Blah, blah, blah, success. Blah, blah, blah, greatness. But the Institute fed us a delicious chicken lunch in their corporate dining room. I sat with Roger and Bud. They pried my cell phone number out of me and made me give a solemn promise to show up to one of their JCG meetings. They didn’t even give me the chance to cross my fingers or wiggle out by any other means.
In the afternoon session, we had to fill out pages in our workbooks. It involved a lot of soul-searching that I won’t go into.
But, for those who really want the gist of the entire Greatness seminar, here’s what I learned from my adventure, with my personal spin included, of course:
Hope is humankind’s greatest asset. And it’s free! A big bonus right now to Roger, Bud, and me. Because we couldn’t afford it otherwise.
To succeed, you must talk positively to yourself. The secret is to feed yourself a bunch of upbeat pabulum so as to trick your psyche into actually achieving greatness or maybe just delusions of grandeur.
Goal-setting is an absolute must. Having an intelligent, clearly defined plan for life, career, family, and love satisfies the logical left brain (mine is never sated, let me tell you) and frees the right brain up to be creative.
Help enough other people get what they want, and you, too, will eventually get what you want. The problem with this one was that number "enough" was not defined, was left empty like an algebraic variable. How would I know when I’d helped "enough"?
This realization led me to an uncomfortable conclusion. I was convinced that the "enough" number of people I would be required to help would run in the millions. That was just the way my luck went. Some people would have to help just one other person. Me, I’d have to do something nice for every single person who lived in Seattle, and maybe a few who weren't even born yet.
Successful people live balanced lives.
To have "making money" and "happiness" as goals is fine.
Finally, be careful what goals you set and what dreams you dream, because you just might attain them! Where was the downside of that?
At last, Sophie handed each attendee an iPod shuffle preloaded with Ryne’s recorded greatness lectures and messages to give us pep talks when our own positive self talk melted into self-loathing. Help for when life knocked us down. And then, the seminar was over. The lights went up. The doors flew open. We were free, free, free, finally free!
Roger and Bud offered me a ride home. They seemed nice, but how well did I know them? I opted for the bus, graciously thanking them for their kindness.
"At least let us walk you down," Roger said.
Fine by me. That street musician might need a little protection from my anger anyway.
Ryne stopped me as I scooped up my stuff and headed for the door. "Did I make a believer out of you yet?" He cocked a brow, amused, I guessed.
"Hardly. I’m a tough case. Changing my opinions takes time and hard evidence." I paused. "You might have said something at Starbucks."
"Such as?"
"Your name."
"It wouldn’t have changed your opinion of my workshop, would it?" He studied me, smug in his rightness.
"No, I guess not."
"Honesty’s better, don’t you agree? Now we know where we stand."
"I guess that’s true." Fine for him to say when I’d been the one making a fool of herself.
"Thanks for fixing my computer. I, for one, appreciated your engineering expertise today."
There were people standing around, waiting to talk with him. Enthusiasts who would praise him and ask him to autograph their workbooks.
I shrugged. "It was nothing. Easy heroics." I taunted him with his own words, but his eyes danced and he smiled, obviously amused, not affronted.
"You’ll listen to the messages on the Shuffle?" he asked, oblivious to the others hovering around us.
"If that’ll make one less person I need to help get what they want so I can get what I want, then yes." I flashed him my flirty smile.
He laughed. "It will." He pulled his business card out of his pocket and handed it to me. "I’m on LinkedIn. Feel free to connect with me."
I nodded. I definitely would.
"Look, call me if you have any questions," he said. "About the workshop, about anything. If you need help, I’m available."
Puzzling, very puzzling. He probably saw me as a great big skeptical challenge. What else explained this behavior? I mean, he’d walked out on me at Starbucks.
"Sure." I tucked his card in my purse and walked away, joining Bud and Roger at the door.
Street music guys must work shorter shifts than inspirational speakers. My nemesis was gone and replaced by a pathetically bad accordionist when Bud and Rog dropped me off at the bus shelter. Ten minutes of earsplitting music and I thought maybe the city was right to aspire to professional quality music on the streets. Even the city needed goals. See how much I’d learned?
But probably the city’s desire was more fiscal than aesthetic or out of love for the arts. No doubt they lost bus revenue when citizens were subjected to offbeat, out of tune, off-key music. At this point, hitchhiking looked pretty good, the possibility of running up against a serial killer aside. Or just walking to another bus stop.
Still, I hoped that Guitar Man had made his license fee.
By the time the bus pulled up, I’d already connected with Ryne on LinkedIn. And I had never been so glad to gulp diesel fumes and escape back to Dad’s house.