Don't You Want to Be Your Own Boss?

A true story. Names of two people and one scam have been changed to protect the innocent, meaning in this case, me.

Frecciargento Lecce-Roma, August 2016.

“You. You played football.”

It was a statement, not a question. I forced myself awake from where I had dozed off somewhere outside of Benevento, leaning against the train window and abandoning a half-eaten pasticciotto on my folding tray table. As my brain slowly came back to life I realized that the white-haired businessman in the seat opposite was not, notwithstanding my brilliant career as a five-a-side trequartista, talking to me. Instead he was looking intently at the passenger next to me. “I can always tell,” he continued. “The game leaves its mark on a man. Not on the body, but on the face. In the eyes. I always recognize a footballer, every time.” He tapped his eye to indicate his rare wisdom.

I looked over at the man next to me. He was in his late thirties, small and wiry, with a three-day-old five-o-clock shadow and piercing black eyes. He wore a red and blue tracksuit, futsal shoes, and an ace bandage around his ankle.

“Um…yeah, I played,” he said with a strong Salentino accent. “Just amateur and semi-pro, Eccellenza league. Had to stop a few years ago ‘cause of too many injuries, plus work…”

The white-haired man smiled beatifically. “I had a trial for Sampdoria myself, back in the day. Oh, years ago, probably before you were born. They wanted me, too, but I decided in the end that I was going to go into business and make something of myself. I’ve worked all over the world, I’ve been everywhere and done everything…but still, a footballer, I can always recognize one of us, the game leaves a mark, an indelible mark. Pleased to meet you, my brother, my name is Silvio.” He stuck out his hand as if he were running for mayor and the Salentino in the tracksuit shook it warily.

I have a great advantage on Italian trains and that is the fact that I don’t look remotely Italian. With my Celtic complexion and inability to get the season’s fashion exactly right I am incognito, a default tourist, in an incredible position to eavesdrop. I fixed my gaze out the window and settled in.

I couldn’t place Silvio’s accent, but his schmoozing was Roman. He looked to be in his sixties, was well-dressed in a light gray suit, his hair white but thick, his gestures and intonation grandiose.

“Francesco,” Tracksuit introduced himself. “From Ostuni.”

“Ahh, Ostuni, la città bianca!” enthused Silvio. “Magical place, absolutely magical, the town all marble-white under the southern sun. I was just there for a conference a few years ago…wonderful Salento, so honest, so hard-working and authentic…now tell me Francesco, what do you do with your life?”

Francesco nodded. “I travel a lot too, I get to climb mountains – I’m a land surveyor. I go around and measure the land where they want to build something, so I can tell the architects what they need to know.”

Silvio’s smile widened. “Ah, beautiful! You like climbing, hiking, being in the open air?”

Francesco nodded. “I travel a lot, mostly Abruzzo, Basilicata. But it’s good work, it’s tiring and hard but I like it. Pays pretty well.”

Silvio leaned forward, a glimmer of conspiracy in his eye. “So what if I told you you could work when you want, where you want, and make enough money that you can climb whatever mountains you want on your own time, for the sheer love of it? You could have it back as a hobby, a passion…”

“Um…how’s that?”

Silvio leaned back, a magnanimous repose. “Well, you could do what I do.”

Silvio didn’t wait for Francesco’s inevitable question, and answered it anyway. “I’m an independent businessman, a contractor. I work for a fantastic company that lets me set my own hours, be my own boss and share an amazing opportunity with others. Have you ever heard of…NaturVida?”

Oh, this was going to be good. I’d heard the multilevel marketing pitch before, when a grad school classmate found herself selling Mary Kay after graduation and one tube of face wash later I ended up explaining to an aggressively cheerful stranger on the phone that no, I was not interested in buying inventory out of my own pocket to resell on commission, that I didn’t want to lose the few friends I had by pressuring them into becoming my recruits in the pyramid scheme for cash bonuses, and I didn’t believe for a second that it would change my life for the better. NaturVida was the new game in town, and I’d already gotten good at whipping out my phone for  urgent fake conversations whenever I saw their t-shirted representatives waving clipboards and desperate smiles at me on the sidewalk in New York, but there was something utterly surreal about hearing it all in Italian. It seemed like such an All-American sort of scam – what did the homeland of the Mediterranean diet need with dubious energy shakes and untested vitamin pills? – but then again, I realized, working-class people from an economically slow region of a country still struggling to shake off The Crisis were exactly the target demographic who could be convinced to take a chance on a get-rich-quick scheme. I felt a sudden wave of protectiveness toward Francesco, the last remnant of Salento traveling north alongside me at the end of the summer, who was about to get his life ruined by some huckster who thought having a tryout at Sampdoria was impressive.

I couldn’t overplay my hand. We were still well over an hour outside of Rome and I couldn’t risk getting buttonholed by Silvio myself. But neither could I sit there and watch Francesco fall for the fake businessman’s dirty tricks. I pulled out my phone and started typing a note, intending when the time was right to subtly angle the screen towards Francesco, clear my throat discreetly, and save the day.

