Vegas Finale

You know, I'm a pretty safe guy to be around, especially when compared to some of the other individuals who inhabit Sin City during any given week.  But my last full day in Vegas proved that things can go wrong, and you can still land in hot water through sheer ignorance.

Things started off well enough.  At the end of the show, most of our boxes arrived from storage early, so we were able to pack up most of our gear for the convention before the end of the evening.  This meant that in theory, we would have little to do the next morning, outside of packing up a few last things and turning it all over to the shipper.

As the show had reached its close on Sunday, people had started inquiring about purchasing some of the TVs we had on display.  We made some inquiries and got the needed paperwork, so we told a few people to return the next morning, and we'd make them a deal.  It was a win-win.  We didn't have to ship the stuff back, and they got a good deal.

So on Monday, one of the bikini models from the show arrived bright eyed and barely clothed to pickup TVs with a couple of girlfriends.  While she waited for her ride to arrive, several other guys, primarily union guys working the show, came by to discuss making purchases.  Since some of them had helped us get our boxes out of storage quickly on Sunday night, we had no problems making them a good deal.

Eventually we had sold most of the product, but it was still sitting around waiting to be picked up.  The bikini girl waited a couple of hours before her ride arrived, and she was able to use her feminine wiles to get a guy to haul her stuff out on a forklift.  (The shirt she was wearing gave him a view to next Christmas, so I doubt it was a tough sell.)

Another lady called and said she'd be by in a few minutes with a truck to get her stuff.  It was shortly after this that a policeman walked into our booth and yelled, "Which one of you is Bret Hawkins?"

I looked over at my boss, and I could see him thinking, "Nice work.  After you left us last night, what did you do?  Cheat somebody?  Get in a fight?  Snort coke off a hooker's back?"  As he finished this thought (and while I was busy trying to keep from filling my shorts) the cop called his name also.  The officer's next question was, "Which of you is in charge?" at which point I began bowing and stepping away backwards from my boss.

During the discussion, a small crowd of other officials began to gather.  Some were officials from the show, some were security guards, others were policemen. I marveled at the various modes of transportation -- some had walked, others were on bikes, one was on a Segway.

Eventually, we were informed that there had been some issues with our sale.  Apparently you can't do what we did, per convention rules.  We also got a lengthy lesson regarding sales taxes and business licenses.  Who knew?  Apparently people who work at the show can get into trouble for buying stuff, so hopefully we didn't get anyone in trouble with our attempted good deed.  (In our defense, we saw a lot of stuff being sold toward the end of the show, so we thought it was fine.)

As it turns out, as the original group of girls exited the convention center, the guards took note of my name on their bill.  Soon after, another individual parked their pickup in the loading dock, blocking semis taking equipment out of the show, resulting in a complaint being filed.  What a mess.

The police took some names and info from us (which I'm sure will somehow inhibit my ability to get a passport in the future) and informed us that where possible, we needed to refund the cash.  (They were probably laughing at the idiot Midwesterners who found the one way to get in trouble in Vegas.)

This was fine with me, except that it meant that I now had to locate all these union guys to give them their money and explain the situation.  This only took a few hours which I could have spent enjoying lunch on my last day in Vegas, but alas.

A little while after we left, glad for the ordeal to be over, my boss got a text on his cell phone from one of the ladies, asking if we could get a TV out of the convention center and then meet her on the street to sell it.  We figured this was probably some kind of sting, and Chris Hansen from Dateline would pop out asking us if we knew who he was.  No way.

The story might have been better if we'd actually landed in jail, but the whole thing was painful enough as it was.  I can't afford a conviction right now...I need to be able to get a job in the future.  It's just unfortunate the several angry union guys from Vegas are now staring at my business card...waiting...