Double or Nothing

I've liked backgammon since I was a kid, but never thought much of it until a book about backgammon theory found its way into my hands and opened my eyes to the depths of strategy and thought contained in that deceptively simple game.  One day on the road, I mentioned this to Andy Bailey, and he said, "Dude!  I love backgammon!  You should totally get a set next time we're in town and we'll totally play all the time on the next road trip!  Wanna make it interesting?  We can play for a quarter a game!"

I had never gambled on backgammon (or anything else as far as I can remember), but a quarter a game seemed pretty harmless, and I did want to test the book's theory about the strategic effects of the doubling cube on multi-game series, and a stake was the best way to do it, so I agreed.

The next time we were in Vancouver, I went to my favourite game geek store in Gastown and picked up, for 20 bucks, the set that I use to this day.  Not a cheap-o magnetic travel set, it's a genuine (well, synthetic) felt board and stone pieces, but light and compact.  Let the games begin.

Andy, Andy.  So excitable, so impulsive.  Poor guy couldn't say "no" to a double, or, after a lucky roll or two, keep his fingers off the doubling cube himself.  So you see (if you know anything about the game) that a measly 25 cents a game can easily turn into two dollars with the doubling cube on 8, were it usually ended up.   Sometimes it would get to 16, and finally on one very memorable occasion, all the way to 64, when a single game almost paid off my investment.  We played almost every night after work and every Sunday on the road from then on, and his tab just kept growing and growing.

Not that Andy was a bad player, mind you.  Just reckless.  I didn't mind taking his money, since he was obviously having such a good time.  In fact, of all the guys (and gal) I worked with back in the days when I was a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman, Andy Bailey was the most fun.  Fun was Andy's middle name.  Oh, the stories I could tell (and hopefully will).  His choice of songs for karaoke night at a redneck bar.  Scoring a bag of weed at . . . oh, I think I'll just leave you hanging for now.

All told, I made about $80 over the course of a month or so.  Not what one would call riches, but it certainly came in handy back then considering I wasn't exactly selling hundreds of encyclopedia sets.

Frozen Grande Prairie

One time, back in the days when I was a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman, we went to Grande Prairie, Alberta.  It was cold.

Grande Prairie, at around 40 thousand people, was one of the biggest cities we worked in my 6 months of purgatory.  We stayed there for a whole week in February of 1994, and I'll probably have a few tales to tell in future posts from just that week alone.

But mostly, it was cold.

Indeed, it's the coldest I've ever been.  One morning it got down to -47 Celsius (-53 Fahrenheit), but the first few nights we worked it was merely -45 (-49F) until it started warming up.  Folks, until you're outside knocking on strangers' doors in -45 degrees, you don't know what a tough day at work is.  I remember how different the physical world is at those temperatures.  When I would breathe in, the inside of my nose would instantly freeze, and when I exhaled, it would instantly thaw.  Ten times a minute.  And my coat sounded different.  In minus 45, it sounded like it was made from crinkly cellophane as I swung my arms while walking.

Unfortunately, I was less that ideally prepared for such weather.  I did have a really great warm parka with a hood, and decent gloves, so above the waist I was OK.  However, I didn't have long johns under my jeans and, worst of all, I had cheap non-winter hiking boots on my feet.  This was not good.

After about 15 minutes outside, I couldn't feel my toes any more.  After a few more minutes, I couldn't feel my heels either.  At that point, I would always say to the people behind the next door I knocked on, "Hi!  I'm an encyclopedia salesman.  I promise I won't try to sell you anything if you let me in to warm up."  And would you believe it, they always did!  I never once got turned down, and would usually be offered hot cocoa to boot.

But the best was one time, as I was just getting warm and toasty, the man of the house said to me, "Well, as long as you're here, why don't you try your pitch on us?"  I was always serious about not trying to sell to folks letting me in to warm up, but I wasn't going to insult this kind gentleman by refusing him.

It was one of the most satisfying sales I ever made.

What Have I Become? -- or -- Where's the Rest of Me?

I certainly never meant to be a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman.  I was looking through the job ads, and there was something about educational products, and I called for an interview.  I met with Richard, a 50-something gentleman, articulate and impeccably dressed.  He immigrated from Jamaica as a teenager, dirt broke, and had climbed to his current position of relative power all by himself.  I can only imagine how many encyclopedias he had sold, and he certainly sold me this job without my even realising it.  Of course, almost everything he told me was a flat out lie.  No travel ("Well, after training, we like the new trainees to go out with the crew leader for a week or ten days, to get away from distractions, you know"), no cold calling (lie!), and any number of other falsehoods and misdirections.

