So there we were in Edmonton: two crews sharing adjacent motel rooms and hanging out together every night. In addition to the folks I introduced you to last time, there were also Bryan and Crazy Sheldon. Bryan was a former member of the Canadian military who talked about his stint in the army all the time. I was intensely jealous of him for one particular reason: he had been stationed as a UN peacekeeper in the Golan Heights, and I, a Jew, had never even been to Israel. But, aside from his interaction with Crazy Sheldon, I'll write more about Bryan another time.
Crazy Sheldon. I wonder what his problem was. I mean, I wonder what his official diagnosis would have been. Borderline personality maybe. Still, a nice guy, and aside from the time I went along with him in almost getting us both killed, he was definitely a fun guy to be around, if you were able to make concessions to his craziness .
One of the ways it manifested itself was in his utter lack of fear of dogs. Dogs are one of the hazards travelling door to door encyclopedia salesmen have to deal with. A lot of our work was done in trailer parks, and a dog in the yard could be a very real obstacle. For me, it would just mean that door didn't get knocked on, but for Sheldon, it was as if the dog wasn't even there. Now I know that in theory a dog can't harm you if you're not afraid of it, but I'm not sue how I could possibly test that theory. I have no particular phobia about dogs, but if there's a big dog I don't know barking at me because I'm invading its territory, I'm gonna be pretty scared.
Sheldon would simply ignore it. Only if it would actually charge him would he even acknowledge it in any way, by staring it down and yelling at it to shut up. Worked like a charm.
One evening we were off in some distant bit of territory on our own. We knocked on a few token doors before Sheldon decided we should go to the 7-Eleven and play Mortal Kombat for over an hour. I just stood there watching him, a guy in his 20s yelling at the screen and feeding it quarter after quarter. Once in a while, if he made a particularly successful move, he would taunt his computerised nemesis by yelling "Go-EEEEEED!!" very loudly. The first time he did that, he was rather proud of himself, and looked to me with raised eyebrows hoping for some affirmation of his tremendous wit. I smiled. "Sheldon, don't you think we should try to go make some money?"
"Yeah, I guess. One more game!" Pow, kick. "Go-EEEEEED!!"
By the time we were done trying to sell encyclopedias and were ready to drive back to the motel and meet up with the rest of the crew, it was pretty late. We had a good half hour drive ahead of us on an unlit snow-covered two lane highway full of sharp turns. So as we got in his car, he of course pulled out a baggie of marijuana and some rolling papers and proceeded to roll a fat doobie. I mean obviously.
Now I was certainly getting the feeling that this was not a smart thing to do, and it is something that wouldn't have occurred to me to do in a million years, but I went along with it. Yes indeed I did. I sat there in the passenger seat while Sheldon drove the suicide road back to Edmonton and we passed the joint back and forth. Despite knowing that this was crazy and dangerous, and not really wanting to, I did it. Why?
There are a few reasons, I guess. For one thing, I was 21 years old, and people do more stupid things at that age. I mean you're basically still a teenager and the power of peer pressure and a certain feeling of immortality haven't totally worn off yet. And I was a pretty go-along-to-get-along kind of guy. I'm glad my friends in high school weren't bank robbers or heroin dealers, or I might not be here today. Whatever it was, I shudder today to think that I did something so incredibly insane. But it's OK because Crazy Sheldon made me do it!
Eventually, it was time for Sheldon to go. He had been a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman much longer than I, but one day he got in a fight with Bryan the ex-soldier. Bryan was a pretty high-strung guy but he was far from insane. He knew how far to take the fight without losing his job, but Sheldon went completely bats**t and may have become dangerous if Ray and John hadn't pulled them apart and calmed Sheldon down. Having missed the first few minutes, I have no idea what they were fighting about, and I'm sure it doesn't matter.
Because Sheldon was crazy.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Karaoke Nights
When you're on the road with a travelling door to door encyclopedia sales crew, you gotta let off steam on a regular basis. And karaoke is as good a way as any.
I'd say that in my six months behind the lines, we probably went to karaoke bars three or four times. And the star on our team was definitely Andy Bailey. He was fearless and shameless. One time he saw "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" on the song list and picked it. Of course, it was Bob Dylan's original arrangement, but Andy did a full-on Axl Rose impression anyway. "Aww, aww, aww-aww yea-eah!" I still smile when think of it.
But without a doubt the funniest karaoke memory I have is from when we were at a redneck bar in some little town in the middle of nowhere. Most of the men there were wearing cowboy boots, and I believe there was sawdust on the floor. Ah, but the karaoke machine was off-the-shelf! In addition to country hits and standards, it had every other genre ever made for karaoke. Andy looked through the song list until his eyes lit up and he looked as happy and excited as a kid with candy. He had found the song. "Bust a Move" by Young MC.
I wish I had the words to do the scene justice. Try to imagine an 18-year-old 100-pound stoner kid from Vancouver on stage with a big smile on his face doing a dorky little elbow dance (and occasional spin) while rappin' away to In the city/Ladies look pretty/Guys tell jokes so they can seem witty.
Now imagine a room full of boots-and-flannel-wearing rednecks far far away from "in the city" staring at him like he was some kind of weird new bug they had never seen, and didn't know what to do with. While rednecks, stereotypes aside, are not generally slack-jawed, they sure were that night.
Finally, imagine Mitch, Ann, Nathan, and me laughing at the above scene until we were close to passing out. Man; good, good times.
The only other memorable karaoke experience from back in the days when I was a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman was when we stopped in Cranbrook, BC for a couple days. It's where Mitch was from, so we met some of his family. One night, we went to a bar and they were having karaoke night. Mitch's cousin, a very attractive young lady named Vicky, got up and performed an old romantic standard. She was quite a singer, and between her voice and her looks there was hardly a man at the bar who wasn't smitten.
She came and sat with us afterward and we chatted. She had lived in Vancouver for a while, but had moved back home to Cranbrook to work as a massage therapist. (No dirty thoughts, people. Just a regular massage therapist.) That was that, except as we were driving out the next morning, Mitch (ever the diplomat) shared one or two little tidbits about his cousin.
"That Vicky. She's really pretty, eh?" We all agreed. "You know what she was doing when she lived in Vancouver? She was a prostitute! Not the street-walking kind. She shared an apartment with a friend. She'd go out to a bar and let herself get picked up by a rich-looking man with a wedding ring. She'd take him home and seduce him in such a way that his clothes ended up in the living room while she and he were in the bedroom. Her roommate would sneak out and rifle through his wallet. By the time he got on his clothes, left, and then discovered his wallet was much lighter, there was nothing he could do about it if he didn't want his wife to find out. Vicky did that to lots of men, and was making a killing till she got tired of it. So she moved back home to be a masseuse."
I think some of the other guys got a thrill from Mitch's story. I wonder what Ann thought of it. But I just found it depressing. I'm glad she got her life back on track, because it sure could have ended very badly. She was so pretty and lively. And a real karaoke champion!
I'd say that in my six months behind the lines, we probably went to karaoke bars three or four times. And the star on our team was definitely Andy Bailey. He was fearless and shameless. One time he saw "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" on the song list and picked it. Of course, it was Bob Dylan's original arrangement, but Andy did a full-on Axl Rose impression anyway. "Aww, aww, aww-aww yea-eah!" I still smile when think of it.
But without a doubt the funniest karaoke memory I have is from when we were at a redneck bar in some little town in the middle of nowhere. Most of the men there were wearing cowboy boots, and I believe there was sawdust on the floor. Ah, but the karaoke machine was off-the-shelf! In addition to country hits and standards, it had every other genre ever made for karaoke. Andy looked through the song list until his eyes lit up and he looked as happy and excited as a kid with candy. He had found the song. "Bust a Move" by Young MC.
I wish I had the words to do the scene justice. Try to imagine an 18-year-old 100-pound stoner kid from Vancouver on stage with a big smile on his face doing a dorky little elbow dance (and occasional spin) while rappin' away to In the city/Ladies look pretty/Guys tell jokes so they can seem witty.
Now imagine a room full of boots-and-flannel-wearing rednecks far far away from "in the city" staring at him like he was some kind of weird new bug they had never seen, and didn't know what to do with. While rednecks, stereotypes aside, are not generally slack-jawed, they sure were that night.
Finally, imagine Mitch, Ann, Nathan, and me laughing at the above scene until we were close to passing out. Man; good, good times.
The only other memorable karaoke experience from back in the days when I was a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman was when we stopped in Cranbrook, BC for a couple days. It's where Mitch was from, so we met some of his family. One night, we went to a bar and they were having karaoke night. Mitch's cousin, a very attractive young lady named Vicky, got up and performed an old romantic standard. She was quite a singer, and between her voice and her looks there was hardly a man at the bar who wasn't smitten.
She came and sat with us afterward and we chatted. She had lived in Vancouver for a while, but had moved back home to Cranbrook to work as a massage therapist. (No dirty thoughts, people. Just a regular massage therapist.) That was that, except as we were driving out the next morning, Mitch (ever the diplomat) shared one or two little tidbits about his cousin.
"That Vicky. She's really pretty, eh?" We all agreed. "You know what she was doing when she lived in Vancouver? She was a prostitute! Not the street-walking kind. She shared an apartment with a friend. She'd go out to a bar and let herself get picked up by a rich-looking man with a wedding ring. She'd take him home and seduce him in such a way that his clothes ended up in the living room while she and he were in the bedroom. Her roommate would sneak out and rifle through his wallet. By the time he got on his clothes, left, and then discovered his wallet was much lighter, there was nothing he could do about it if he didn't want his wife to find out. Vicky did that to lots of men, and was making a killing till she got tired of it. So she moved back home to be a masseuse."
