Wherever You Go, There They Are

by Annabelle Gurwitch

  But the majority of people who are doing this work live in countries where the money they are being paid is much more valuable, right? But no. The latest published numbers indicate that 80 percent of HITs were performed in America. A little searching on the Web leads me to Krazy Coupon Lady’s blog site. This blogger claims to have earned $26.80 by completing a HIT in two hours. She calculates anticipated earnings of $800 a week, but it’s such a fragmented way to earn a living, I’m dubious. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that she was Coupon Lady before her two-hour tenure at the Mechanical Turk drove her crazy with a capital K.

  After less than an hour of “piecework,” I feel ready to hit up my friends, neighbors, and entire social network to try to sell them my spleen.

  That’s when a Far-bomb goes off in my own home. First, my friend Yvonne shows up to my holiday potluck with her new BFF. Tiny in stature, her new BFF turns out to be the local bigwig who tag-teamed with Sponsor Blonde to recruit Cindy on New Year’s Day. She’s enlisted both Yvonne and Becky, yet another of my inner circle of girlfriends. The Diminutive Dynamo brought a tub of Fargone face cream to the potluck, which is a lovely offering, but it doesn’t make a great dip for crudités. Still, she might become my new BFF, because she generously invites me to her home to attend a presentation for a college counseling service.

  During the presentation, she serves Fargone Fizz, a flavored “energy” drink mix whose taste evokes a remembrance of sodas past. The packaging is helpfully placed well within the guests’ view.* Her dining room china cabinet displays the entire Fargone line, which feels a bit like a hard sell, but I’m charmed by her gracious inclusion of me into her parenting community, impressed by her elegant home, her refined bone structure and stylish wardrobe. Why do I have to be such a killjoy? She just wants to support her friends, which I seem to be one of now, and the college adviser proves to be invaluable to our son’s college application process.

  A few days later, I am at the weekly exercise class that I attend with Becky, the other new recruit. I quiz her about her Fargone experience. She’s someone whose integrity I admire, and if she can do it, maybe I can too. She is a singer who teaches yoga, but neither of those is providing a steady income for her anymore.

  “I really need the money,” she gushes. “There’s always somewhere to go and I’ve met so many spectacular women.”

  I need money. I like to go places. I am always looking to meet more spectacular women. I know very few people who wouldn’t agree.

  MLMs know how isolating the gig economy is and have been happy to step in to fill the gap. Daria M. Brezinski, PhD, a practicing psychologist and former marketing director for a multilevel marketing magazine, echoed this sentiment in a Forbes.com interview: “Multi-level marketing companies are successful because they help people satisfy a number of important human needs, ‘I’m doing this because I’m meeting amazing people . . . making so many connections . . . and I feel so good about myself.’” Amen to that, sister Brezinski. Every picture on the Fargone site features smiling women locking arms, toasting each other in convivial groupings in pastoral settings. A few men dot the landscape, but it’s mainly sisters helping sisters.*

  Becky is a closer friend than Cindy, so I feel like I have to order something from her. I order a mud mask that costs six times what I paid for the one I already own. I stop for coffee on my way home and I’m stunned to see Cindy’s son wheeling down the sidewalk across the street from the coffee shop. I’m sure he doesn’t recognize me, but my face is burning with shame and I avert my eyes. My ordering from Becky is stealing money from his care. I’m also cheating Karen’s family out of my business. And the Fargone products I bought mean lower revenues for CVS. It’s a tiny drop in the bucket, but what if everyone in my neighborhood switches over? That could impact Anonymous Sales Associate with Chalky Pink Lipstick’s ability to earn a living, and even those whose WHYs are unknown to us need toothpaste and shampoo, right?

  Later in the week, I hear that another friend, Morgan, has joined Cindy’s downline. Cindy’s son is in a wheelchair, but Morgan has Parkinson’s and she’s a rung closer to my inner circle. If anything, I should be purchasing from Morgan, although Anonymous Sales Associate could be putting on that chalky lipstick to cover up some horribly disfiguring skin condition.

