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 :)
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
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.
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