I think some of the other guys got a thrill from Mitch's story. I wonder what Ann thought of it. But I just found it depressing. I'm glad she got her life back on track, because it sure could have ended very badly. She was so pretty and lively. And a real karaoke champion!
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Scraping the Bong
Note: This is more or less a sequel to Prince George was Smokin'. The same disclaimer applies.
So there we were in Prince George and we'd finished Ms. Crewcut's swaggy weed. No need to worry however; Andy Bailey came prepared too. Not only did he bring a little bit of weed also, but he also packed one of the most unique and ingenious pieces of smoking paraphernalia I've ever seen.
It began its existence as a large plastic travel mug with a tight fitting snap lid, the simple kind without any sliding closure or anything. The lid of course had two holes in it: one for drinking out of, and a smaller one to let air in. Into the drinking hole he had fitted the shell of a disposable plastic pen that he had heated and softened in order to make it fit snugly, as well as to bend it to a convenient angle for sucking without tipping the mug or straining the neck. He completed the seal with plasticine.
To the bottom of the smaller hole he attached a similar pen tube so that it went down almost to the bottom of the mug. The truly brilliant idea was how he created a bowl to attach to the top of that hole. He bought a springy metal door stopper. He removed the rubber tip, then held the narrow end of the spring over a flame until it was hot enough to melt plastic. He then screwed it into the lid directly above the small hole and held it there until it cooled and the plastic hardened. He was then able to screw and unscrew the door stopper from the lid at will. He inserted a piece of wire screen into the top. You put your weed there.
Voila: a perfectly functional unbreakable bong that collapses in about fifteen seconds into what looks like a normal and inconspicuous travel mug. "Andy, if only you could use your powers for good and not for evil," I said. Andy laughed.
Now kind reader, as I'm sure you know, after one has smoked any kind of pipe enough times, deposits of resin start to build up on its inner surfaces. We were all out of weed, so Ms. Crewcut decided it was time to scrape Andy's bong. I and a couple other folks went along with this bold idea, even though Andy was out knocking on doors and trying to sell encyclopedias. I'm sure I must have had a fleeting thought that it wasn't very nice what we were doing, but I guess I made peace with myself. After all, it wasn't my idea.
So the bong got scraped and the resulting powder got smoked (along with whatever healthy supplements got picked up from the plastic mug or the chrome-plated door stopper), and a good time was had by all. Until Andy returned, that is. Andy Bailey was not pleased with Ms. Crewcut's initiative. In fact, one might say he totally lost it. After a few minutes of yelling and screaming and berating a very carefree, cool, and collected (ie. stoned) Ms. Crewcut, he made the point that think was the one that loomed largest in his mind. "Do you have any idea how many bowls I had to smoke through that bong to get so much resin to build up?!"
I decided it was my opportunity to pipe in (so to speak) and defuse the situation. Thankfully it worked. Andy laughed, and peace did once again dwell among fellow travelling door to door encyclopedia salesmen.
"That was quite a sacrifice, Andy."
Update: Holy smokes! (So to speak.) When I wrote this post I was unaware of a movie called The Cabin in the Woods. But I see that a lot of you are, and I have come to understand that a travel mug bong is featured quite prominently in that movie. Apparently, it's quite different from mine (that is, Andy's), but I'm still a little touched and flattered that so many of you have visited my humble little blog based on it. Thank you, and feel free to stay and read a few stories!
So there we were in Prince George and we'd finished Ms. Crewcut's swaggy weed. No need to worry however; Andy Bailey came prepared too. Not only did he bring a little bit of weed also, but he also packed one of the most unique and ingenious pieces of smoking paraphernalia I've ever seen.
It began its existence as a large plastic travel mug with a tight fitting snap lid, the simple kind without any sliding closure or anything. The lid of course had two holes in it: one for drinking out of, and a smaller one to let air in. Into the drinking hole he had fitted the shell of a disposable plastic pen that he had heated and softened in order to make it fit snugly, as well as to bend it to a convenient angle for sucking without tipping the mug or straining the neck. He completed the seal with plasticine.
To the bottom of the smaller hole he attached a similar pen tube so that it went down almost to the bottom of the mug. The truly brilliant idea was how he created a bowl to attach to the top of that hole. He bought a springy metal door stopper. He removed the rubber tip, then held the narrow end of the spring over a flame until it was hot enough to melt plastic. He then screwed it into the lid directly above the small hole and held it there until it cooled and the plastic hardened. He was then able to screw and unscrew the door stopper from the lid at will. He inserted a piece of wire screen into the top. You put your weed there.
Voila: a perfectly functional unbreakable bong that collapses in about fifteen seconds into what looks like a normal and inconspicuous travel mug. "Andy, if only you could use your powers for good and not for evil," I said. Andy laughed.
Now kind reader, as I'm sure you know, after one has smoked any kind of pipe enough times, deposits of resin start to build up on its inner surfaces. We were all out of weed, so Ms. Crewcut decided it was time to scrape Andy's bong. I and a couple other folks went along with this bold idea, even though Andy was out knocking on doors and trying to sell encyclopedias. I'm sure I must have had a fleeting thought that it wasn't very nice what we were doing, but I guess I made peace with myself. After all, it wasn't my idea.
So the bong got scraped and the resulting powder got smoked (along with whatever healthy supplements got picked up from the plastic mug or the chrome-plated door stopper), and a good time was had by all. Until Andy returned, that is. Andy Bailey was not pleased with Ms. Crewcut's initiative. In fact, one might say he totally lost it. After a few minutes of yelling and screaming and berating a very carefree, cool, and collected (ie. stoned) Ms. Crewcut, he made the point that think was the one that loomed largest in his mind. "Do you have any idea how many bowls I had to smoke through that bong to get so much resin to build up?!"
I decided it was my opportunity to pipe in (so to speak) and defuse the situation. Thankfully it worked. Andy laughed, and peace did once again dwell among fellow travelling door to door encyclopedia salesmen.
"That was quite a sacrifice, Andy."
Update: Holy smokes! (So to speak.) When I wrote this post I was unaware of a movie called The Cabin in the Woods. But I see that a lot of you are, and I have come to understand that a travel mug bong is featured quite prominently in that movie. Apparently, it's quite different from mine (that is, Andy's), but I'm still a little touched and flattered that so many of you have visited my humble little blog based on it. Thank you, and feel free to stay and read a few stories!
Monday, June 6, 2011
Selling to Indians - Part II
. . . Continued from Part I
My bosses, crew leaders, and more experienced crew mates always said that Indians (not the kind from India) were in a special category for travelling door to door encyclopedia salesmen. The whole idea of profiling in that way made me rather uneasy, not to mention skeptical, but eventually I got to experience the reality face to face.
My bosses, crew leaders, and more experienced crew mates always said that Indians (not the kind from India) were in a special category for travelling door to door encyclopedia salesmen. The whole idea of profiling in that way made me rather uneasy, not to mention skeptical, but eventually I got to experience the reality face to face.
So there we were in 100 Mile House, British Columbia. I was knocking on doors, and an Indian fellow in his late 50s or so came to the door. He lived alone. I wasn't sure exactly what to do. On one hand, our whole package and pitch was geared towards younger families with small kids, but on the other hand he was an Indian, which is virtually an automatic sale, especially if he owns his own home. I was leaning towards excusing myself, but he pretty much made me come in and show him the product. He said he had grandkids and was interested in getting something for them. Folks, if the customer tells you at the door that he's interested, this is very very good news. It kinda eliminates the whole process from "why are you knocking on my door" to "well, yes I guess I can see why this would be a valuable addition to my home".
My entire interaction with him was totally unlike any other customer. In a different (non-Indian) context I would have concluded that he was utterly indifferent to my pitch and to the sales points I was making, but in this case I think he had already decided he was going to buy whatever I was selling, and didn't have any questions or concerns, and didn't want to waste time. It was only his innate respectfulness that kept him from asking me to cut to the chase. Every time I'd ask a question ("Do you think that having quality educational products in the home is critical in giving your child the best chance possible for success?") he would simply answer, "Yes" and wait for me to continue.
So of course in the end he bought it. As I was filling out the order form with him, one of the questions I had to ask him was who his employer was. He named a major local logging company. I asked him what his position was there. Please remember that I was a 21-year-old city boy and a former university student with no clue and little respect for rural and uneducated ways (I've learned since), so when he answered "pine cone picker," I could hardly grasp what he was saying. I asked him what that involved. "When the loggers remove the trees, I go over the cleared ground and pick up the pine cones." Idiot that I was, I actually had to hold myself back from laughing at him. Of course, he was making a living and I wasn't, so who deserves to be laughed at?
Then there are the other Indians. You know, the kind that actually come from India. The first time I ever knocked on a Punjabi Sikh's door I had not yet been told by the travelling door to door encyclopedia sages that Indians are the polar opposite of Indians. One politely says, "Oh, sorry, wrong door" and moves on, because Indians never ever buy.
There I was in Prince George, BC, and expecting to have a wasted night, having been stuck in one of the better neighbourhoods there. All nice big well-kept houses. The Sahara desert would be a more hospitable place for a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman. A man wearing a turban came to the door, and after I introduced myself, he invited me in. So far so good, but then he made me break one of the cardinal rules that was drummed into us during training: NEVER talk to just one spouse without the other. If necessary, make an appointment to come back, or else excuse yourself, but don't waste time on just one half. No matter what they say at the beginning, in the end it will always be, "Oh, I have to ask my wife/husband". Always. So just don't bother.
Well Mr. Chadha was having none of it. When I asked him if his wife was home, he considered my question impertinent. "You can show me what you have to show me, and I'll decide if we need it or not." I tried again to get him to agree to have his wife join us (I could see her busy in the kitchen, and my trainers were really clear about not trying to pitch half a couple) and he started to get a little annoyed and short with me. "She does not need to be here. I make the decisions, OK?" This was not boding well, neither with his cross attitude, nor with my breaking the rules, but since I had no other prospects that night, I just charged forward with my pitch.
