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!

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.

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.

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 . . .)