  I meet up with Morgan and I’m shocked to see how much her condition has deteriorated since I saw her last. She’s in constant motion, her spine twisting, and even her speech is difficult to understand.

  “Do you really think that Fargone is a good fit, honey?” I ask.

  “I’m so lonely.”

  She describes how there are calls to listen to and support groups, and Sponsor Blonde has been so encouraging; she’s accompanying her to meet prospects for coffee dates.

  “You should really check out that Beverly Hills soiree,” she tells me.

  When I walk into the Beverly Hills Country Club, the room is buzzing with a Bel Air–spirational vibe. Everyone is dressed to the nines. It’s a heady combination of social and business networking that you don’t often get as a freelancer.* I’ve come as Becky’s guest and I try to ingratiate myself into a group that is worshipfully hovering around Becky’s sponsor.

  As each woman shares WHY she is here, I learn that we are schoolteachers, psychologists, physical therapists, and artists. No one is looking to underwrite an expensive coke habit or spa vacation; a good three-quarters of us are saddled with student loans.

  A fragile, birdlike figure, Carly, gazes reverentially as Becky’s sponsor, No-Nonsense Networker, presents her WHY. No-Nonsense announces that she’s not interested in being in the skin care business, and that’s convenient, because the real money isn’t in selling products, it’s in building that downline. She also wants a “willable” business that she can leave to her young children should anything happen to her.* Carly is completely enthralled by No-Nonsense. Carly is in her early twenties, recently dropped out of community college, and is struggling.

  “It’s my second go-round with Fargone,” she says. “My family wasn’t supportive of me, but this time it’s going to be different.”

  “What will make a difference this time?” I ask gingerly.

  “I turned my life over to the care of Jesus Christ. Jesus is my business partner now.”*

  I’m not a biblical scholar, but I vaguely recall Jesus instructing his followers to eschew material possessions, which presumably includes exfoliating scrubs. I pray Carly has deep pockets and I wish that she’d go back to school, where Jesus could be her study partner, but I don’t say anything and neither does No-Nonsense or anyone else.

  A few of the assembled have hit high sales levels and are being anointed national vice presidents tonight, to rousing applause and cheering. “This is so much better than making some CEO rich” (a line I’ve also heard repeatedly), someone next to me gushes. I lean over and whisper, “Yes, but I’m sure that Fargone’s CEO really, really hopes we will make a ton of dough, but we don’t have to worry about her if we don’t, because unlike everyone here, she’s a salaried employee.” In fact, not a single one of the company’s executives or board of directors has come up through the sales force, so you’re not actually a national vice president of anything but your own sales team, but I just think that part.

  Another shiny, happy person steps ups and announces to tremendous applause, “It’s hard to believe that only a year ago, we were just a few and now there are over two hundred of us here tonight!” I want to say, “Do you think someone will mention how great it is for them because they got in early, but that there are so many of us only underscores how hard it’s going to be to start out in a market that might be oversaturated?” but I’m afraid I might get lynched.

  The difficulty of earning a sustainable income in an already crowded market is noted on the website, buried deep in the legalese that governs a consultancy with the company; however, none of the consultants I speak to hav
e read the impenetrable agreement. But then, has anyone ever read their phone company’s terms of usage? I’m positive that everyone there has the best intentions of uplifting the sisterhood and the few straggler gentlemen in their ranks. I’m sure many of the consultants genuinely love the products as well. I also feel confident that the actual leadership at the company, as well as other MLMs, are grateful they don’t need to offer health insurance, paid maternal leave, or the kind of severance packages that would typically go along with a national vice presidency of a multinational corporation.

  A select group including No-Nonsense and Diminutive Dynamo are lavished with praise and rewarded with designer purses and David Yurman jewelry. “Next month, we’ll be having a Mercedes presentation for Unintelligible Name!” The tacit acceptance that these are the trappings of female success turns my stomach in the same way that I found Mel Gibson nauseating in the movie What Women Want, and that was even before he referred to a female cop as Sugar Tits.* But I’m alone in this sentiment, because the crowd gets whipped into a frenzy of allegiance to Fargone and to network marketing in general.