When I got to the end, he was silent for a moment, then said, "Yes, that sounds fine". Unbelievable.
When I got back to the motel that night, I knew it would be a funny and impressive story; I just didn't know how impressive. I told the crew "I made a sale to an Indian tonight!"
"Big deal," answered Mitch. "Who can't?"
"Wanna know his name?"
"Sure."
"Surinder Singh Chadha."
"WHAT?? An Indian Indian? That's impossible! They never buy!"
In my six months as a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman, it was the only time I ever truly impressed and astonished all my superiors with a truly great sale. The warm glow of pride must have lasted . . . hours.
My entire interaction with him was totally unlike any other customer. In a different (non-Indian) context I would have concluded that he was utterly indifferent to my pitch and to the sales points I was making, but in this case I think he had already decided he was going to buy whatever I was selling, and didn't have any questions or concerns, and didn't want to waste time. It was only his innate respectfulness that kept him from asking me to cut to the chase. Every time I'd ask a question ("Do you think that having quality educational products in the home is critical in giving your child the best chance possible for success?") he would simply answer, "Yes" and wait for me to continue.
So of course in the end he bought it. As I was filling out the order form with him, one of the questions I had to ask him was who his employer was. He named a major local logging company. I asked him what his position was there. Please remember that I was a 21-year-old city boy and a former university student with no clue and little respect for rural and uneducated ways (I've learned since), so when he answered "pine cone picker," I could hardly grasp what he was saying. I asked him what that involved. "When the loggers remove the trees, I go over the cleared ground and pick up the pine cones." Idiot that I was, I actually had to hold myself back from laughing at him. Of course, he was making a living and I wasn't, so who deserves to be laughed at?
Then there are the other Indians. You know, the kind that actually come from India. The first time I ever knocked on a Punjabi Sikh's door I had not yet been told by the travelling door to door encyclopedia sages that Indians are the polar opposite of Indians. One politely says, "Oh, sorry, wrong door" and moves on, because Indians never ever buy.
There I was in Prince George, BC, and expecting to have a wasted night, having been stuck in one of the better neighbourhoods there. All nice big well-kept houses. The Sahara desert would be a more hospitable place for a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman. A man wearing a turban came to the door, and after I introduced myself, he invited me in. So far so good, but then he made me break one of the cardinal rules that was drummed into us during training: NEVER talk to just one spouse without the other. If necessary, make an appointment to come back, or else excuse yourself, but don't waste time on just one half. No matter what they say at the beginning, in the end it will always be, "Oh, I have to ask my wife/husband". Always. So just don't bother.
Well Mr. Chadha was having none of it. When I asked him if his wife was home, he considered my question impertinent. "You can show me what you have to show me, and I'll decide if we need it or not." I tried again to get him to agree to have his wife join us (I could see her busy in the kitchen, and my trainers were really clear about not trying to pitch half a couple) and he started to get a little annoyed and short with me. "She does not need to be here. I make the decisions, OK?" This was not boding well, neither with his cross attitude, nor with my breaking the rules, but since I had no other prospects that night, I just charged forward with my pitch.
When I got to the end, he was silent for a moment, then said, "Yes, that sounds fine". Unbelievable.
When I got back to the motel that night, I knew it would be a funny and impressive story; I just didn't know how impressive. I told the crew "I made a sale to an Indian tonight!"
"Big deal," answered Mitch. "Who can't?"
"Wanna know his name?"
"Sure."
"Surinder Singh Chadha."
"WHAT?? An Indian Indian? That's impossible! They never buy!"
In my six months as a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman, it was the only time I ever truly impressed and astonished all my superiors with a truly great sale. The warm glow of pride must have lasted . . . hours.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Selling to Indians - Part I
Being a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman does not lend itself to political correctness. Unofficially and off the record, our bosses and crew leaders drilled into us the correct profiles of people likely to buy, and of those we shouldn't waste our time with. And a waste of time it was, since if you did a good job of getting in the door (which is a really big part of getting the sale) and spent a good hour or two on the schmooze and the pitch only to get turned down, you've wasted a good part of the night. Ditto if you waste hours knocking on doors in a neighbourhood where nobody will talk to you.
So there were two general demographic profiles that we would focus on in our sales: rednecks and Indians. Today let's discuss the latter.
(Natives, Native Canadians, First Nations. The politically correct term changes from time to time, but the ones I met were happy to call themselves Indians, so I will too. While I don't go too far out of my way to be super-sensitive, it is also not my intention to be wantonly offensive, so I hope you understand my words in the spirit in which they are meant.)
Indians can either live on a reservation, or in a town or city along with white people. Reservations (as far as I could tell, and on the testimony of fellow salesmen) come in two general categories: ones that are obviously poverty-stricken, and ones with a brand new pickup in every driveway. I'm not sure what determines that, but my guess would be the exploitation of some sort of valuable natural resource, such as oil or timber.
As for why Indians are so open to travelling salesmen, I'd be surprised if any research had been done on the topic, but I can give a few educated guesses. First, a characteristic that they share with rednecks is that they are generally located relatively far from major urban centres and their accompanying wealth of choices in retail establishments, as well as libraries. Remember, this was before the days of the internet.
Aside from that, I'm sure there were cultural aspects, such as a general desire for self-improvement and a chance for a better education for the kids, for which an encyclopedia was a powerful symbol and, potentially, a useful tool.
Whatever the reasons, very often if you knocked on an Indian family's door, they would act like they were lucky to invite you in, listen spellbound to the pitch, and then sign the sales contract and credit application gratefully at the end. Too easy.
Only two problems: one, they actually had to pass a credit check and two, you don't want to kill the goose that laid the golden eggs, so we were careful about not overworking the reservations. In fact, a night of knocking on doors on a reservation was used as a reward to be teased with for a particularly hard or motivated worker. There was no bigger carrot. As for the credit check (and, more generally, being able to afford the product at all), that's why we looked for the brand new pickup in every driveway. That's the right kind of reservation for a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman.
Sometimes, of course, one would simply get lucky and find an Indian family living among the rednecks. That's what happened to me in 100 Mile House, British Columbia. The first time Mitch told me we were driving there, I had to ask him if this was the real name of a town, or if it was some kind of inside joke. No joke: 100 Mile House is a real honest-to-goodness town. They even have a McDonald's.
(To be continued . . .)
So there were two general demographic profiles that we would focus on in our sales: rednecks and Indians. Today let's discuss the latter.
(Natives, Native Canadians, First Nations. The politically correct term changes from time to time, but the ones I met were happy to call themselves Indians, so I will too. While I don't go too far out of my way to be super-sensitive, it is also not my intention to be wantonly offensive, so I hope you understand my words in the spirit in which they are meant.)
Indians can either live on a reservation, or in a town or city along with white people. Reservations (as far as I could tell, and on the testimony of fellow salesmen) come in two general categories: ones that are obviously poverty-stricken, and ones with a brand new pickup in every driveway. I'm not sure what determines that, but my guess would be the exploitation of some sort of valuable natural resource, such as oil or timber.
As for why Indians are so open to travelling salesmen, I'd be surprised if any research had been done on the topic, but I can give a few educated guesses. First, a characteristic that they share with rednecks is that they are generally located relatively far from major urban centres and their accompanying wealth of choices in retail establishments, as well as libraries. Remember, this was before the days of the internet.
Aside from that, I'm sure there were cultural aspects, such as a general desire for self-improvement and a chance for a better education for the kids, for which an encyclopedia was a powerful symbol and, potentially, a useful tool.
Whatever the reasons, very often if you knocked on an Indian family's door, they would act like they were lucky to invite you in, listen spellbound to the pitch, and then sign the sales contract and credit application gratefully at the end. Too easy.
Only two problems: one, they actually had to pass a credit check and two, you don't want to kill the goose that laid the golden eggs, so we were careful about not overworking the reservations. In fact, a night of knocking on doors on a reservation was used as a reward to be teased with for a particularly hard or motivated worker. There was no bigger carrot. As for the credit check (and, more generally, being able to afford the product at all), that's why we looked for the brand new pickup in every driveway. That's the right kind of reservation for a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman.
Sometimes, of course, one would simply get lucky and find an Indian family living among the rednecks. That's what happened to me in 100 Mile House, British Columbia. The first time Mitch told me we were driving there, I had to ask him if this was the real name of a town, or if it was some kind of inside joke. No joke: 100 Mile House is a real honest-to-goodness town. They even have a McDonald's.
(To be continued . . .)
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Travelling Door to Door Diversity Training
It never ceased to amaze me the different kinds of folks who would find themselves knocking on strangers' doors to try to somehow get invited inside to pitch a set of encyclopedias. If you're imagining there's some sort of background or personality type that would correlate with such a career choice, you are wrong. If you're a faithful reader of this blog, you've already met Mitch, Andy, Andrew, Ann, John, Richard, Ray, Gloria, and others. Believe me, in my six months in the trenches of travelling door to door encyclopedia sales, there were many more, and they were all so different.
I guess most were from middle class families, but of course Richard had been a penniless Jamaican immigrant. The only generalization that is somewhat accurate is that about 80% of salesmen were men. But other than that, the lovely rainbow of Vancouver's diverse city was pretty much covered. Chinese, Jewish, evangelical Christian, angry feminist, long-haired rock musician, redneck, ex-soldier, pothead, high school dropout, college dropout, college graduate, Swedish immigrant, Jamaican immigrant, Bahamian immigrant from England (Jackie. She was so cute and perky!), an Indian (from Punjab) and an Indian (from a North Vancouver reservation).
