by Ed Baldwin
“OK Phil, tomorrow you go out of town—Clarksdale. It’s Saturday; we only work Clarksdale on Saturday because they will throw you under the jail if you knock on one door after 6:00 P.M. Get your guys in here by 9:00 in the morning. We’ll have our sales meeting early and be out of here by 10:00. I’m going to Oxford; Gerald’s going to Cleveland. We’re gonna take Mississippi the way Sherman took Georgia!”
Lanny liked to end every meeting with some dramatic statement, even if it was just the three managers having a beer at the Holiday Inn at midnight. He lit my fire, though. I had the car waxed again by 8:30.
Clarksdale, Mississippi had 25,000 or so people in it and was plenty big enough for a crew the size of the whole office. Lanny, though, would never send more than one crew into a town. I’d been to Clarksdale for high school football games, and cruising for girls with my buddies, and had written my first order there just a month before.
Still, as a field manager I saw it completely in another light. I drove by the teen hangouts and night spots without a glance and turned into the residential district. In its growth, this town had spread along a dozen streets in one direction, to the west. Rather than have a number of different subdivisions of differing ages around town they had just continued building new houses at the end of those dozen streets. By starting at the highway in the middle of town and driving west you started in houses built in the forties and watched the steady development of the housing industry over the next 25 years.
I parked the car in the middle section and gave Bert and Byron streets on either side of mine. I threatened them with dire consequences if they got back to the car before I did without an order and set out knocking on doors at noon. It was a typical August day in Mississippi—hot.
“Hi, Ma’am. I stopped by to speak to your husband. Is he in?” She stood there for a moment and then her jaw tightened. She turned and looked over her shoulder with a look that seemed to say, “It’s for you, Asshole.” When the husband came to the door he was pissed before I even opened my mouth. He listened to the door opener and then came outside and closed the door behind him.
“Look, buddy. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but it’s, uh, sort of a bad time. You know?” With this he motioned back over his shoulder toward the house with his head. I mumbled an apology and headed out across the lawn. I could still hear them shouting at each other from a half a block down the street.
For some reason, getting into doors was a real problem that day. There was a little league tournament or something going on in town and a lot of the husbands seemed to be involved with it. Every few minutes you could hear a cheer go up from a baseball field a few blocks over. Usually I would ring a doorbell twice and if there was no answer I’d go on. Now, here I was getting ready to leave a porch again when I heard noises inside, so I waited a little longer. The door opened just a crack and a woman peered around it. All I could see was her eyes and nose. When I told her I wanted to speak to her husband she said, “OK,” and closed the door. Two minutes passed during which I could hear a whispered discussion just behind the door. Then it opened and the husband was there, wearing levis and no shirt, no shoes, and no socks.
“Yeah,” was all he said. He did not look happy.
I started my door opener and he listened to about half of it and then said, “Shit,” slowly as he closed the door. He didn’t slam it, just slowly closed it. I heard the bolt slip closed as I was standing there.
Fights, little league baseball and sex. People’s priorities on Saturday afternoon were definitely working against me this day. I was fondly remembering Bobby Lee and Carole Ann and wishing he had a cousin or something in this neighborhood. Selling books is easy and fun when you’re sitting in an air conditioned living room talking to a natural mooch, but it’s damned tough in Clarksdale on a hot Saturday afternoon when nobody is home.
I spent a fruitless hour presenting to a divorcee who just couldn’t make up her mind whether she liked anything or not. She couldn’t seem to give a commitment. There were lots of “Gee, I don’t know’s” and “Well, I’m not sure.” I was about to decide that what she really wanted was a tumble but that she just couldn’t get up the nerve to say so, when someone called and she was on the phone for a good twenty minutes.
Tired and hot and defeated, I slipped out her front door unnoticed and was back at my car just before 5:00. Bert was there waiting for me in a similar condition. We cruised Byron’s street for half an hour until we found him jauntily walking up a side street waving two orders. He’d given four presentations in less than four blocks from where he started.
“I sure hope we work Clarksdale again real soon,” he said, oblivious to the mood Bert and I were in.
I bought a six pack at a tavern on the way out of town and pondered the nature of a business that can blow so hot and cold. How could Byron give four presentations and get two orders just one street over from where I can’t get into a house long enough to cool off? Can there be that much difference in two streets? Or does the neighborhood really make that much difference?
Perhaps success really lies within the salesman, and the customer is just a means he has of manifesting what is already decided within his own mind. A salesman, already successful in his own mind, may not be able to write an order for any given family, but he is immensely more likely to find someone he can write up in any given neighborhood. This would explain how Barney, a formerly successful salesman, couldn’t write an order even though he went through the same motions used in better days. He exuded negativism, and it had permeated his crew.
* * *
Chapter Four
With the end of summer most of our sales force would be returning to college. Two weeks before classes started at Memphis state, Lanny announced a giant road trip. This was to keep the guys working instead of taking off the last week before school. He was always one step ahead in his attempt to squeeze a few more orders out of the group. He announced the trip with great fanfare at a sales meeting.