“NaturVida is well known as a fraudulent pyramid scheme and a completely unsustainable business model,” I hastily typed as Silvio sang the praises of his products and the celebrities that endorsed them – “Even the all-time record holder for most times winning the Ballon d’Or, I’m sure you know that name! And why, just look at me, I’m sixty years old and my doctor says I have the body of an athlete of thirty-five.” (Footnote: He had no such thing.) “If you’ll permit me to give you some advice, stay far away from this guy.”

I tilted the screen towards my seatmate and tried to discreetly cough. Unfortunately, Silvio had already noticed that he wasn’t having much luck and was already casting around for his next target – and in that instant, our eyes met, and his narrowed, as he realized that I had understood every word he had been saying.

He smiled broadly. “You’ve been listening too, eh?”

“A little,” I admitted. “I mean, I wasn’t eavesdropping or anything.” My accent betrayed me and Silvio’s eyes lit up.

“Where are you from?” he asked. “You speak perfect Italian!”

“New York,” I replied. (Always New York, never the United States. It’s the most foolproof way to avoid getting blamed for whatever the president has done this time. New York is a country unto itself.)

“New York!” Silvio looked delighted. “And what do you do? Are you a student? Married, any children?”

(Footnote: I mark this particular conversation as the exact moment I entered my late twenties. Before, strange men would ask me how many years of college I had left. Since, they ask me how many children I have. Silvio was the virtuoso that managed to work in both.)

I grimaced. “No and no. Faccio cose, vedo gente – I do a lot of things, I work in a restaurant, but in real life I’m a writer, a translator and a musician.”

It was in one ear and out the other, because his next eager question was “And – they have NaturVida in New York too, right? Have you heard of it?”

“Yes, and I think it’s -“

“So you know what an amazing opportunity this could be for our friend here!” he exclaimed. “Francesco, I mean it, just think about it. I’m not a salesman, oh no, I’m a director. The salespeople are my employees – ehm, not employees exactly, because everyone in this company is their own boss! But they report to me, and the genius of it all is, when they sign up new people, not only do they get bonuses, I get bonuses! My friends, this is the closest thing to a self-generating money maker, a perpetual motion machine, that has ever been invented! It’s genius, and it’s legal!”

“But I’d be a salesman,” said Francesco confusedly.

“There is no pressure my friend!” Silvio insisted. “I just want to let you see the opportunities that are out there. We’re going to have a conference in Salento in the fall, here, take down my number and if you want us to come to Ostuni, all you have to do is call. But just imagine. You could be your own boss! You’d answer to nobody, no one else – no man and no company – would be running your life and telling you what you want to be! And then in your spare time you could go back to mountain climbing, all on your own terms, for the sheer joy of it, instead of shackling your passion to the daily grind of work.”

Silvio’s phone rang and he excused himself – it was a work call.

“Yes? Yes! Of course, I’m on my way to Rome now, I’ll be there in half an hour! Listen, I’ve just been having the most wonderful discussion with a young man from Ostuni, we should really push forward on that conference in Salento. And that’s not all – imagine that sitting right across from me is an absolutely splendid young lady from New York City, who speaks perfect Italian, and she even knows about NaturVida, she says there she sees people on the streets wearing t-shirts and handing out brochures!”

“Yeah, and they annoy the shit out of us,” I grumbled. Francesco cackled and Silvio forced a laugh.

“Extraordinary, she even knows Italian swear words. Listen, I’ll call you when I get to town, alright? Ciao. Ciao-ciao. Ciao ciao ciao ciao ciao. Ciao. Ok, ciao.” (Footnote: WHY do people do this?)

Silvio hung up the phone and looked directly at me, with an expression I’ve usually seen reserved for fine works of art or expensive steaks. “So. You. A musician, an American with a flawless knowledge of Italian, an intellectual – what on earth are you doing working in a restaurant?”

“Paying my rent.”

He shook his head in despair. “No, no, no, no! Why would an extraordinary potential like you throw away your life like that? You just need to meet the right people! Why don’t you come audition for the Opera of Rome? Or I can introduce you to famous presenters and music video directors, if you want to go in a more popular direction …” He saw my skeptical expression and forced a belly laugh. “No, you don’t have to sell NaturVida if you don’t want! I do plenty of other things with my life, because my job allows me the time…listen, I promise, take down my number. I won’t take yours, see, as a gesture of good will, you’ll never have to get an unwanted call from me. But take down mine, and next time you’re in Rome, look me up. I can introduce you to the elites. You don’t get anything done here, especially, without being known by the elite. And you and I, well you know, we’re the elite by nature. You’re the elite and should demand to be a part of it. I can change your life, I promise you that. Look at you – young, beautiful, intelligent – you can get famous here, easily. I can introduce you to the elites.“

I was already halfway on my feet, as we were about half a kilometer outside of Termini station and people were starting to root around for their luggage. I took down Silvio’s number, half to be polite and half in case I ever needed to report him to the police.

On the train platform Silvio held out his hand and I grudgingly accepted the handshake, which immediately turned into him kissing my hand with exaggerated gallantry as a group of students snickered behind me. Somehow, I made my escape, and saw as I power-walked towards the turnstiles that Francesco was heading quickly in the opposite direction.

Wherever he is, I hope he’s still getting paid to climb his mountains.