Now that I mention it, remind me to tell you about the Indian and the Indian some day. What a couple of characters.
But as diverse as the sales crews were, I must admit that our customers were not quite so cosmopolitan. In fact, the vast majority of sales occurred in just two general demographic sets: rednecks and Indians.
By rednecks I mean white people lower-middle to middle-middle class living far from major urban areas, preferably in trailer parks. The trailer park angle is one worth exploring in a separate post. And as for Indians, you can look forward to a post called "Selling to Indians" coming soon to a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman blog near you!
I guess most were from middle class families, but of course Richard had been a penniless Jamaican immigrant. The only generalization that is somewhat accurate is that about 80% of salesmen were men. But other than that, the lovely rainbow of Vancouver's diverse city was pretty much covered. Chinese, Jewish, evangelical Christian, angry feminist, long-haired rock musician, redneck, ex-soldier, pothead, high school dropout, college dropout, college graduate, Swedish immigrant, Jamaican immigrant, Bahamian immigrant from England (Jackie. She was so cute and perky!), an Indian (from Punjab) and an Indian (from a North Vancouver reservation).
Now that I mention it, remind me to tell you about the Indian and the Indian some day. What a couple of characters.
But as diverse as the sales crews were, I must admit that our customers were not quite so cosmopolitan. In fact, the vast majority of sales occurred in just two general demographic sets: rednecks and Indians.
By rednecks I mean white people lower-middle to middle-middle class living far from major urban areas, preferably in trailer parks. The trailer park angle is one worth exploring in a separate post. And as for Indians, you can look forward to a post called "Selling to Indians" coming soon to a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman blog near you!
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Let's Meet Another Crew!
One time back in the days when I was a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman we went to Edmonton, Alberta. The trip was atypical for two reasons: first, it was a big city, which travelling door to door encyclopedia salesmen tend to avoid. Second, two crews from the Vancouver office met up there at the same time. I'm not sure what the thinking was, except maybe to give us a chance to compare notes and pitches and see how other people do their selling.
I remember four folks from the other crew in particular. The crew leader was a short skinny friendly athletic kind of guy with a big laugh. He kinda reminded me of Ray Liotta in Goodfellas. Then there was a girl woman die-hard chip-on-the-shoulder angry feminist. (How do these people end up as travelling door to door encyclopedia salesmen? For that matter, how did I?) I remember I asked her once what she thought of Camille Paglia and she almost had a brain aneurysm right there in front of me. I avoided talking to her about anything but dinner after that.
One night we all went out to a bar for dinner. Several months on the road with my crew had made me so crude that I shudder to think of how I used to speak back then. It took me several months after quitting and a number of notable missteps to reintegrate myself into polite society (and some might say that I still have a way to go). The feminist lady person had gone to powder her nose, and I leaned over to Ray and asked him what it was like to be on the road with her all the time. He kinda shrugged and smiled and said that she was nice but it was just important to avoid topics that made her angry. "What a b**ch!", I exclaimed. Ray was shocked into uncontrollable gales of laughter which the more he tried to suppress, the more he laughed. He just managed to get himself under control before Gloria Steinem returned.
The third guy from the other crew was Crazy Sheldon and the fourth, and his interaction with Andy Bailey, will have to wait for another post. Stay tuned!
Monday, April 4, 2011
Prince George was Smokin'
Disclaimer: as before.
One time, back in the days when I was a travelling door-to-door encyclopedia salesman, we went to Prince George, British Columbia. Good thing somebody brought weed.
Prince George is an old logging town that grew into a small city, and occupied that perfect middle ground where it lacked both the excitement of Vancouver (and other cities) and the charm of all the little towns and villages where we did most of our work. We were there for a week or so.
It was only my second or third road trip, so I was still just getting the hang of it, and I was still basically a pretty innocent kid. In my two years of University before taking this job, I had smoked weed a total of two times, and had never really gotten stoned ("got stoned" for the British readers of this blog).
As luck would have it, a one-tripper that I remember almost nothing about except that she looked like a sitcom lesbian and brought a baggie of twiggy swag. Betcha didn't know how many different kinds of people end up as travelling door to door encyclopedia salesmen for at least a road trip or two.
Our first night at the Prince George motel, Ms. Crewcut pulled out her baggie and rolled a big fat doobie. We passed it around and I enjoyed it, but once again wondered if there was something I was missing. After a little while, I was felling a little hungry, so I decided to go to the gas station down the road to get a little snack. It's when I got down to the street that I realised just how profoundly stoned I was. I couldn't wait to get back to the motel room to share the good news, but of course I really had to get that snack. Where was I? Oh yeah, snack! Where was I going again? Ooh, look at the pretty sky! Needless to say, it took some time before I made it back to the motel room with a full belly and ready to boast to all who would hear about just how stoned I was. My crewmates shook their heads at my puppy dog naivete.
By the end of our week in Prince George, I was an old hand at that whole weed-smoking thing. Just wait till I tell you about how we moved on to Andy Bailey's bong.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Guilty Pleasure
One time back in the days when I was a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman, we went to Kamloops, British Columbia. In fact, many times.
Kamloops is about a 4 hour drive from Vancouver on the way to most of the places we would go in Alberta and Saskatchewan, so it was often a convenient place to stop to eat, and more often than not do an evening's worth of door knocking while we were at it. I remember it as a kind of unexciting working class town, which made it a perfect place for travelling door to door encyclopedia salesmen to ply their trade. Its population of not much less than 100 thousand would generally work against it (cities hate door to door salesmen), but its isolation in fact meant that au contraire, it could simply be worked over and over without killing territory.
One of the things I remember best about Kamloops is how many really old cars one would see on the road. Neither collectible antiques suggesting a wealthy area nor nasty old junkers suggesting a slum, but simply old cars in decent shape that in most of the places I'd been would have rusted to dust years earlier. Lots of AMC Eagles and such. I was told it was because Kamloops gets very little rain or snow because it's in the Coastal Mountains' rain shadow, and they don't salt the roads in the winter. Certainly when I was there in April, it was hot and dry and seemed like a desert. It was fun to see all those classic middle class cars on the road.
One time, we were driving through a residential neighbourhood when I saw a hand painted sign in someone's front yard that made me laugh until I cried, while at the same time feeling like a lowlife for finding it so funny. I just saw it out of the corner of my eye for a moment, but that was all it took to burn itself into my memory forever. I guess it was the pathos, the innocence, or maybe the passive-aggressiveness (a term I had never heard yet back in those days) of the sign that struck me as so funny. Probably the pathos. Whenever anyone mentions "guilty pleasures," I think of my laughter at that sad little hand painted sign somebody took the effort to create and put on their front lawn in Kamloops, BC.
Please return our boat.
Kamloops is about a 4 hour drive from Vancouver on the way to most of the places we would go in Alberta and Saskatchewan, so it was often a convenient place to stop to eat, and more often than not do an evening's worth of door knocking while we were at it. I remember it as a kind of unexciting working class town, which made it a perfect place for travelling door to door encyclopedia salesmen to ply their trade. Its population of not much less than 100 thousand would generally work against it (cities hate door to door salesmen), but its isolation in fact meant that au contraire, it could simply be worked over and over without killing territory.
One of the things I remember best about Kamloops is how many really old cars one would see on the road. Neither collectible antiques suggesting a wealthy area nor nasty old junkers suggesting a slum, but simply old cars in decent shape that in most of the places I'd been would have rusted to dust years earlier. Lots of AMC Eagles and such. I was told it was because Kamloops gets very little rain or snow because it's in the Coastal Mountains' rain shadow, and they don't salt the roads in the winter. Certainly when I was there in April, it was hot and dry and seemed like a desert. It was fun to see all those classic middle class cars on the road.
One time, we were driving through a residential neighbourhood when I saw a hand painted sign in someone's front yard that made me laugh until I cried, while at the same time feeling like a lowlife for finding it so funny. I just saw it out of the corner of my eye for a moment, but that was all it took to burn itself into my memory forever. I guess it was the pathos, the innocence, or maybe the passive-aggressiveness (a term I had never heard yet back in those days) of the sign that struck me as so funny. Probably the pathos. Whenever anyone mentions "guilty pleasures," I think of my laughter at that sad little hand painted sign somebody took the effort to create and put on their front lawn in Kamloops, BC.
Please return our boat.
Monday, March 21, 2011
On the Road with Steven Seagal
As I've indicated before, most travelling door to door encyclopedia salesmen (silently) quit after their first road trip, never to be seen again (by us, that is, and what else matters?). There were a lot of these one-trippers in my six months "inside", and most have been forgotten to the mists of time.
The only one my mind occasionally still turns to is the one who I always thought of as Steven Seagal, to the extent that that's the only name I have for him today. He was a very serious young man in his early 20s. Steven felt like he was living life as the hero in a Bruce Lee movie. He was a black belt in karate (a fact nobody could know him for 5 minutes without learning). He was a pacifist; all he wanted was to live a quiet dignified life and bring love an harmony to everyone, but dammit people kept making him fight!
Every story from him was the same. Yadda yadda peace hope love, yadda yadda coupla dicks wanting to start trouble, yadda yadda I tried to defuse the situation, yadda yadda they kept *pushin' man, they just kept pushin', yadda yadda **I beat the crap outta them man, it took me like 30 seconds and they just couldn't friggin' believe it! They were both down on the ground, completely in awe, and ***I just wish it didn't have to be that way.
We were in a bar one night having a beer after work. The place was pretty packed and Mr. Seagal and I were at a little table right in the middle of everyone. A slightly wobbly gentleman walked by and accidentally jostled our slightly wobbly table, making Steven's beer slosh inside his mug a little. A drop or two might have made it onto the table. Steven got up, put his hand on Mr. Wobbly's shoulder, and said "It's OK man. It's OK!" He nodded to emphasize how OK it was and how the wobbleman didn't have to fear the wrath of Steven Seagal. Because Steven Seagal only wants peace. I had to put a hand over my mouth to stifle laughter at so much earnest seriousness over what should have been a non-event. I wouldn't have wanted to make him angry.