“We’re going to end the summer with a road trip! Gerald, you take all the students plus Phil and hit northeast Mississippi. You’ll need your Volkswagen bus and will have a crew of eight. Start at Corinth, Tupelo and Starkville then move down to Yazoo city and Greenville. After that come back up through Crosset and Monticello, Arkansas. That’s virgin territory! Why those folks have probably never seen a bookman.” Lanny was pacing the room now, really getting up for this. The prospect of a warm and unsuspecting reception did quicken the blood a bit.
“How are we to educate the masses if we keep our product only in the Memphis area? Just think of those poor, uneducated families out there, crying for knowledge. Just think of Billy Joe Mooch, bread truck driver in Lowndes County, Mississippi. He’s already got his red Rambler and two swing sets in his back yard. Why, he’s got a riding lawnmower, and an air conditioner, and credit at Sears. WHAT DOES HE NEED?”
“BOOKS!” we shouted, loud enough to rouse Slinkerd and Hedge, the lawyers upstairs.
It’ll be an order writin’, hell raisin’ marathon! Me and Barney will stay in Memphis and will pit our production, man for man against yours. The losers will buy the booze for the summer’s end party at my house the night you get back.”
The response was enthusiastic. There was a loud background of banter between the guys, already anticipating greener pastures and who knows what pursuits after work at night.
“Do I have to sleep with Al Martin again? He hasn’t changed his socks since the last road trip.” Thomas Cathards was riding Al again, a favorite pastime in Gerald’s crew.
“Shit, Cathards, you don’t deserve to sleep with order writers,” said Al, who was currently on a three day order streak.
“OK, cut it out. Let’s make some plans,” Gerald said, taking charge of the meeting. “We’re not going to have a lot of room for luggage so we’ll have to pack together. One suitcase for two guys. I want each man to have at least $10 a day for his share of the motel and food. I’m not footing the bill for a
nybody on this trip. If you don’t have it, get an advance from Lanny. Let’s end the summer with a paycheck we can do something with when school starts,” He looked around to make sure he still had everyone’s full attention. “And, I don’t plan to be buying any booze for Barney and Lanny to drink up at the party.” This brought more cheers and an end to the sales meeting.
A week later we pulled out of town, loaded like sardines into Gerald’s van. The road across northern Mississippi wasn’t a main highway. In fact, it was quite narrow and in need of repair. The kudzu vines covered everything along the roadside, draping themselves over telephone poles and choking trees. Their green tentacles even encroached onto the road bed itself from the shoulder. It seemed as though the vines would cover the whole planet if left unchecked. Nothing seemed to be a barrier—not fences nor buildings.
Then you could see a field full of cattle, and at its perimeter, the vines seemed to shrink back, not venturing even to the fence. A half grown steer was stretching over the fence trying to get another mouthful of the tender young shoots, and the balance of nature fell neatly back into place, the green peril forgotten.
Gerald was wearing his famous $11 suit. Certainly not a slave to fashion, he prided himself on finding the cheapest suit in Memphis. It was a seersucker of indeterminate size, too large in some places and too small in others. The suit was certainly a marked contrast with his new alligator shoes.
“So, when you write an order, I get $20 as an override,” Gerald said, explaining the pay structure to Byron, who had asked why Gerald would be willing to cart this bunch of irreverents on such a long venture. “That covers my expenses in carting you around and pays for my trouble finding territory and training you. Lanny, as sales manager, gets $20 and as district manager, he also gets about $10 more. In addition, the regional manager in Minneapolis gets about $5. He’s the one who really rakes it in. There must be several hundred orders a week in his region. As long as the work goes as it’s supposed to he’s got it made. But let things slump more than two or three weeks in a row and he’s back on the street knocking on doors again, just like us.”
Gerald was a student at Memphis State and had been for the five years he had worked for Colliers. He made good grades but couldn’t decide on a major. He seemed to thrive on the book business, working a crew in the summer and a couple of nights a week in the winter while carrying 18 hours of courses. He was easily the most consistent salesman in the organization. In contrast to Lanny’s fiery speeches in sales meetings, Gerald’s approach was very low key; boring almost, except for its effect on his crew. His simple statement, “I think we need some beer,” would be the beginning of a marathon drinking and card playing session lasting into the wee morning hours. By contrast his bland, “we need some orders,” would send his men out knocking on doors until midnight to outproduce any other crew in the district.
“Hamilton, if you dressed like a businessman instead of a pillow you’d write more orders,” said Thomas, who seemed to be either bored with Gerald’s speech or just in need of stirring the waters.
“I’m carrying the crew now,” said Gerald, without seeming to pay attention.
“That’s false. Al Martin and I write more orders than anybody in this office,” Thomas said, looking for a fight.
“Together, maybe. You blanked last night.”
“I was not sufficiently motivated in that predominantly Southern Baptist neighborhood you put me in,” Thomas retorted, using his cockney accent, which was pretty good for a boy from Arkansas.
“If I put you in the crap shacks you prefer, all you write is trash that the branch manager won’t verify,” Gerald replied in a matter of fact way that brought Thomas to the edge of his seat.
“Some go down, but we all hit a clinker now and then.” Thomas was now on the defense.
“How about tonight?” Gerald prodded.