  “We’re in a thirty-four-billion-dollar business!” crows one of the golden ones.*

  The newly appointed national vice president Diminutive Dynamo spots me in the crowd. As she moves toward me, fixing me with a determined look, it’s clear she’s heard through the grapevine that I’ve been asking the wrong questions. The only question we’re supposed to ask is, “How soon can I get started?” She all but demands I exit the premises with a stern, “What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” I laugh nervously but quickly head for the door. I can still hear the roar of the crowd as I hop into my car.

  “You’re in business for yourself, but you’re never in it by yourself,” touts the Fargone website, but only if you’re the kind of person who shows promising results and thrills at the mention of cruises and Hawaiian vacations. Okay, I admit it, the Hawaii trip does sound appealing.

  Why do I have to ask so many questions? Why did I have to find out that only 13 percent of consultants in the U.S. are making money on a monthly basis and the average annual income of 59 percent of consultants is $674*? I want to believe. I want to be an Agent Mulder, but I’m a natural-born Scully.

  I’m reminded of the olestra potato chip introduced by Frito-Lay in 1996. I was intrigued but never ran out and bought a bag. It promised to be a chip that didn’t make you fat, but wouldn’t you know it, there was an unexpected downside: anal leakage. A protest was mounted when it was taken off the market. Protesters argued that everyone should get to decide for themselves if they want to wear Depends while scarfing down chips. So guess what? Frito-Lay reintroduced the chips a few years ago under a different name. Most people didn’t even notice it has the olestra and it’s a big seller. Clearly, I don’t understand marketing or sales.*

  In the case of Fargone, it helps if you have a well-appointed home, good-looking spouse and offspring, and enviable wardrobe. It doesn’t matter if those things are the vestiges of a former career; it’s an aspirational lifestyle business, which is why the women in my circle who are succeeding are doing so by promoting Fargone with FOMO-inducing pictures and updates on their social media feeds.*

  One of the presenters at the Beverly Hills event, a dapper British gentleman, told us he liked that he could be his “authentic self,” but I suspect that Cindy’s genuineness may not translate into a white Mercedes anytime soon. She has so much on her plate with her son’s health care that she can’t keep up with all of the outreach required, and “owning a business” starts looking a lot like “shaking the can.” At Cindy’s launch Sponsor Blonde said we could reap the rewards of a forty-hour workweek if we put in ten hours and outsourced the other thirty hours to three other teammates. But the recorded coaching calls I listen in on exhort consultants to text and call at least three people a day, get their product in front of thirty people a month, attend Impact Training workshops (which carry a fee), try as many products as they can (there are no free samples), offer samples to their kids’ coaches and teachers (you could go broke investing in these outreach tools), keep samples in their car to give away to open-minded strangers (it must be nice for Fargone to get all of this free advertising), and above all, build relationships. “Date your prospects slowly,” they advise. “Take them for coffee dates.” (Let’s assume you are paying for them.) “Attend launches, throw parties, throw more parties, go DEEP and WIDE.”*

  It sounds tiring, so it’s not a surprise when Cindy’s next e-mail announces that she is EXHAUSTED and isn’t there anything we can please, please order so she can get to the next level and qualify for a Caribbean cruise? She reminds us that the wellness business is BOOMING and it’s just that she has dropped the ball: “I suck at it, but what if I told you that I could show you a way to earn big bucks?” I wouldn’t believe you, I think to myself, feeling pangs of something I learn is referred to as “compassion fatigue” in marketing speak.

  I’m not the sister I aspire to be. I’m stretched thin. My sisterhood already includes Wendi, who’s going through chemo; Liz, who needs meals delivered as she recovers from surgery; and Toni, who would like help in writing a book proposal. Cindy is going to have to go deeper and wider, but doesn’t everyone need toothpaste and shampoo?