Well, we eventually made it back to Vancouver, another road trip over, and Steven Seagal melted into the night like so many other one-trippers before him. I guess it was just time for him to move on, you know.
* Crescendo
** Climax!
*** Denouement
The only one my mind occasionally still turns to is the one who I always thought of as Steven Seagal, to the extent that that's the only name I have for him today. He was a very serious young man in his early 20s. Steven felt like he was living life as the hero in a Bruce Lee movie. He was a black belt in karate (a fact nobody could know him for 5 minutes without learning). He was a pacifist; all he wanted was to live a quiet dignified life and bring love an harmony to everyone, but dammit people kept making him fight!
Every story from him was the same. Yadda yadda peace hope love, yadda yadda coupla dicks wanting to start trouble, yadda yadda I tried to defuse the situation, yadda yadda they kept *pushin' man, they just kept pushin', yadda yadda **I beat the crap outta them man, it took me like 30 seconds and they just couldn't friggin' believe it! They were both down on the ground, completely in awe, and ***I just wish it didn't have to be that way.
We were in a bar one night having a beer after work. The place was pretty packed and Mr. Seagal and I were at a little table right in the middle of everyone. A slightly wobbly gentleman walked by and accidentally jostled our slightly wobbly table, making Steven's beer slosh inside his mug a little. A drop or two might have made it onto the table. Steven got up, put his hand on Mr. Wobbly's shoulder, and said "It's OK man. It's OK!" He nodded to emphasize how OK it was and how the wobbleman didn't have to fear the wrath of Steven Seagal. Because Steven Seagal only wants peace. I had to put a hand over my mouth to stifle laughter at so much earnest seriousness over what should have been a non-event. I wouldn't have wanted to make him angry.
Well, we eventually made it back to Vancouver, another road trip over, and Steven Seagal melted into the night like so many other one-trippers before him. I guess it was just time for him to move on, you know.
* Crescendo
** Climax!
*** Denouement
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
That Funny Time When We Pretended to Rob a Little Kid
So there we were in the frozen Great White North, and Ann Nilsson didn't have a hat. The weather was -20 or -30 and windy. She was either too cheap or too broke to buy one, so she suffered.
One night, our "territories" in town were adjacent to each other's, and after a fun-filled evening knocking on strangers' doors and trying to sell them encyclopedias, Ann and I met up to walk together back to the motel. As we were walking, I spied a plain black touque lying in a snow bank. I pointed it out to Ann and she picked it up, dusted off the snow, and put it on. Some folks look good in anything, and Ann was one such person.
I began to have the stirrings of inspiration. "Ann, what do you think we should tell the guys about how we got it?" Ann wasn't really sure what I meant. This was not an uncommon occurrence.
Let us pause this exciting and suspense-filled tale to point out that John Schlesinger was with us on this particular road trip. However fun and personable John could be at times, there was a very real mean streak to the guy. You see, he was an a**hole. I remember riding with him one day after a rain storm. There were big puddles on the road, and he went out of his way to try to drive through one in order to splash an old lady walking by. (He failed, thankfully.) He cackled uncontrollably like . . . well, like an old lady actually. I had never been an eye witness to such mean-spiritedness before.
As the months went by, I came to realise that even though I could get along with John, and have a reasonably friendly working and, on the road, living relationship with him, I really didn't like or respect him. This was not the case with any other member of my crew, or the members of the other crews with whom I would occasionally spend time. Some people were great, some were less than great, and some (remind me to talk about Sheldon some day) were certifiably crazy, but on a certain level I genuinely liked them all. That is to say, I like most people, and being fellow members of the cult of travelling door to door encyclopedia salesmen really does create a sense of fraternity.
Back to our tale. I decided it would be fun to play to John's meanness. But I wanted to make it believable. If we just said that I stole it from some kid, John and the rest of the crew would never buy it. I obviously didn't have it in me. So here's the story I worked out and rehearsed with Ann on our walk back to the motel:
Ann was really suffering in the freezing cold without a hat, and I decided that the situation simply had to be remedied. We saw a kid walking by wearing a touque. He seemed to be about eleven or twelve. I offered him five dollars for the hat, but he refused. So I told him, "Look, kid. The hat isn't even worth five bucks, and you're gonna be home and warm in a few minutes anyways, and tomorrow you can buy yourself a nicer one. So give me the hat and take the money, or I'll just take the hat no matter what". The kid got scared, so he just threw the hat down on the ground, and ran away. The best part is, we ended up getting the hat for free! But just to be safe, we should probably avoid that neighbourhood from now on.
We got our story straight and promised each other not to chicken out. We would stick to the story through hell or high water, and pretend we didn't care whether anyone believed us.
As we walked into the motel room, the first thing everyone noticed was Ann's head covering. Any distraction from the daily monotony is eagerly welcomed on the road, and the obviously well used hat on Ann's head was definitely going to be a story. Little did they know.
So we launched into our well rehearsed act, each of us picking up where the other left off, and I think we did a pretty convincing job of it. "Bull***t!" cackled John. "Sasha, you are too nice to ever do that! You're just trying to impress me."
Please notice that it says something about his personality that an implied threat of violence toward a child actually would be impressive to John. Anyways, we had expected some skepticism and initial resistance. "Well, I only intended to pay for it, and a much more than fair price too. If there were a store nearby, I would have bought a new touque there for less, so it's not like I was robbing the kid. How was I supposed to know he would panic and bolt without the money?"
Cackle, cackle. "I can't believe it! Sasha, I must be rubbing off on you!" Cackle, cackle. The rest of the guys just looked on with bemused smiles, not really sure what to think.
Come to think of it, neither did I.
One night, our "territories" in town were adjacent to each other's, and after a fun-filled evening knocking on strangers' doors and trying to sell them encyclopedias, Ann and I met up to walk together back to the motel. As we were walking, I spied a plain black touque lying in a snow bank. I pointed it out to Ann and she picked it up, dusted off the snow, and put it on. Some folks look good in anything, and Ann was one such person.
I began to have the stirrings of inspiration. "Ann, what do you think we should tell the guys about how we got it?" Ann wasn't really sure what I meant. This was not an uncommon occurrence.
Let us pause this exciting and suspense-filled tale to point out that John Schlesinger was with us on this particular road trip. However fun and personable John could be at times, there was a very real mean streak to the guy. You see, he was an a**hole. I remember riding with him one day after a rain storm. There were big puddles on the road, and he went out of his way to try to drive through one in order to splash an old lady walking by. (He failed, thankfully.) He cackled uncontrollably like . . . well, like an old lady actually. I had never been an eye witness to such mean-spiritedness before.
As the months went by, I came to realise that even though I could get along with John, and have a reasonably friendly working and, on the road, living relationship with him, I really didn't like or respect him. This was not the case with any other member of my crew, or the members of the other crews with whom I would occasionally spend time. Some people were great, some were less than great, and some (remind me to talk about Sheldon some day) were certifiably crazy, but on a certain level I genuinely liked them all. That is to say, I like most people, and being fellow members of the cult of travelling door to door encyclopedia salesmen really does create a sense of fraternity.
Back to our tale. I decided it would be fun to play to John's meanness. But I wanted to make it believable. If we just said that I stole it from some kid, John and the rest of the crew would never buy it. I obviously didn't have it in me. So here's the story I worked out and rehearsed with Ann on our walk back to the motel:
Ann was really suffering in the freezing cold without a hat, and I decided that the situation simply had to be remedied. We saw a kid walking by wearing a touque. He seemed to be about eleven or twelve. I offered him five dollars for the hat, but he refused. So I told him, "Look, kid. The hat isn't even worth five bucks, and you're gonna be home and warm in a few minutes anyways, and tomorrow you can buy yourself a nicer one. So give me the hat and take the money, or I'll just take the hat no matter what". The kid got scared, so he just threw the hat down on the ground, and ran away. The best part is, we ended up getting the hat for free! But just to be safe, we should probably avoid that neighbourhood from now on.
We got our story straight and promised each other not to chicken out. We would stick to the story through hell or high water, and pretend we didn't care whether anyone believed us.
As we walked into the motel room, the first thing everyone noticed was Ann's head covering. Any distraction from the daily monotony is eagerly welcomed on the road, and the obviously well used hat on Ann's head was definitely going to be a story. Little did they know.
So we launched into our well rehearsed act, each of us picking up where the other left off, and I think we did a pretty convincing job of it. "Bull***t!" cackled John. "Sasha, you are too nice to ever do that! You're just trying to impress me."
Please notice that it says something about his personality that an implied threat of violence toward a child actually would be impressive to John. Anyways, we had expected some skepticism and initial resistance. "Well, I only intended to pay for it, and a much more than fair price too. If there were a store nearby, I would have bought a new touque there for less, so it's not like I was robbing the kid. How was I supposed to know he would panic and bolt without the money?"
Cackle, cackle. "I can't believe it! Sasha, I must be rubbing off on you!" Cackle, cackle. The rest of the guys just looked on with bemused smiles, not really sure what to think.
Come to think of it, neither did I.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Six months here, six months there
Would you believe it: I was only a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman for six months, and my memories of those wacky times have now been filling the pages of this blog for . . . six months! I don't know exactly how many more stories there'll be, but my feeling is that we're less than halfway done. And I've still got some good ones up my sleeve :)
At any rate, thank you, kind reader, for following me thus far. Maybe you'll follow me just a little farther.
And bring some friends :)
At any rate, thank you, kind reader, for following me thus far. Maybe you'll follow me just a little farther.
