Sometimes, just a few words are all it takes to completely alter one's perception of something . . .
One time, back in the days when I was a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman, we went to Plamondon, Alberta.
Just a little village of a couple hundred people, there was nowhere near enough "territory" for a crew of five salespersons to work. No problem; this was a common situation for us. One person would work Plamondon itself, and the rest would drive out each day, dropping one person off in each neighbouring town. We would all meet up again every evening at the motel in Plamondon, shoot some pool and drink some beer at the motel bar, go to sleep, and do it all over again the next day. We did this for three days, and I was the one who got Plamondon.
On the first day, I knocked on about three quarters of the doors in town, but didn't make a sale. At the bar that evening, I saw all the same people whose doors I had knocked on, and drank and played pool with a few of them. Fred was particularly friendly, and was a good sport about wiping the floor with me at the pool table. (We weren't playing for money. I never gambled on the road except for backgammon with crew mate Andy Bailey and, on one memorable occasion, poker. But those are stories for another time.)
On the second day, I finished knocking on all the doors in town in the first hour or so, and still no sale. Faced with the prospect of sitting in the motel room for the rest of the day and not making any money, I decided to be a real go-getter and started walking down the highway to the farm houses instead.
The farm houses were spaced about a 20 minute walk apart. At the first one, nobody was home except for a scary dog. At the second house, the owner, Tim, was standing on the front porch, talking to some man dressed in colorful old-style European clothes and speaking with an accent. He looked like a Russian folk dancer. It turns out he was an Old Believer, part of a Russian Christian sect that's been living in exile in North America for generations, and who have a large isolated community just outside Plamondon. More on the Old Believers in another post. (That's where I spend my third day.)
The two gentlemen having concluded their business, the Russian fellow left, and Tim invited me inside. Well, one thing led to another and wouldn't you know it -- I made the sale. By this time I'd been selling for six months, so when it came time to fill out the order form at the end, I just went on autopilot.
"Ok Tim. What's your last name?"
"Plamondon."
My autopilot broke. I felt confused and at a loss for words. "Uh . . . no. What's your last name, Tim? I know what town we're in."
"My last name is Plamondon," he said slowly, as though speaking to a dim-witted child.
I struggled to find something interesting to say. Something witty. Something by which to impress Tim with my sagacity. "So . . . did you get teased a lot as a kid?" Nope, that wasn't it.
Well, Tim responded with a line that I will remember to my dying day. Six words that caused me to instantly and completely reevaluate the last two days.
"No, we're mostly Plamondons around here."
Post script: That night at the bar, I was playing pool with Fred again. He said to me, "I hear you sold my cousin some encyclopedias today." Yup, I was ready to go home.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Burnout
I was going to share the story of my visit to Plamondon, Alberta, but I realised that what got me there would make an worthwhile introduction. It was the spring of 1994, and I was well and truly burned out from selling encyclopedias.
You see, I had been living in Ontario and had attended a major University there from 1990 until 1992, when I got kicked out (grades). One thing led to another, and I found myself unemployed and directionless in Vancouver, which led to my stint as a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman. After a few ups and downs (more downs) over the months that followed, I had an epiphany during what would turn out to me my second-to-last road trip that I was ready to go back to University and not mess it up this time.
I liked being in Vancouver, so when we got home, I applied to UBC, and then set out for the road again with a lighter heart. I felt like I was back on track for the first time in years.
My good mood lasted about 2 weeks, until I called home from the middle of nowhere in Alberta, and my Mom gave me the bad news that UBC had sent me a rejection letter, saying that it was against their policy to accept any students who were on academic probation at another University.
I was crushed. My perfectly reasonable and practical plan to get my life in order had been derailed, and I was rootless again. (Pardon the mixed metaphor.) I wasn't sure yet what exactly I needed to fix my life, but one thing was certain: when this road trip was over, I was finished with being a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman. When I met up with the rest of my crew that evening, they were all very sympathetic and supportive and took me out for a few drinks.
