JANUARY 18, 2024 –
The letter to Cynde continued with the next chapter in my most challenging part of the job: quitting.
Saturday. I slipped into a phone booth off Bailey Avenue in Buffalo. The windows were all broken and the traffic made hearing difficult. I dropped a dime in the slot and waited for the dial tone. Carefully and nervously I dialed the number of the company. Cold sweat moistened my palms. Joe Martin is a real son of a bitch, and I knew he’d hit the roof.
“Hello. The Southwestern Company switchboard is closed at this time. If you wish to reach Joe Martin, dial 788-6323. This is a recording.”
Again I’d sweated it out . . . for nothing. And again I induced the same self-torture as I dialed Joe’s home number.
“Joe Martin residence. May I help you?” A girl answered.
“Yes, this is Eric Nilsson calling, and I’d like to speak to Joe.”
“I’m sorry, but he won’t back until Monday.”
“Oh.”
Damn! Even quitting the job was hard on the psyche.
Monday. At 10:30 I attempted for a third time to get a hold of Joe. By now my lines were well-rehearsed, but my nervousness remained.
“Hello, Southwestern Company,” a live receptionist answered. “May I help you?”
“Yes, may I please speak to Joe Martin?
“Yes, one moment please.”
After series of clicks a secretary answered. “Joe Martin’s office, may I help you?”
“Yes, may I please speak to Joe?”
“I’m sorry, but he won’t be in until three. May I take a message?”
My God, I thought. This job has been a real test of my endurance, from start to finish!
For the next four-and-a-half hours, I slept, played the piano, read, jumped up and down, basked in the sun, and just stared at the wall, thinking, philosophizing about nothing meaningful. (I didn’t sell on Monday but stayed at home—my hosts lived in a modest home, well kempt, and comfortable. The were great people and extremely hospitable.)
At three I tried once again.
“Hello. Joe speakin’”
“This is Eric Nilsson up in Buffalo. I’m announcing my resignation,” I said. “I’m exhausted. Really exhausted, and I just need to get myself home.”
Cynde, did that guy ever hit the ceiling! Holy Toledo!
“I just don’t buy your excuse,” he said. “Quite frankly, you’re disgusting and undependable. You are a disgrace. Now when are you comin’ to Nashville to check out?”
“Tomorrow, sir.”
“See you then.” ‘Click.’
His words jolted me. I rested the receiver back in its place and looked out the window. The worst was over now—or was it? Tomorrow I’d have to face the guy in person. I’d have to summon all my courage. I would have to hide all emotion. I’d have to look him straight in the eye, swallow my pride, and shake his hand before I’d be free.
Why, in retrospect, did I or anyone else who quit Southwestern feel a compunction to “check out” in Nashville; to willingly submit to open and hostile humiliation at the office door of one Joe Martin? It came down to money; to the prospect of collecting some monetary reward for all the 13-hour days pounding the pavement, knocking on doors to sell books, six days a week, week in and week out, so I could spend the one day off participating in a “Rah, rah, rah” extravaganza with a bunch of other miserable salesmen. If I didn’t trek back to Nashville to endure the humiliation, I wouldn’t see one dime for my efforts. Financially, the entire venture would be a big fat zero. That more than quitting, I’d decided, is what would make me a loser.
But was the money that compelling? Based on my best estimate, I stood to gain around $1,000, even taking into account reduced commissions because I was quitting early. Back then $1,000 wasn’t an insubstantial sum for a summer job—half the summer long. Plus, I’d worked myself to the bone for it—again, even though I was quitting at the halfway mark. I was determined not to let the company reap 100% of the benefits of my efforts while I received nothing for them.
And so I set out for Nashville.
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