And bring some friends :)
Monday, February 14, 2011
The Ann Nilsson Primer
Being a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman is man's work. Well, most of the time.
I didn't know very many travelling door to door encyclopedia saleswomen, and there was only one in my crew: Ann Nilsson. Ann was quite a piece of work. Somewhat enigmatic, whenever I thought I had her figured out, she would show a heretofore unseen side of her.
Ann was Swedish and blonde, with a figure women die for. If that creates the image of an airhead walking through life in a haze, that was definitely one aspect of her. She was 24 years old, and had been living in Canada for three years. She claimed to have known no English when she moved there, but by the time I met her her English was almost flawless, with barely a trace of an accent.
She did pretty well at selling, which is amazing because she had no sales skills to speak of. She couldn't remember the pitch, would get confused and correct herself, and pretty much just screw up anything and everything. But she got in the door because she was a woman, and cute. Her non-threatening demeanor disarmed the most hostile and suspicious of homeowners, and that was 90% of what she needed. If she had been any better at selling, or even just a little bit more confident and a tiny bit more aggressive, she would have been a sales powerhouse.
Nevertheless, she sometimes showed a kind of confidence and self-possession that was remarkable and totally unexpected. Here's a story for example:
Just a few minutes walk from our Vancouver head office was a strip bar. Mitch had taken me there for lunch one day. I couldn't fathom the idea of going for lunch to a place with naked women dancing on stage, but I certainly wasn't going to chicken out in front of a friend and coworker, so we went. A month later, Ann was now part of the team, and we all had had a road trip together behind us. We were back in Vancouver getting ready for our next trip, and Mitch suggested to us that we all go to the strip bar. I guess he wanted to see her reaction, which was certainly going to be either embarrassment, refusal, or indignation. Or all three.
But without a pause, Ann cheerfully agreed. This was not part of the plan. "Oh, we don't have to," said Mitch.
Ann replied, "No, let's go! What are you afraid of?" That's not a challenge any of us could let go unanswered, so off we went. As we approached the front door, one of us asked Ann if she was sure that she wanted to go in, because we really didn't have to. She insisted, so in we went.
There we stood, just inside the doors of the strip bar. Mitch Clinton, Andy Bailey, Andrew the Mooch, Nathan Remington, and I were every bit as uncomfortable as we had hoped to make Ann. We awkwardly shuffled our feet and stared at the floor as Ann smiled and thought less of us with every passing moment. Never had I imagined that I would ever be in a strip bar and want to stare only at the floor. This was the experience of a lifetime.
Though it was obvious to everyone that her victory was total, Ann decided to toy with us just a little more. "Let's go sit by the stage!" she suggested. We were in no position to refuse if we were to hold on to any vestige of our manhood, so off we shuffled to the stage, trying not to bump into anybody while staring so intently at our shoes. "Wow! That lady's really pretty! Don't you think so, guys?" Ann was just playing with us at this point. After a minute or so, she finally showed us some mercy and asked, "Would you boys like to go now?" We all agreed with various grunts and nods of relief, and so we got up and made our escape.
Ann was one of the gang, for sure. I'm sure there will be plenty more stories that involve her, so for now consider yourselves introduced to Ann Nilsson.
I didn't know very many travelling door to door encyclopedia saleswomen, and there was only one in my crew: Ann Nilsson. Ann was quite a piece of work. Somewhat enigmatic, whenever I thought I had her figured out, she would show a heretofore unseen side of her.
Ann was Swedish and blonde, with a figure women die for. If that creates the image of an airhead walking through life in a haze, that was definitely one aspect of her. She was 24 years old, and had been living in Canada for three years. She claimed to have known no English when she moved there, but by the time I met her her English was almost flawless, with barely a trace of an accent.
She did pretty well at selling, which is amazing because she had no sales skills to speak of. She couldn't remember the pitch, would get confused and correct herself, and pretty much just screw up anything and everything. But she got in the door because she was a woman, and cute. Her non-threatening demeanor disarmed the most hostile and suspicious of homeowners, and that was 90% of what she needed. If she had been any better at selling, or even just a little bit more confident and a tiny bit more aggressive, she would have been a sales powerhouse.
Nevertheless, she sometimes showed a kind of confidence and self-possession that was remarkable and totally unexpected. Here's a story for example:
Just a few minutes walk from our Vancouver head office was a strip bar. Mitch had taken me there for lunch one day. I couldn't fathom the idea of going for lunch to a place with naked women dancing on stage, but I certainly wasn't going to chicken out in front of a friend and coworker, so we went. A month later, Ann was now part of the team, and we all had had a road trip together behind us. We were back in Vancouver getting ready for our next trip, and Mitch suggested to us that we all go to the strip bar. I guess he wanted to see her reaction, which was certainly going to be either embarrassment, refusal, or indignation. Or all three.
But without a pause, Ann cheerfully agreed. This was not part of the plan. "Oh, we don't have to," said Mitch.
Ann replied, "No, let's go! What are you afraid of?" That's not a challenge any of us could let go unanswered, so off we went. As we approached the front door, one of us asked Ann if she was sure that she wanted to go in, because we really didn't have to. She insisted, so in we went.
There we stood, just inside the doors of the strip bar. Mitch Clinton, Andy Bailey, Andrew the Mooch, Nathan Remington, and I were every bit as uncomfortable as we had hoped to make Ann. We awkwardly shuffled our feet and stared at the floor as Ann smiled and thought less of us with every passing moment. Never had I imagined that I would ever be in a strip bar and want to stare only at the floor. This was the experience of a lifetime.
Though it was obvious to everyone that her victory was total, Ann decided to toy with us just a little more. "Let's go sit by the stage!" she suggested. We were in no position to refuse if we were to hold on to any vestige of our manhood, so off we shuffled to the stage, trying not to bump into anybody while staring so intently at our shoes. "Wow! That lady's really pretty! Don't you think so, guys?" Ann was just playing with us at this point. After a minute or so, she finally showed us some mercy and asked, "Would you boys like to go now?" We all agreed with various grunts and nods of relief, and so we got up and made our escape.
Ann was one of the gang, for sure. I'm sure there will be plenty more stories that involve her, so for now consider yourselves introduced to Ann Nilsson.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Andrew the Mooch - Part II
(Continued from Part I)
Even though on the road we saved money by getting a motel room with a kitchenette and cooking our own meals, we weren't fanatical about saving money. We were young and wanted to have some fun too. So more often than not we would go to a bar after work and have a beer or two, and maybe shoot a couple games of pool. Sometimes, we'd splurge for dinner at the bar also.
So it wasn't enough that Andrew mooched from us at the motel; he insisted on coming out with us after work too. And it's not like we were gonna say, "No, Andrew. You may not come out with us." When it's just five of you on the road together, you can't afford to alienate anyone. Plus, we were Canadians. You know, like Americans, only nicer.
But we didn't have to like it.
Mitch had said something to him uncharacteristically diplomatic and delicate (two adjectives not generally associated with Mitch). Something like "You know Andrew, you're kinda short on money. We're gonna go drink beer and play pool, and it'll be kinda frustrating for you to be there. There's not gonna be a whole lot for you to do". But Andrew insisted that he really wanted to come. If I'm feeling charitable, I can assume it was because he didn't want to be lonely in the motel room all by himself, and wanted the company. If I'm feeling uncharitable, I conclude that he assumed he wasn't going to have to go without beer or pool anyways. So we all tried not to be too obvious about rolling our eyes, and off we all went. Together.
The first time was before we had gotten totally frustrated with him, plus we weren't having dinner out so he probably got a beer or two out of us, and maybe a couple games of pool. Whatever. But by our second evening out (and, of course, no sales from him yet, and not much prospect of a paycheck in the future, given his less than stellar people skills), we had just about had it. But we played it cool, since it wasn't worth creating any bad blood for the sake of saving a few bucks and not getting taken advantage of.
Leave it to Mitch to break the pattern. We got dinner at the bar that night. I don't remember what I or anyone else ordered, but Mitch got nachos. A nice big heaping plate with a couple plastic containers of sour cream and salsa on the side. Andrew asked if he could have some as he reached across the table to save time.
Mitch said "No". Never having heard such a strange foreign word before, Andrew gave his standard uncertain smile and asked if Mitch was serious. Indeed, he was. "That's right, Andrew. No, you may not have any of my nachos." The moment was an awkward one for all of us (except, apparently, Mitch), and we all looked down, around, and nowhere in particular waiting for the moment to pass. Finally, Mitch lifted the mood for us (except Andrew) by sliding one of the plastic containers over to him and saying, "OK, you can have the sour cream. I won't be needing it." (He declined.) We all laughed, including Andrew, even though he probably knew the joke was on him.
Actually, maybe he didn't. Back in those days, I had never heard of Asperger's syndrome, but now I wonder if maybe he had it. As I've indicated, his ability to perform in social situations or relate to people was quite limited. Also, he apparently thought he could successfully be an encyclopedia salesman. And I remember a conversation I had with him one time when we met up at the end of a night knocking on doors while we were waiting for Mitch to pick us up to take us back to the motel.
Andrew asked me, "Could you live without music?"
"I dunno," I replied. "I like music a lot. What do you mean?"
Andrew went into a long boring monologue about the importance of music in his life. He could never be a thief, but he had decided that if there were ever no other way, he would have to steal whatever he needed in order to continue listening to his most important music, especially Neil Young. Et cetera, and so forth.
I was still about eight years away from meeting my wife, who was the first person I ever met who could say "thank you for sharing" without a hint of irony or sarcasm, but I still understood instinctively that Andrew was "sharing" something important to him, no matter how insignificant and boring the topic was to me, so I nodded and feigned interest.