Before we could get home, however, and let me move on to the next stage of my life (which turned out to be moving back to Ontario and returning to my old University, graduating with Honours in 1997), there was one more stop to make on our road trip. The next day, we rolled into Plamondon, Alberta.
You see, I had been living in Ontario and had attended a major University there from 1990 until 1992, when I got kicked out (grades). One thing led to another, and I found myself unemployed and directionless in Vancouver, which led to my stint as a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman. After a few ups and downs (more downs) over the months that followed, I had an epiphany during what would turn out to me my second-to-last road trip that I was ready to go back to University and not mess it up this time.
I liked being in Vancouver, so when we got home, I applied to UBC, and then set out for the road again with a lighter heart. I felt like I was back on track for the first time in years.
My good mood lasted about 2 weeks, until I called home from the middle of nowhere in Alberta, and my Mom gave me the bad news that UBC had sent me a rejection letter, saying that it was against their policy to accept any students who were on academic probation at another University.
I was crushed. My perfectly reasonable and practical plan to get my life in order had been derailed, and I was rootless again. (Pardon the mixed metaphor.) I wasn't sure yet what exactly I needed to fix my life, but one thing was certain: when this road trip was over, I was finished with being a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman. When I met up with the rest of my crew that evening, they were all very sympathetic and supportive and took me out for a few drinks.
Before we could get home, however, and let me move on to the next stage of my life (which turned out to be moving back to Ontario and returning to my old University, graduating with Honours in 1997), there was one more stop to make on our road trip. The next day, we rolled into Plamondon, Alberta.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
The Extension Cord
Gotta start somewhere, so here's a story for y'all.
One time, back in the days when I was a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman, we went to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.
We.
You see, we travelled in teams. That is, crews. Typically five people, one of whom would be the "crew leader". The crew leader was the owner of (almost invariably) a Volkswagen Jetta and was responsible for all transportation costs, in exchange for a cut of his crew's commissions. For most of my road trips in my six months in purgatory, it was Mitch Clinton. More about him in future posts. Sometimes, the boss would also come. John Schlesinger.
Ah, John. What an a**hole. Cheap, petty, and mean, but usually a lot of fun, and almost always good company, as long as you were getting the job done. It's John I want to talk about today.
Now, people who've never been anywhere really cold might not know what a block heater is, but if you ever want to get your car started in -30 degrees, like it was in Saskatoon at the time, it's a must. So all the cars have a little power cord hanging out the hood, and all the houses have an outdoor outlet, and when you park for the night, you just plug it in using a short extension cord. Simple.
Okay, so John forgot to bring an extension cord. "No problem," we said when we unloaded our stuff in the motel room. "Just pop over to the hardware store and get one."
"F*** that!" answered John. "It's five dollars!" (Did I mention John was a millionaire?) "I've already got like 20 in my garage back home from every f***ing winter road trip when I forget to bring one. I am not getting another f***ing extension cord!"
We all waited patiently for John to finish venting. "John, it's five bucks. And anyways, it's minus 30 outside; we're not going anywhere in the morning if the car doesn't get plugged in."
"F*** that," said John, again.
Never underestimate a cheapskate. John got back into the car and drove it up onto the sidewalk until its nose was literally kissing the outlet outside our motel room door. When he got out of the car and succeeded in plugging it in, we all had to laugh. It was one of the most comically ridiculous things I'd ever seen: a veritable tribute to one man's cheapness.
The motel's night manager didn't exactly see it that way, though. He was in his 60's, spoke slowly with a drawl, and to us West Coast city folk seemed like the very epitome of an uneducated small-town hick. I feel embarrassed about that attitude now, but boy did I ever feel superior then.
Well, this manager stormed out of his office with eyes blazing and smoke coming out of his ears.
"What is this bool-sheeyit? You can't park your car there! You never heard of an extension cord? I don't need this bool-sheeyit! You're blocking the whole sidewalk! What kind of bool-sheeyit is this? You gotta move that car right away!"
