“GO for NO” is the fictional story about four unforgettable days in the life of Eric James Bratton, wonderful husband, terrific brother, and so-so copier salesman. It was inspired, to a great degree, by Richard’s life experience. As Rich explains: As a kid I had the typical array of dreams; I spent my early years dreaming of becoming a professional baseball player, author and racecar driver just to mention a few. Oh, and yes, like most young boys I loved dinosaurs and would spend hours in the backyard digging for fossils. One day, at the age of eight, I took my collection of plastic dinosaurs and set them up on a table in my basement and invited everyone in the neighborhood over to hear me talk about them.
As I recall, I charged a nickel per person to get in. As people were leaving one of the parents came up to me and said, “You are quite the professional speaker!” I didn’t even know what a professional speaker was, but I sure liked the sound of it! At the age of eight I had discovered my dream. Over the next thirty years, however, it would remain just that… a dream. I pushed the dream down and pushed it away. I would fantasize about becoming a professional speaker from time to time, dabble in it and flirt with it… everything but actually do it. Was it the talent? No, I could hold an audience’s attention. Was it the desire?
Tim’s 10 a.m., ninety-minute-maximum focus group finally disbanded at 1:20 in the afternoon and I vowed to never eat in the cafeteria again. I grabbed some fast food and ate at my desk while looking over a stack of prospect cards, deciding which showed the most promise for the quota-reaching sale I needed to keep the wolves, my wife, and Frank at bay. The phone rang. “Hey, it’s Carl! Sorry it took so long to get back to you, I was on the road,” my brother said. “Business or pleasure?” I asked, already knowing the answer. “What’s the difference?” he said with a laugh. “That’s your problem, Carl. You don’t know how to have fun. And, speaking of fun, that’s why I called. I was thinking maybe I should take you up on that invitation to play Bel Air and give you a chance to dust off that membership of yours.” “Sure, the invitation’s always open.” “Great! How about you and me playing hooky tomorrow afternoon?”
After dinner that night, I went to the garage to load my clubs in the trunk when Elaine came through, garbage bags in each hand. “You playing this weekend?” she asked. “Nope. Tomorrow morning,” I beamed. “Tomorrow? Boy, I wish I could take off in the middle of the week to play golf,” she said playfully, pushing the lid down on the overflowing trashcan. “That’s why I’m in sales, Laney. That’s why you’re in sales!” “Well, Mr. Palmer, I don’t mind you playing golf, but you’d better…” “Don’t worry,” I said, cutting her off. “I’ve still got two and a half days to hit quota. I never miss, do I?” “No, you never miss. You’re a great salesman Eric, but a lousy psychic. I was going to say that you’d better not forget to take the cans to the curb before you leave. Tomorrow’s trash day!” Later that evening, lying in bed, I said to my wife, “I’ve decided not to take the garbage out tomorrow.” “And why is that?” she asked incredulously. “Because,” I said with great fanfare, “garbage day isn’t until Thursday!” “Eric, my love, tomorrow is Thursday.” “No it’s not! It’s Wednesday!” “Sorry. You’ve lost a day,” she replied, returning to her Reader’s Digest. Thursday? How could tomorrow be Thursday already? But she was right of course. Monday was the day I’d made three sales, Tuesday I spent doing paperwork in the office, and today I got tied up in that stupid focus group. Tomorrow was indeed Thursday.
My week was evaporating around me, and to add insult to injury, I was planning to play golf in the morning. Well, I thought, I’ll just have to play quick, That’s all there is to it. With that, I closed my eyes and drifted off to a peaceful sleep with visions of birdies and eagles dancing in my head… As I slowly came to my senses, I couldn’t decide which hurt more: my hip, which took the brunt of the impact as I hit the hardwood floor, or the back of my head, which must have caught the edge of the nightstand. “Jeez! I really whacked myself a good one,” I said to Elaine, holding the back of my throbbing head. “I don’t think I’ve fallen out of bed since grade school!” I padded silently toward the bedroom door, exaggerating my hip injury for sympathy, but Elaine remained mute. “I’m going to go get some ice for this,” I said even more loudly, but still there was no response. Then, peering through the darkness, the realization hit me… Elaine wasn’t in bed. As I flipped the light switch on the wall, a cold wave of fear came over me. Not only was the bed empty, but it wasn’t my bed.
It wasn’t even our room! Confusion and fear grew with every step as I made my way out into the hallway. Exotic art hung from the walls and the carpet felt strangely thick under my feet. At the end of the hallway I noticed two large sliding glass doors. I flipped the latch and walked out onto a large terrace overlooking a beautiful golf course. Feeling somewhat dizzy, I made my way over to a pair of padded chaise lounges and lowered myself into one of them. What is happening to me? I wondered. What on Earth is happening here?