“I’ll probably double, if you’d put me in something good.” Thomas said confidently.
“Perhaps a wager?” Gerald raised an eyebrow.
“You’re on!” Thomas said hotly. Then after a pause, “What if we both get one, or two?”
“Carry the bet over ’til tomorrow.”
“OK, ten bucks.”
This elicited a barely perceptible nod from Gerald and silence from Thomas until we reached Corinth later that afternoon.
Cruising the town for motels, we chose an old style tourist court with individual cabins and checked in, four to a room. Gerald had a confidential discussion with the manager while we were unloading the van. He returned with the address of a bootlegger and the warning that if there weren’t orders there would be no beer. He then collected $2 from each of us.
After our midday meal, he dropped five of us in a residential area, and took Al and Thomas with him to Booneville, some 30 miles distant. I hit my first door at 4:30, feeling a little uneasy at being dropped off again after having the luxury of choosing my own spot and changing later if I found I didn’t like it.
But the territory was ripe, just as Lanny had predicted. There was a warm response at each door and I was soon into a presentation. It was a Church of Christ minister with six children, four of whom were teenagers. They were a quiet but attentive audience, seated around their large, comfortable living room.
“So, you see, reverend
“In our church we call the minister brother, or mister,” he corrected me with a pleasant smile. I had called him reverend throughout the past hour.
“Sorry, Mr. Dysart. But you see, for the interested family this could be a real opportunity. What do you think of the quality of the set?”
“Son, I’m truly impressed. There are, however, a few reservations. You mentioned Dr. Werner Von Braun. He is a Jew, is he not? You also mentioned Dr. Fulton Sheen, a prominent Catholic as a contributor. My concern is in what slant they may impart in subjects relating to Our Lord Jesus Christ. In subjects concerning the Bible, do you use the Word of God as we know it, or some”—he paused, searching for the right word—“adaptation?” He looked at me with an earnestness that required an answer, as straight and forthright as the question.
My ability to answer was hindered a bit by the fact that I actually had no idea if there was bias in the set or not. I reasoned that there were probably more Southern Baptists and the like among our customers than Catholics or Jews, at least in the South and the company wasn’t going to needlessly piss anyone off. “Every attempt has been made to keep philosophical and religious matters as factual as possible and not to let the bias of the particular expert enter into the article,” I said. “Dr. Von Braun writes about matters of rocket propulsion and not eternity, so his personal opinions shouldn’t have much effect on the matters you mentioned.”
I said this with the faintest of smiles and was rewarded by the same, plus an affirmative nod. I closed the deal with no trouble after that.
There were no ashtrays in the house that I could see, and knowing that the Church of Christ was somewhat more rigid in their beliefs than the Southern Baptists, I refrained from smoking. I figured I could stand to be without a weed for a couple of hours if it meant a hundred bucks. I didn’t stall after the deal, though. My haste to leave had me back out on the street in plenty of time to find another family.
My second presentation snagged on “having to buy the reference service” and sank on the $12 a month. By quitting time I was tired and ready for a beer. Unfortunately, though, Gerald didn’t get back until after midnight, but he had the beer with him. He and Thomas both wrote orders, as did nearly everyone in the car. The celebration lasted until 4:00 a.m. when the motel manager came over and asked us to please go to bed. I won $10 playing gin rummy. Thomas drank too much and vomited in the bath tub. A lovely evening indeed was had by all.
Gerald had us all up by 10:00 the next morning, which was a little early for me. By noon we were fed and on the road to Starkville, and by 4:30 I was out in the sun, knocking on doors again, scoring after two fruitless presentations. Gerald got one and won the
bet; Thomas had excuses but no orders. We stayed at a Holiday Inn. The next morning the waitress gave us some lip about being so noisy.
“You boys from out at the college? You make so much noise you’re runnin’ off the other customers,” she said, frowning at us like we were children.
“No, Lady, we’re not from the college. We are here to check out this motel,” Gerald said, without the slightest grin.
“What do you mean?” she asked, a little worried.
“We’re here to see how it’s run, to see if we want it. It’s for sale, you know.”
She was dumfounded. She still wasn’t sure if Gerald was kidding or not, but we all had such straight faces, she was afraid to say anything else.
“Frankly, Mr. Hamilton, I think the carpet must go. It’s in wretched taste and won’t go at all with the furniture we’ve ordered,” said Thomas using his cockney accent with just a hint of swish.
“And we’ll have to bring down that Jew accountant from Boston. I wouldn’t trust these rednecks with the books,” Al Martin said as he accentuated his drawl and crossed his feet on the table.
The waitress backed away slowly as we all got up and went around the room finding tears in the wallpaper and defects in the fixtures. When the manager came in we were all gathered around Gerald at the large window overlooking the pool.
“No Al, that whole wall’s got to go. We’ll just have to find some other way to support the roof,” Gerald said, all attention riveted on him.
“Excuse me, I’m Mr. Ackerman, the manager. Is there something I could help you with?”
Gerald turned and looked at him for a moment, as if surprised in mid thought and having trouble deciding what he might want from a manager. Then he made a pleasant smile and shook the man’s hand.
