Bookman Page 3

  “You know, Phil, it’s not easy being married to a woman like that. I come home from a hard day of running that store and she’s primed and ready to go for a fight about something. It doesn’t matter about what.”

  He was telling this to me in a conspirational tone, afraid she would hear and really give him something to talk about, I guess. I thought about his “hard day running that store,” which included interviewing shoplifters and approving checks mostly. He could take his ranch style house and new station wagon along with his discount store and his gas—I’d knock on doors rather than trade him any of his security. Relieved at that very thought, I smiled to myself as I saw Honey come out of the house with little Phil.

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  “Jail, man! Locked up for three fuckin’ hours.” Thomas was relating his experiences of the night before. He and Terry had encountered the Paris, Tennessee police and been arrested for soliciting. The other salesmen crowded around as Thomas described the graffiti on the walls and the condition of the other prisoners. He was in the middle of describing his own valor in, “Not spilling my guts about where the other guys were working so he couldn’t clean out the whole crew,” when Lanny came in the door.

  “Thomas, get in here!” Lanny snapped, opening the door to the manager’s office. “The rest of you wait in the salesroom.”

  Faces were grim. We had had no idea we might be arrested. A crisis atmosphere prevailed until Lanny reappeared, confident as always.

  “Gentlemen, we had some problems last night in Paris, but it was nothing we can’t handle. Some of these jerkwater towns have local ordinances that require us to get some sort of license to go door to door. We never know which towns have the law, and when they are going to enforce it, so sometimes we have these little run-ins.” Lanny repeated a capsule summary of the events of the night before for those who had not been in his car and then launched into an explanation of “The Contest.”

  “Period ending bonuses will be paid next week. For you old hands this is extra money paid on work done months ago that the company is satisfied with. Period ending also means bonuses for managers based on how well the office has done. If we make budget, that is an assigned quota for this district, then I get about $1,000, over and above my regular salary. We are close, but not there yet, so I have decided to offer a little contest to stimulate things during this critical last few days.”

  Lanny grinned with anticipation and the more experienced salesmen let out a cheer. I didn’t know what he was talking about, but the tone of the day had certainly changed.

  “Whoever places the most libraries between now and the end of the pay week, which is next Thursday, gets this new pair of alligator shoes.” With a flourish, Lanny produced a really handsome pair of shoes from a box on the desk. The group crowded around to examine the merchandise.

  “Actually, they’re lizard,” Lanny continued, obviously pleased with the positive impact his presentation was making, “but the Jew down the street said only an alligator could tell the difference.”

  While the rest of the guys were trying on the shoes, some already claiming ownership, Lanny called Al, Thomas and me into the manager’s office. He made small talk for awhile and asked us how we liked it so far. We all answered positively enough so he got right down to business.

  “You were all hired on a salary of $112 per week. Thomas, you go on the payroll today, and Phil, you and Al tomorrow. But before you get on the gravytrain, I want to make something available to you that we don’t normally make available until much later in a man’s career. I’m doing this because of the big push to make budget, and because I think you guys are the sharpest new men we’ve had for awhile. I’ve always felt a man worked better when he had some kind of incentive, like the shoes out there… or more money.”

  As Lanny said this a big grin spread across his face, and ours.

  “Thomas, you’ve been out in the field for a night, although it was interrupted. How many libraries do you think you could place if you were left alone for six hours in a good neighborhood?”

  “One an hour,” was Thomas’s confident reply.

  “That may be a little optimistic, considering how many questions some people have about the library. Let’s cut that in half and project it for a whole week. That would be 15 libraries a week, plus whatever you do on Saturday afternoon. Phil, what do you think?”

  “I could match that, no sweat,” I said.

  “That may be a little optimistic. How about if we pay you guys $75 for each library? Would that keep your spirits up?” Lanny with that smile again.

  It seemed overly generous to me, but that was their problem. We all signed cards stating we would prefer to be paid on a production basis rather than salary and before I knew it I was in Lanny’s car with Thomas, Al and Terry, a more seasoned salesmen who came along to help us new guys learn the ropes. Already it was time to put my shoe leather where my mouth was.

  We had driven to Osceola, Arkansas and it was 4:30—time to start ringing some doorbells.

  “Thomas, this is your chance,” said Lanny, pulling the car over in a residential area. “Take this subdivision from the highway to that street we just came down. I’ll meet you at that Texaco station on the corner at 10:30.” With those brief instructions, we left Thomas on a street corner.

  Terry and I were next. Our area was delineated and a pick-up point designated and we were on our own. Terry wasted no time in getting started. He would knock on a door and when the wife answered, which was almost always the case this time of day, he would say, “Hi, stopped by to speak with your husband. Is he in?”

  “Never go into a house if the husband’s not there,” Terry explained between doors. “You can’t place a library unless you get both signatures on the contract, and if he comes home while you’re there you might get shot. Don’t tell the wife what you want to talk to her husband about. Let the suspense build up,” he said, ringing the next doorbell.

  “Hi, we stopped by to speak to your husband. Is he in?”

  “No, he usually gets home by 5:30.”