Unsurprisingly, Andrew made no sales on his first road trip. We all assumed we'd never see him again after we got back to Vancouver. He'd just slip away like so many other failed travelling door to door encyclopedia salesmen, and be more or less forgotten. How surprised we all were when he showed up ready for the next trip a couple days later.
Needless to say, the second trip was as successful for him in terms of sales as the first one had been. But heading out, what we were all worried about was another two weeks of mooching. Someone had had a private talk with him, however, and this time he brought enough money to pay his own way.
Not that he paid any of us back.
Even though on the road we saved money by getting a motel room with a kitchenette and cooking our own meals, we weren't fanatical about saving money. We were young and wanted to have some fun too. So more often than not we would go to a bar after work and have a beer or two, and maybe shoot a couple games of pool. Sometimes, we'd splurge for dinner at the bar also.
So it wasn't enough that Andrew mooched from us at the motel; he insisted on coming out with us after work too. And it's not like we were gonna say, "No, Andrew. You may not come out with us." When it's just five of you on the road together, you can't afford to alienate anyone. Plus, we were Canadians. You know, like Americans, only nicer.
But we didn't have to like it.
Mitch had said something to him uncharacteristically diplomatic and delicate (two adjectives not generally associated with Mitch). Something like "You know Andrew, you're kinda short on money. We're gonna go drink beer and play pool, and it'll be kinda frustrating for you to be there. There's not gonna be a whole lot for you to do". But Andrew insisted that he really wanted to come. If I'm feeling charitable, I can assume it was because he didn't want to be lonely in the motel room all by himself, and wanted the company. If I'm feeling uncharitable, I conclude that he assumed he wasn't going to have to go without beer or pool anyways. So we all tried not to be too obvious about rolling our eyes, and off we all went. Together.
The first time was before we had gotten totally frustrated with him, plus we weren't having dinner out so he probably got a beer or two out of us, and maybe a couple games of pool. Whatever. But by our second evening out (and, of course, no sales from him yet, and not much prospect of a paycheck in the future, given his less than stellar people skills), we had just about had it. But we played it cool, since it wasn't worth creating any bad blood for the sake of saving a few bucks and not getting taken advantage of.
Leave it to Mitch to break the pattern. We got dinner at the bar that night. I don't remember what I or anyone else ordered, but Mitch got nachos. A nice big heaping plate with a couple plastic containers of sour cream and salsa on the side. Andrew asked if he could have some as he reached across the table to save time.
Mitch said "No". Never having heard such a strange foreign word before, Andrew gave his standard uncertain smile and asked if Mitch was serious. Indeed, he was. "That's right, Andrew. No, you may not have any of my nachos." The moment was an awkward one for all of us (except, apparently, Mitch), and we all looked down, around, and nowhere in particular waiting for the moment to pass. Finally, Mitch lifted the mood for us (except Andrew) by sliding one of the plastic containers over to him and saying, "OK, you can have the sour cream. I won't be needing it." (He declined.) We all laughed, including Andrew, even though he probably knew the joke was on him.
Actually, maybe he didn't. Back in those days, I had never heard of Asperger's syndrome, but now I wonder if maybe he had it. As I've indicated, his ability to perform in social situations or relate to people was quite limited. Also, he apparently thought he could successfully be an encyclopedia salesman. And I remember a conversation I had with him one time when we met up at the end of a night knocking on doors while we were waiting for Mitch to pick us up to take us back to the motel.
Andrew asked me, "Could you live without music?"
"I dunno," I replied. "I like music a lot. What do you mean?"
Andrew went into a long boring monologue about the importance of music in his life. He could never be a thief, but he had decided that if there were ever no other way, he would have to steal whatever he needed in order to continue listening to his most important music, especially Neil Young. Et cetera, and so forth.
I was still about eight years away from meeting my wife, who was the first person I ever met who could say "thank you for sharing" without a hint of irony or sarcasm, but I still understood instinctively that Andrew was "sharing" something important to him, no matter how insignificant and boring the topic was to me, so I nodded and feigned interest.
Unsurprisingly, Andrew made no sales on his first road trip. We all assumed we'd never see him again after we got back to Vancouver. He'd just slip away like so many other failed travelling door to door encyclopedia salesmen, and be more or less forgotten. How surprised we all were when he showed up ready for the next trip a couple days later.
Needless to say, the second trip was as successful for him in terms of sales as the first one had been. But heading out, what we were all worried about was another two weeks of mooching. Someone had had a private talk with him, however, and this time he brought enough money to pay his own way.
Not that he paid any of us back.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Andrew the Mooch - Part I
In my six months as a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman, a lot of people came and went. Most are forgotten or half-forgotten, because they just came on one road trip, and then silently disappeared as soon as we got back to Vancouver. You see, one generally does not announce beforehand that one is leaving a religious cult.
One road trip. That's the "mode" average for a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman. If you came back for the second road trip, you were usually in it for the long haul. The only 2-tripper I knew was Andrew the Mooch. He was one of the worst salesmen I ever met. He was geeky, awkward, misanthropic, and he mumbled. Not big on eye contact. I wonder if he had Asperger's syndrome. And did I mention that he was a MOOCH?
The thing is he was so shameless about it. As I've mentioned several times, except for transportation, every member of the crew was responsible for paying his (or her) own expenses. So we split the cost of the motel room and either bought our own food or chipped in to get something together (especially things like oil or ketchup, where one unit could service several individuals).
Well, after his week of training, Andrew came on the road with us, and as it turns out, he just took some spare pocket money with him. What the hell was he thinking? When we checked into the motel room, the mooching started. (Let me say I have no idea if he payed his share of the motel or not. I hope Mitch didn't get stuck with a double portion.) We had all gone shopping for groceries: bread, spreads, fruit, cereal, pasta, sauce, etc. Of course, Andrew couldn't buy anything, since he was broke. Look; we were all pretty nice people (we were Canadians, after all), and lacked the constitution to refuse a companion's request. And at first, we were all quite magnanimous about letting him mooch off us. What's a couple pieces of bread, after all? What's a tomato? What's a banana? No problem.
Of course Andrew not only continued, but got more brazen about it with every passing day, and the rest of us started feeling just a little bit taken advantage of. That's when the little subtle comments and hints started coming his way. "So, Andrew, you keeping tabs about what you owe us?" Andrew would just shrug, with a little smile on his face. Maybe he suspected we were kidding.
We started talking about him behind his back to relieve our frustration. "Can you believe he asked for an orange? He has no money and no food, but he really needed my orange!" "And he refused my offer to buy him a box of No-Name corn flakes, but he keeps mooching my Honey-Nut Cheerios!"
Mooching became such a routine for him, that even I, the one most friendly to him of all the crew, started getting exasperated with him. One day he asked me for a couple slices of bread while reaching into the bag for them! I told him, "You know, it's polite to wait to take something until after you get permission". This may be the harshest I had spoken to a person in quite some time (perhaps I was British in a previous life). He looked away, kinda embarrassed for a change. Of course, he took the bread.
Well, whaddaya know. This story is turning out to me much longer than I expected it to be.
To be continued . . .
One road trip. That's the "mode" average for a travelling door to door encyclopedia salesman. If you came back for the second road trip, you were usually in it for the long haul. The only 2-tripper I knew was Andrew the Mooch. He was one of the worst salesmen I ever met. He was geeky, awkward, misanthropic, and he mumbled. Not big on eye contact. I wonder if he had Asperger's syndrome. And did I mention that he was a MOOCH?
The thing is he was so shameless about it. As I've mentioned several times, except for transportation, every member of the crew was responsible for paying his (or her) own expenses. So we split the cost of the motel room and either bought our own food or chipped in to get something together (especially things like oil or ketchup, where one unit could service several individuals).
Well, after his week of training, Andrew came on the road with us, and as it turns out, he just took some spare pocket money with him. What the hell was he thinking? When we checked into the motel room, the mooching started. (Let me say I have no idea if he payed his share of the motel or not. I hope Mitch didn't get stuck with a double portion.) We had all gone shopping for groceries: bread, spreads, fruit, cereal, pasta, sauce, etc. Of course, Andrew couldn't buy anything, since he was broke. Look; we were all pretty nice people (we were Canadians, after all), and lacked the constitution to refuse a companion's request. And at first, we were all quite magnanimous about letting him mooch off us. What's a couple pieces of bread, after all? What's a tomato? What's a banana? No problem.
Of course Andrew not only continued, but got more brazen about it with every passing day, and the rest of us started feeling just a little bit taken advantage of. That's when the little subtle comments and hints started coming his way. "So, Andrew, you keeping tabs about what you owe us?" Andrew would just shrug, with a little smile on his face. Maybe he suspected we were kidding.
We started talking about him behind his back to relieve our frustration. "Can you believe he asked for an orange? He has no money and no food, but he really needed my orange!" "And he refused my offer to buy him a box of No-Name corn flakes, but he keeps mooching my Honey-Nut Cheerios!"
Mooching became such a routine for him, that even I, the one most friendly to him of all the crew, started getting exasperated with him. One day he asked me for a couple slices of bread while reaching into the bag for them! I told him, "You know, it's polite to wait to take something until after you get permission". This may be the harshest I had spoken to a person in quite some time (perhaps I was British in a previous life). He looked away, kinda embarrassed for a change. Of course, he took the bread.
Well, whaddaya know. This story is turning out to me much longer than I expected it to be.
To be continued . . .
Friday, February 4, 2011
Mitch Gets the Hiccups
Poor Mitch Clinton.
His trip with us to Port Alberni and Courtenay on Vancouver Island was neither enjoyable not profitable.
We had just had a rare few days off at home in Vancouver between road trips. I killed time by doing semi-independent and totally useless door knocking in town. Big cities like Vancouver were ruined for door to door encyclopedia salesmen long before I ever got into it. City folk are hostile and suspicious, go figure.