And then, he delivered his coup de grace:
"This is BOOL-SHEEYIT!!!"
The rest of the crew and I tried our hardest to stifle our laughter, but John . . . well, John just stood there listening to the guy with a big grin on his face. He was proud. Was it the elegantly engineered solution to a challenging problem? The chutzpah? The originality?
Nah, it was the five bucks.
One time, back in the days when I was a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman, we went to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.
We.
You see, we travelled in teams. That is, crews. Typically five people, one of whom would be the "crew leader". The crew leader was the owner of (almost invariably) a Volkswagen Jetta and was responsible for all transportation costs, in exchange for a cut of his crew's commissions. For most of my road trips in my six months in purgatory, it was Mitch Clinton. More about him in future posts. Sometimes, the boss would also come. John Schlesinger.
Ah, John. What an a**hole. Cheap, petty, and mean, but usually a lot of fun, and almost always good company, as long as you were getting the job done. It's John I want to talk about today.
Now, people who've never been anywhere really cold might not know what a block heater is, but if you ever want to get your car started in -30 degrees, like it was in Saskatoon at the time, it's a must. So all the cars have a little power cord hanging out the hood, and all the houses have an outdoor outlet, and when you park for the night, you just plug it in using a short extension cord. Simple.
Okay, so John forgot to bring an extension cord. "No problem," we said when we unloaded our stuff in the motel room. "Just pop over to the hardware store and get one."
"F*** that!" answered John. "It's five dollars!" (Did I mention John was a millionaire?) "I've already got like 20 in my garage back home from every f***ing winter road trip when I forget to bring one. I am not getting another f***ing extension cord!"
We all waited patiently for John to finish venting. "John, it's five bucks. And anyways, it's minus 30 outside; we're not going anywhere in the morning if the car doesn't get plugged in."
"F*** that," said John, again.
Never underestimate a cheapskate. John got back into the car and drove it up onto the sidewalk until its nose was literally kissing the outlet outside our motel room door. When he got out of the car and succeeded in plugging it in, we all had to laugh. It was one of the most comically ridiculous things I'd ever seen: a veritable tribute to one man's cheapness.
The motel's night manager didn't exactly see it that way, though. He was in his 60's, spoke slowly with a drawl, and to us West Coast city folk seemed like the very epitome of an uneducated small-town hick. I feel embarrassed about that attitude now, but boy did I ever feel superior then.
Well, this manager stormed out of his office with eyes blazing and smoke coming out of his ears.
"What is this bool-sheeyit? You can't park your car there! You never heard of an extension cord? I don't need this bool-sheeyit! You're blocking the whole sidewalk! What kind of bool-sheeyit is this? You gotta move that car right away!"
And then, he delivered his coup de grace:
"This is BOOL-SHEEYIT!!!"
The rest of the crew and I tried our hardest to stifle our laughter, but John . . . well, John just stood there listening to the guy with a big grin on his face. He was proud. Was it the elegantly engineered solution to a challenging problem? The chutzpah? The originality?
Nah, it was the five bucks.
Monday, August 23, 2010
The First Post
"Back in the days when I was a travelling door-to-door encyclopedia salesman..."
That's how hundreds of stories told to my friends in the last sixteen years have begun. Who woulda thunk that a crappy high-stress job taken out of desperation at a directionless time in my life would have supplied me with a lifetime of memories? Well, my friends (and wife) certainly seem to appreciate my reminiscing about those days, and since everybody and his dog seems to have a blog these days, I figured, "Why not me?"
That's how hundreds of stories told to my friends in the last sixteen years have begun. Who woulda thunk that a crappy high-stress job taken out of desperation at a directionless time in my life would have supplied me with a lifetime of memories? Well, my friends (and wife) certainly seem to appreciate my reminiscing about those days, and since everybody and his dog seems to have a blog these days, I figured, "Why not me?"
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