  You could hear a baby crying inside and smell supper cooking. The woman, a scarf wrapped around her head, strands of hair sticking out all over the place, looked a little curious, but mostly she looked like she was in a hurry to get back to the baby. She was polite, though.

  “Oh,” Terry sounded a little disappointed. “Tell him Terry Howell and Phil Lazar stopped by and we’ll check back about 7:00. Will that be convenient?”

  By the time we found our first man home we had made half a dozen appointments for between 7:00 and 9:00.

  “Hi. Terry Howell here, and this is Phil Lazar,” Terry said as the first husband opened the door. The man opened the screen door and shook both our hands. “We need to speak to you and the wife for a moment. May we step in?”

  “What about?” The man was more curious than suspicious.

  “We’re interviewing all the young families in the neighborhood. It’s just a matter of a few questions. May we step in?”

  He let us in and introduced his wife. She cleared the newspaper off of the couch so we could sit down and offered us a seat. A heavy set woman of maybe 175 pounds, she managed to flutter around the living room for a few moments, emptying an ashtray and picking up some toys before sitting down herself like a small hippo. The family name was Long and he worked at a local implement company.

  The initial interview was about five minutes long when recited, but it took somewhat longer in a prospective buyer’s home because of questions and ad libs. There were always some questions about advertising, then a description of the revolutionary library, and finally an explanation of the qualified placement plan. This meant that the family had to actually write a letter to Colliers in order to qualify as a recipient of a set of books.

  “Now, Mr. Long, would you and your family truly appreciate a fine reference library of this nature? If you had one in your home, of course,” Terry asked.

  “You mean
you’re just going to give it to me?” Mr. Long questioned with a disbelieving smile.

  “There is no charge to the family we select. But what we expect is to find a family who would truly appreciate a fine library of this type if they had one, regardless of how they got it. Also, as I said before, we would use that family as a reference in our neighborhood sales campaign later this year.” Terry paused, careful to let all the information sink into poor Mr. Long’s head. “Now, would you use and appreciate reference books, if they were top quality, and if they were conveniently located right here in your own home?”

  “Of course.” Mr. Long was a goner now.

  “And how about you, Mrs. Long? Is this something your children would use as they grow up?”

  They both committed themselves on all these points and Terry retrieved his briefcase, which he had left on the front porch It was then that he actually began the presentation.

  Two hours later we left the Long household with a signed contract. I was impressed by the way Terry fielded all their questions and left them confident they were doing the right thing for themselves and their children. His greasy hair and late fifties attire apparently hit a responsive chord with the Longs. And why not? Terry and Mr. Long—Harold, I think his name was—were from the same background. Other than the fact that Terry was dressed a little nicer, he did seem like Harold’s kind of guy. Harold was wearing Levis, with a quarter inch wide black belt and pointed toe shiny black loafers. He had a flattop haircut, with a ducktail. It was like selling a library to himself, now that I think about it. It’s not that hard, especially when you click with your customer.

  Still, Terry came walking away from the place like he’d just conquered Germany. He could hardly hide his excitement as we walked down the block. “Now don’t keep knocking on doors in the immediate vicinity of an order because the family might change their mind if they see you making the same offer to their neighbors.” We decided to ignore the other appointments and walked to a cafe just out of the subdivision.

  “That seemed easy enough. Why are we quitting?” I asked.

  “Hell, 75 bucks isn’t bad for a night’s work!” Terry said ebulliently.

  We drank Pepsi and played the pinball machine until the cafe closed at 10:00, then went over to the Texaco station and waited until Lanny showed up at 11:30. During that hour and a half, Terry talked freely about being in the book business off and on for the past three years. Once or twice a year he would get pissed off at the manager and go back to being a dance instructor. I could see him dancing around the studio with some fat broad, whispering sweet nothings in her ear to keep her coming back for more lessons. He even did a few steps for me. I must admit, he was good on his feet.

  The police passed the Texaco station, which was closed, three times while we waited there, but paid no attention.

  Thomas arrived just before Lanny. He had written an order and was his usual cocky self, only more so.

  “Good work Terry,” Lanny congratulated us as we rode out of Osceola. “How many presentations did you show, Phil?”

  “Didn’t need but one,” was the reply.

  “You didn’t stop just because you had a deal did you?” Lanny was trying to give Terry a bad time but Terry was having none of it. With an order under his belt he was cocky, too. I hadn’t seen him like this in the few days I had been around the office.

  “How many did you get, Lanny?” he retorted.

  “I showed Al two presentations but we didn’t find any qualified families.”

  Al broke in, “We had this one family eating out of our hands, but when it came down to the twelve dollars a month they just didn’t have it.”

  Lanny frowned.

  “Ah, couldn’t close ’em, huh Lanny?” Terry was jubilant now.

  “All right. That’s enough. Thomas gave two presentations and got one deal. That makes five presentations and two deals tonight out of three guys working. That’s not too bad.”

  We opened a six pack Lanny had thoughtfully picked up on the way out of Osceola, and it was a happy group that rolled into Memphis just after midnight.