But by the time we had invested a week or more in training, gone on our first road trip (Three frigging weeks in Saskatchewan and Alberta!  How's that for a "week or ten days" for you?) and had our first tantalizing brushes with success, there were those of us who put the lies behind us and tried to make the best of it.  About three quarters quit within a couple weeks, but those who stayed, stayed.

After my second road trip, I found myself at home for a few days.  A longer break than usual, it gave me time to reflect a little.  I was starting to get a nagging little voice in the back of my head saying that something was not quite right.  That this wasn't exactly what I was supposed to be doing.  Too bad the voice didn't speak English.  Or maybe it just wasn't speaking loudly enough.

My old school buddy Chris was having a birthday party.  I hardly knew anyone there, and I found myself talking to I nice fellow who, understandably, asked me what I did for a living.  I, however, was at a loss for an answer. I hadn't really thought about it, and didn't have an answer prepared.  I paused to think about what had brought me to this moment.  Straight A's in high school, my pick of universities, a planned career as a veterinarian, then getting my lazy butt kicked out of university, the newspaper job ads, and now . . . what?

"I'm a  . . ."

What?  I put it together in my mind for the first time as I said it to Chris' friend at the birthday party.

"I'm a travelling . . .

. . . door-to-door . . .

. . . encyclopedia salesman."

Chris' friend looked at me kinda bemused, I guess wondering if I was having him on or not.  Apparently satisfied that I was serious, conversation moved on to other topics.  I wonder if he even noticed my pause, since it seemed to me like a lifetime's worth of thoughts went into it.  It might have been half a second; it might have been ten.  But my view of myself was forever altered.

The next day we had a big meeting for work in the head office.  Periodically we did this if a couple of crews found themselves in town at the same time.  It was an opportunity to schmooze, discuss concerns, share ideas for improving our pitches, etc.

Ladies and joims, I had a concern to share with the group.  It wasn't exactly Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, but it was my life.  "This job isn't what we were promised.  I never expected to be on the road all the time, and it wasn't supposed to be cold calling and knocking on random doors all the time, and it wasn't supposed to be all about encyclopedias.  Yesterday, someone asked me what I did for a living, and you know what I had to tell him?  I told him I was a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman!"

The other newbies looked at me like I had just brought the Ten Commandments down from Sinai, and looked silently and accusingly at the bosses.  The bosses, especially Richard, looked at me, nodding sympathetically, as though they realised it had just been a matter of time before someone said it.

The next day, we were back on the road.

The Ferry Ride

I realised as I was writing the last story that just getting to Courtenay was half the excitement.  Well, not really, but it is a story.  You remember John Schlesinger, my boss, the cheapskate from a previous post.  Well, he came with us on the road this time too, so it was his Volkswagen Jetta we took.  As I believe I've mentioned before, the deal (if you can call it that) is that the driver pays all the transportation costs in exchange for a cut of the crew's commissions.  Everything else is on us; we split the cost of the motel, pay for our own food, etc.

As you may have figured out, since Courtenay is on Vancouver Island, simply driving there is not so simple.  In fact, it is a two hour ferry ride from Vancouver (actually the major metropolis of Tsawwassen) to Nanaimo on the Island.  So as we drove up to the ferry terminal, John, with an air of insouciant nonchalance 

(quick, keep writing before the smart pill runs out)

asked for everyone to chip in for the ferry ride.

Ladies and gentlemen, I lost it.

I've always been a pretty easygoing guy, tending to avoid conflict.  Go along to get along, you know.  But my frustration and exasperation with my company's BS had been simmering and stewing for months, and this was the straw that broke the camel's back.  (Don't like my mixed metaphors?  If it's good enough for Shakespeare, it's good enough for me.)   This job was, to say the least, not what they had told us it was going to be -- remind me to tell you that story some time -- but I was stuck with it for the time being, and wanted to make it work.  But the resentment was growing, and it exploded when John asked for ferry money.

"No," I said.

"What do you mean no?  Pay up!"

"No!  I'm not paying for the f***ing ferry!  Transportation is supposed to be on you!"

"That's gas and maintenance for the car.  I'm not paying for you to take the ferry.  If you don't like it, you can take the bus home, and you'll be paying for that too."

"JOHN!  GET THIS THROUGH YOUR F***ING HEAD!  I'M NOT PAYING!  The transportation is on you!  That's the f***ing deal!  If you don't wanna pay for my f***ing ferry ride, then YOU WILL PAY FOR MY F***ING BUS RIDE HOME!"

I was in such a haze of fury, I can't even remember what the reaction of the other crew-mates was.  It might as well have just been John and me in the car.  John's reaction, however, was unexpected.  He laughed, and decided that he liked my resolve and initiative.  He paid for the ferry, and the incident passed.  I had earned John Schlesinger's respect.

Not that it was worth anything.