In the Name of Optimism

In the Name of Optimism by J.B. Pravda

The 23rd International Society of Optimists was set to gather at the
plushest venue of its biennial symposium, a much-talked about confab
renowned for its high-profile list of guest speakers.

This year was said to top them all: no expense had been spared,
including accommodations at the Hope Towers for the entire week; the
media, having gotten wind of the stellar line-up, had ensconced their
mobile equipage and accoutrements on the expansive golf course
entrance, featuring complimentary rounds on the world-famous links for
its more notable members.

A well-placed gratuity aimed at a loose-lipped event planner at
Optimist HQ had really paid off: Harl E. Davidsson had staked out the
airport, armed with the arrival times for several of the, as yet,
unnamed (even Trixie Shmendrake couldn't get them, and she slept
regularly with the head man, so to speak) dignitaries.

As the scheduled arrival time approached, Davidsson's alert photography
crew, hidden in the ladies bathroom, disguised as cleaning crew,
overheard a limo driver say that he had drawn the short straw,
entitling him to the pick of the litter of these honchos.
Training their cameras on the unsuspecting limo drivers, they couldn't
believe their eyes: there, on hand lettered signs, done at the last
minute by the greeting committee to avoid leaks, were the names of the
arriving headliners, in bold black letters:
D.B. COOPER, MR. GODOT, E. PRESLEY.
After over an hour from the scheduled arrival time, the ARRIVALS lounge
had emptied out, all except for our intrepid limo guys.
"Maybe they got hijacked?" smiled the driver for COOPER; in reply,
GODOT's driver offered "Well, let's go, then." The man waiting for
PRESLEY joined "Yeah, let's go."
No one moved, their firm, OptiMystic Limousines Company having been
selected very carefully by the committee.