  Over the next months, I check in with Cindy and inquire how it’s going. She’s not sure exactly how much she is making because she’s a “terrible bookkeeper,” and it’s her own fault, her son has been doing poorly and she hasn’t been able to focus on the business. She tells me her sponsors couldn’t be more supportive. But there was no meet-up at the local bar this New Year’s Day to celebrate the anniversary of her induction into the Fargone sisterhood. Her friend who bought $1,300 of products? She stopped returning her phone calls. Carly’s church is sending her to Wales, which might be fresh, untapped territory—at least I hope so, for her sake, because when I inquire if she’s moved up any levels, I get no response, and it seems unlikely that if the news was good, it wouldn’t be shared. Morgan had two friends hang up on her with the admonition to never call them again. After amiably assisting at several outreach coffees, Sponsor Blonde seemed frustrated by her lack of progress and Morgan feels she let her down. She’s embarrassed to call for more support and is using the products she invested in herself. The money I spent on products is a loss I can afford to absorb, but for Morgan, the three hundred she spent is going to hurt this month.

  It breaks my heart to hear my girlfriends say it’s their fault that they aren’t doing better in the biz. None of them wants to accept or acknowledge that the odds are against them. An officially sanctioned Fargone video advises, “Instead of asking yourself what if it doesn’t work, ask yourself what if it does?” If it doesn’t work, you’re not doing it right, is the unspoken message. This is another example of that dark side of positive thinking that Barbara Ehrenreich wrote about in her book Bright-Sided and part of the insidious flatness of our brave new Internet world, where facts seem fungible. I fully expect to be having a conversation one day soon and have someone say, “Gravity? Oh, that doesn’t work for me.”

  “It’s the future.” I heard that over and over, because every consultant recites the same talking points.* Actually, it’s the past. It’s not just the long line of Tupperware, Mary Kay, and Xocai chocolate network sales forces. My great-grandfather, the peddler who sold pots and pans from a swaybacked mule traveling from shtetl to shtetl? He sold to customers culled from his network of family and friends, only he didn’t need to convince anyone else to load up a mule and hit the road. “The future” is being pioneered by Grace Choi, a thirty-year-old techie who has innovated a 3-D printer that will allow you to make your own customized cosmetic products at home, which should retire that old phrase “I can’t believe they discontinued my favorite lipstick!” But until that time, “social sales,” as Sponsor Blonde referred to it, is our inescapable present.

  What price sisterhood now? I wonder, mentally bastard
izing the most quoted line from George Bernard Shaw’s play Major Barbara, when I learn that the Fargone sisterhood has made more money off of me than I’d even realized. Five percent of the college counseling fee I ponied up after attending the presentation at Diminutive Dynamo’s home was commissionable. I thought that I was attending a gathering of local parents, peers, friends, even. My father shared some of his hard-won poker wisdom with me once: “If you look around a room and you don’t know who the mark is, you’re the mark.” Not only was I the mark, I was encouraged to invite other parents as well, so I was both a mark and a shill. This blurring of the lines between friendship and business is symptomatic of how we’re able to connect with more people, but we’re left with shallower relationships. But Diminutive Dynamo is probably close to two hundred in the hierarchy of my acquaintances, and I’m surely way outside of her Dunbar’s number.

  In the late 1990s, Robin Dunbar, a British anthropologist, posited a theory that, given our neocortex size, humans can only comfortably maintain stable interpersonal relationships with between one hundred and two hundred fifty people at most. You have people on the periphery who include past relationships, colleagues, people you grew up with, and people you do business with. You can switch people into closer connection, but you can’t expect real friendships with more than Dunbar’s number. I made the mistake of thinking that my sisterhood was deeper and wider than it was. “The only difference between you and me is that when I recommend something I use, I get a check,” Sponsor Blonde said, untroubled by the monetizing of social capital, but it depresses me. How long before I am inviting acquaintances to catch up over coffee when what I really want is to sell them skin care products that I may or may not actually use, because I will never be able to be honest again? Who will answer my call on that inevitable day when I need to ditch my current antidepressant for a more powerful remedy? If only I had a stronger constitution. The consultants shall inherit the earth.