  The next day was Saturday and we dispensed with formal training at the office so we could get on the road by 10:00. On the way to Clarksdale, Mississippi, Al and I rehearsed our presentations, interviews and door openers. After lunch in Clarksdale we were shown our territories and summarily dropped off.

  Lanny’s car turned the corner and was gone and I felt as though I had been left on an alien planet. After the noise in the car of the radio and the excited conversation when we first reached town it was deadly still. I wanted to go home. Without giving myself time to dwell on that thought I walked into the subdivision and hit the first door. My heart pounding and my breath short, I waited through two rings of the doorbell. No one home. The second door was a little easier but it was noon before I actually got inside a house.

  Once inside, I found the conversation came easy, but there were so many questions that I couldn’t answer.

  “What’s in the briefcase?” At the door.

  “It’s my samples,” came the embarrassed reply.

  “You’re a salesman then. What’re you selling?”

  “Well, I’m not exactly selling. You see, we have this special deal to advertise our new encyclopedia and….

  “Sorry, not interested in any books.”

  Initially it seemed people were hostile, but after my confidence improved, so did the people. The more friendly I was, the more friendly they were. If I kept asking them questions they wouldn’t ask me about the briefcase, or other questions I didn’t have answers for. I also noticed something that I should have known already, bred in the South as I am. Once invited into a man’s home you are his guest. He will listen politely to what you have to say, even if his supper is getting cold on the table. His wife will get you an ashtray and water or coffee or whatever is available and run the kids into the backyard so as not to disturb you. As long as you are cordial, he will be. This doesn’t mean, however, that he will necessarily be interested in your proposition.

  I must have knocked on 50 doors and talked to six or eight families in their living rooms before I met Billy Lee Smith.

  “Hi, I’m Phil Lazar,” I said to Billy Lee’s wife, her hair in curlers, one of which was dangling by a single strand of hair. “I stopped by to speak with your husband. Is he in?”

  “Sure. He’s watching the ball game. Come on in.”

  The husband was in the family room drinking a Falstaff and watching the Cardinals play the Cincinnati Reds. Dizzy Dean was the announcer and the man hardly looked up from the screen through my introduction and small talk. The wife brought me a beer and left the room. I tried to give the interview during breaks in the action. He wasn’t listening. The wife brought more beer.

  It was the Cardinal’s day. They were shutting out the Reds in the sixth inning. “Ain’t that Gibson something!” I said, having decided to watch the ball game and talk about libraries later.

  “Hell, he struck out three in the fourth, just before you came over,” Billy Lee replied without taking his eyes from the television. We talked baseball until the seventh inning stretch. Dizzy Dean was selling Falstaff at every station break and Billy Lee and I kept right up with him.

  “What’re you doin’ here, anyway?” Billy Lee asked abruptly.

  “Well, I’m talkin’ to folks,” I said emphatically, “and I want to talk to you and Carole Ann just as soon as the game is over.”

  “Hell yes!” Billy Lee drained his beer and heaved the can at the wastebasket beside the television. He missed for the first time that afternoon.

  The game over, in the bag for the Cardinals, and the prospects for a Pennant discussed, we finally got down to business. Billy Lee summoned Carole Ann from across the street and I began the interview. I had some trouble remembering it but ad libbed where necessary.

  “So you see, folks, it’s a hell of a deal—Oops, sorry Carole Ann. It’s the Falstaff talking.” We all laughed.r />
  “Hell, Phil. If you say it’s all right, it’s all right!” Billy Lee was getting mellower as he gave Carole Ann a hug. “You mean to tell me they’re just gonna give me and Carole Ann them books?”

  “All of ’em. And that’s not all.” I opened the briefcase and began the presentation.

  Billy Lee’s interest in Carole Ann increased as his percentage at the wastebasket plummeted. By the time I got to the Reference Service they were planning another child. I had emphasized sports when showing the prospectus, now with the Reference Service I talked of household hints and gardening. Billy Lee went next door to borrow some more beer. Carole Ann was sipping one as well.

  “I’ve been trying to grow some strawberries, could they help me with that?” she asked.

  “You bet! You can get full instructions on how to grow anything from the Reference Service.” I actually had no idea whether the Service could provide that or not, but had heard Terry give such glowing descriptions of it that it seemed a safe assumption.

  Billy Lee returned with a cold six pack of Busch Bavarian and the presentation continued.

  “Now, Billy Lee, what do you think of this cute little bank?”

  “Shit! I don’t want no collector comin’ by my house. I’ll just write ’em a check. That’s what we always do, just write a check.”

  This was too good to be true. I breezed over the remainder of the presentation while Billy Lee leafed through the prospectus.

  “Now, Carole Ann, which bookcase would you want, the natural or the walnut finish?” We had been taught to emphasize this choice of bookcase finish at this point in the presentation. You don’t choose a finish for a bookcase if you’re not going to take the library.

  Next came the contract. I couldn’t remember anything about the presentation of it so I just filled in the blanks on the front and had both of them sign it. Carole Ann filled in the credit information on the back. When it was complete I signed it myself and congratulated them.