The day before our upcoming Island Adventure we all met up at the office for our periodical meeting/pep talk/cult ceremony. Uncharacteristically, Mitch stayed in the background, but I didn't give it much thought. We went out for lunch together, and I noticed he was hiccuping. And that he was miserable.
Turns out he had had the hiccups since we had gotten back from our last road trip a few days earlier. If not for my childhood obsession with and constant reading of the 1981 Guinness Book of World Records, I wouldn't even have known that hiccups can last more than a couple of hours. And here was poor Mitch whose suffering for the better part of a week had worn him down to a hollow eyed jittery shadow of his usually chipper and very very alive self.
"I went <hic> to see <hic> the doctor yester<hic>day. He said tha<hic>t it's probably a lesion on my <hic> diaphragm. Can you <hic> believe it? He said it should <hic> go away on its <hic> own, but if <hic> it lasts more than <hic> a couple more weeks, he'll con<hic>sider medication or surger<hic>y. A couple <hic> more fu<hic>ing weeks? I'll fu<hic>ing die!"
Ever the optimist, he went on the road with us assuming the affliction must go away any day, any moment. For the next week or so, he was like our crew's pet ghoul. He just sat on the bed in the motel room all day long, day after day, staring blankly at the TV and hiccuping. He barely ate, slept, or talked. We'd go out to knock on doors, and he was sitting on the bed and hiccuping. We'd come back after a tough day in the trenches and there he was, sitting on the bed and hiccuping.
What I found most interesting was that the more ghost-like and pathetic he became, the more human he seemed to me. Mitch had always seemed like such a pig, plus so confident and arrogant; it was an unexpected bit of perspective to see him so helpless. The perspective remained even after the affliction was a memory.
At any rate, a couple weeks after they had started, the hiccups went away as suddenly and as mysteriously as they had begun.
The pig was back.
His trip with us to Port Alberni and Courtenay on Vancouver Island was neither enjoyable not profitable.
We had just had a rare few days off at home in Vancouver between road trips. I killed time by doing semi-independent and totally useless door knocking in town. Big cities like Vancouver were ruined for door to door encyclopedia salesmen long before I ever got into it. City folk are hostile and suspicious, go figure.
The day before our upcoming Island Adventure we all met up at the office for our periodical meeting/pep talk/cult ceremony. Uncharacteristically, Mitch stayed in the background, but I didn't give it much thought. We went out for lunch together, and I noticed he was hiccuping. And that he was miserable.
Turns out he had had the hiccups since we had gotten back from our last road trip a few days earlier. If not for my childhood obsession with and constant reading of the 1981 Guinness Book of World Records, I wouldn't even have known that hiccups can last more than a couple of hours. And here was poor Mitch whose suffering for the better part of a week had worn him down to a hollow eyed jittery shadow of his usually chipper and very very alive self.
"I went <hic> to see <hic> the doctor yester<hic>day. He said tha<hic>t it's probably a lesion on my <hic> diaphragm. Can you <hic> believe it? He said it should <hic> go away on its <hic> own, but if <hic> it lasts more than <hic> a couple more weeks, he'll con<hic>sider medication or surger<hic>y. A couple <hic> more fu<hic>ing weeks? I'll fu<hic>ing die!"
Ever the optimist, he went on the road with us assuming the affliction must go away any day, any moment. For the next week or so, he was like our crew's pet ghoul. He just sat on the bed in the motel room all day long, day after day, staring blankly at the TV and hiccuping. He barely ate, slept, or talked. We'd go out to knock on doors, and he was sitting on the bed and hiccuping. We'd come back after a tough day in the trenches and there he was, sitting on the bed and hiccuping.
What I found most interesting was that the more ghost-like and pathetic he became, the more human he seemed to me. Mitch had always seemed like such a pig, plus so confident and arrogant; it was an unexpected bit of perspective to see him so helpless. The perspective remained even after the affliction was a memory.
At any rate, a couple weeks after they had started, the hiccups went away as suddenly and as mysteriously as they had begun.
The pig was back.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Life on the Road
I thought I'd share with you a little about what day to day life on the road was like for us as a travelling door to door encyclopedia sales crew.
As I've indicated, one guy (usually Mitch Clinton in our case) would be the crew leader, and he would be responsible for the car and all associated expenses. Normally, five of us would pile into his Volkswagen Jetta and we would drive off from our home base in Vancouver to wherever we were going, typically a thousand kilometers or so, into the boonies of British Columbia, Alberta, and Saskatchewan.
Since we shared accommodation expenses equally, it was in our interest to find the cheapest fleabag motel in whatever town we were staying at, and let me tell you we stayed in some nasty ones. When there's a broken window and a draft under the door and the temperatures outside are in the double digits below freezing, you know you're not at the Hilton.
There was one model of motel room that was the only kind we always went for: one double bed and a kitchenette. The latter was so we could cook, thereby saving money by not eating out all the time. Included in a motel kitchenette were generally some plates and cutlery, a couple pots, a frying pan, and a salt and pepper shaker. Pasta and cold cereal were our staples on the road, and we cut corners wherever we could. We would buy generic tomato paste and turn it into sauce by whatever cheapest means were available to us. If someone would splurge for basil and/or oil, we were in business. Otherwise, it was mostly the complimentary motel room salt and pepper, plus maybe an extra ramen flavour packet. At any rate, since a couple of us were fans of spicy food, the management would generally find their pepper shaker close to empty after we left.
You may be wondering, however, if I made a typo above when I wrote "one double bed" if there were five of us. No mistake. We would drag the mattress onto the floor, and we would sleep two on the mattress, two on the box spring, and one on the floor. We would rotate the "honour" of sleeping on the floor, though occasionally the crew leader would exercise his "droit de seigneur" to skip his turn on the floor. Certainly, if John was on the road with us, he would always have a spot on the mattress. B***ard.
Obviously (but only if you think about it, which many people neglected to do), since the motel room was only intended for two people, there were only two towels provided. This could on occasion be a source for some friction and ill will between crew mates. I would generally bring a towel with me just in case, but still try to snatch one of the motel towels as quickly as possible, in order to avoid having to pack a wet towel in my backpack. Some foresight-lacking crew mate would usually complain, basically suggesting that his neglecting to bring his own towel should give him first dibs on the convenience of a motel towel. I would typically offer him my own towel on condition that I get it back clean and dry. One of the mottos of travelling door to door encyclopedia salesmen is "People don't plan to fail. They fail to plan."
Amazingly, in six months of living this life, we only actually got kicked out of a motel room once. I believe it was in Prince George, British Columbia. We were never brazen about stuffing five people into a motel room intended for two, but I can't imagine the management never noticed. But that one time, we were just settling in and unpacking when the phone rang. I picked it up, and the lady screamed in my ear, "Y'all got five minutes to clear outta that room!" before hanging up on me. I told John the jig was up. We took it all in stride, packed up, and found another fleabag a block down the road.
It was all in a day's work.
As I've indicated, one guy (usually Mitch Clinton in our case) would be the crew leader, and he would be responsible for the car and all associated expenses. Normally, five of us would pile into his Volkswagen Jetta and we would drive off from our home base in Vancouver to wherever we were going, typically a thousand kilometers or so, into the boonies of British Columbia, Alberta, and Saskatchewan.
Since we shared accommodation expenses equally, it was in our interest to find the cheapest fleabag motel in whatever town we were staying at, and let me tell you we stayed in some nasty ones. When there's a broken window and a draft under the door and the temperatures outside are in the double digits below freezing, you know you're not at the Hilton.
There was one model of motel room that was the only kind we always went for: one double bed and a kitchenette. The latter was so we could cook, thereby saving money by not eating out all the time. Included in a motel kitchenette were generally some plates and cutlery, a couple pots, a frying pan, and a salt and pepper shaker. Pasta and cold cereal were our staples on the road, and we cut corners wherever we could. We would buy generic tomato paste and turn it into sauce by whatever cheapest means were available to us. If someone would splurge for basil and/or oil, we were in business. Otherwise, it was mostly the complimentary motel room salt and pepper, plus maybe an extra ramen flavour packet. At any rate, since a couple of us were fans of spicy food, the management would generally find their pepper shaker close to empty after we left.
You may be wondering, however, if I made a typo above when I wrote "one double bed" if there were five of us. No mistake. We would drag the mattress onto the floor, and we would sleep two on the mattress, two on the box spring, and one on the floor. We would rotate the "honour" of sleeping on the floor, though occasionally the crew leader would exercise his "droit de seigneur" to skip his turn on the floor. Certainly, if John was on the road with us, he would always have a spot on the mattress. B***ard.
Obviously (but only if you think about it, which many people neglected to do), since the motel room was only intended for two people, there were only two towels provided. This could on occasion be a source for some friction and ill will between crew mates. I would generally bring a towel with me just in case, but still try to snatch one of the motel towels as quickly as possible, in order to avoid having to pack a wet towel in my backpack. Some foresight-lacking crew mate would usually complain, basically suggesting that his neglecting to bring his own towel should give him first dibs on the convenience of a motel towel. I would typically offer him my own towel on condition that I get it back clean and dry. One of the mottos of travelling door to door encyclopedia salesmen is "People don't plan to fail. They fail to plan."
Amazingly, in six months of living this life, we only actually got kicked out of a motel room once. I believe it was in Prince George, British Columbia. We were never brazen about stuffing five people into a motel room intended for two, but I can't imagine the management never noticed. But that one time, we were just settling in and unpacking when the phone rang. I picked it up, and the lady screamed in my ear, "Y'all got five minutes to clear outta that room!" before hanging up on me. I told John the jig was up. We took it all in stride, packed up, and found another fleabag a block down the road.
It was all in a day's work.
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