JANUARY 9, 2024 – My running and skiing marathon phase was still a few years ahead of me, but by 1974 I’d run and skied my share of long distances. The salient features of these sports is that even when you’re on a team, you’re always on your own. You sink or swim alone.
The same cardinal rule applied to selling books door-to-door. Despite having joined a crowd of mega frat boys yelling, “Act enthusiastic, you become enthusiastic!” in a rented movie theater; apart from having spent 19 miserable hours crammed in C.R.’s Plymouth with three other Southwestern recruits—plus C.R.; notwithstanding the Sunday rah-rah-rah regional sales meetings . . . when I was out knocking on doors I was as lonely as I’d ever been running or skiing long distances.
The worst of it was that the only chance for commiseration with my roommates was late in the evening, when we were exhausted and wanted to sleep after we’d fed ourselves. There was never time early in the morning during our rush to scarf down breakfast and stash something that qualified as lunch into our “gas can” sales kits before dashing out the door before 8:00.
If I was struggling, my initial two roommates were having a tougher time. It wasn’t long before they washed out, but it wasn’t a pretty way to go. The company sent in a swat team—sales manager, mentors, even management back in Nashville—for major attitude adjustment. They’d shower the despairing with a cranked up version of PMA. When that didn’t work, the company reversed gears and with such force you weren’t sure what newly observed law of physics was involved: if you insisted on quitting, it meant you wanted to be a total loser; an embarrassment to your school, your family, your friends. The psychological pressure was immense, as I witnessed firsthand in the case of my “loser” roommates—and personally, later in the game . . . but I’m getting ahead of myself.
One of my roommates was soon replaced by a student from Carleton College in my home state of Minnesota. He was a history major, no less, and we shared common sentiments about the Southwestern experience. He was neither a “frat boy” nor “Mr. Act Enthusiastic, You Become Enthusiastic!” He’d been recruited in a very similar way—by a long-time friend—and was also now questioning the deficiency in his own judgment. As I could’ve predicted, Mr. Carleton didn’t last more than another couple of weeks.
But me? I had to admit the ugly truth that the main reason I didn’t quit was because Mike made sure I didn’t. He called me at night and one evening even drove over to my territory to accompany me on a few calls. His support left me conflicted. I resented him for having dragged me into the job, yet I knew he was also the reason I stuck with it and was grateful for his encouragement.
The deeper I got into my territory, the more I questioned my purpose. The one-volume encyclopedia was a decent compendium of information, and with its sturdy binding and attractive layout, replete with photographs and other illustrative features, it was not a shoddy product. On the other hand I wasn’t so impressed by it that I would’ve paid $49 bucks plus tax to own one.
In a word, I grew bored with the book and with my pitch. Yet, in furtherance of this project in boredom, I had to be in people’s faces—constantly—because absent rugged persistence, I wasn’t going to sell many books—boring or otherwise. Getting in people’s faces a good 12 hours a day in order to sell them something I myself would never buy turned out to be much harder than I’d imagined.
Every so often an angry nutcase would actually slam the door in my face, reminding me that at least what sounded like a gun going off wasn’t an actual gun going off. What happened far more often, however, was to see a face at the window after I’d knocked or rung the doorbell and not have anyone come to the door. Or worse, I’d step up to a screen door and see that the main door was wide open; I’d then tap on the screen door or ring the doorbell, whereupon an occupant would come to the doorway and . . . close—not necessarily slam—the main door. I took that as a “no,” miffed that the coward hadn’t afforded me the chance to ask, “The folks next door . . . do they have kids?”
After I’d endured enough rejection to develop fairly thick skin, I discovered that worse than being shutout was striking out completely along seven or eight houses; that is, finding no one at home. If I encountered too many gaps, it created a dilemma: If I wanted to try later, how much time should I allow to pass before returning? How would I keep track of the gaps? What was the most efficient way of covering multiple gaps?
In time and in certain neighborhoods, however, my overall mood seemed to prosper. I can’t say what came first—improved attitude or increased sales. I suspect experience under the belt was to account for both. What developed as my principal reward was interaction with people. Once I got the books out of the way—either by selling or understanding that the folks hearing my pitch definitely weren’t buying—I found that many folks had the time, decency, curiosity, inclination to talk; to visit; to tell me things about themselves, their families, their lives, their take on the world. I enjoyed these encounters immensely.
The vast majority of people were “lower middle class,” according to the accepted economic-demographic terminology of the day; “working people,” by today’s political vernacular, but more likely “factory working people.” For the most part I found them to be earnest and decent people.
For several days I found myself in an “upper middle class” neighborhood. I soon eschewed it, however. Not a single household was interested in the one-volume encyclopedia. I got the impression among the few people who agreed to hear part of my pitch, anyway, that they were self-conscious about revealing any curiosity. Perhaps, I thought, they feared that a show of interest might suggest the book was necessary to fill gaps in their education. In the course of those encounters, I realized that the precise target market for the book was in the neighborhoods that were neither too well educated nor too under-educated. The sweet spot was among those who had just enough education (and money) to realize they needed—not necessarily wanted—more (education; who doesn’t want more money?).
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
