Continued from yesterday’s post.

There’s a romanticism about being a salesman. You travel around, no boss breathing down your neck, you show up at people’s houses, do the demonstration, smile, maybe there’s a lonely housewife in there somewhere. For an aimless, skinny kid from Vermont, this was nowhere close to reality. I spoke daily to the head honcho of Kirby, this guy Sam, all teeth, hair, and intensity.

“How’re we doing today?” He asked.

“I’m ok.”

“Let’s go, man! Let’s get amped up! Let’s get out there today and sell some vacuums!”

The calls would come around nine a.m. I’d hang up after and go back to sleep. When I woke I’d barely remember my conversation and see a bunch of notes I had jotted down while in a haze, numbers and addresses of people who requested Kirby Vacuum demonstrations. I’d gather some clothes from the floor and straighten them out as best as I could with my hands, put a tie on, smoke a bowl, eat some sugary cereal, pound a Mountain Dew, and be on the road by noon.

My first demonstration one fine Vermont Winter day was at some old woman’s house in a suburban neighborhood located just outside of the University. I knocked, she answered. A shriveled, sweet, energetic one with a giant wreath of curly white hair lugging a giant chrome vacuum. This was the typical show. I came over, took my wet sneakers off, entered their abodes.

“You’re so young,” she said.

“Yeah.”

Eighteen. But I looked fourteen. Unkempt hair, droopy eyes, baggy, unwashed clothing that stank of cigarettes and stale beer. The miasma of boyish charm surrounding me my only boon in the cruel world of vacuum sales.

“Do you realize,” I said, “Just how much dust, dirt, and grime your current vacuum leaves behind?”

“No.”

“May I show you how much better our vacuums are than the competition?”

“Yes.”

Aside the vacuum, instead of connecting the bottom hose to a bag, we rigged up a filter that captured the detritus dwelling inside the fibers of the rug. This was always an eye opener for the unsuspecting, potential customer.

I fired up the Kirby, the light in front coming to life like a formerly slumbering cyclops, the suck cycle rushing into our ears. Shoooooooom! Whirrrr! Zzzzzzzzuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu! The Kirby was the best. Just 30 seconds in one quick swath of the old woman’s carpet produced an insane looking patch of dirt and a hell of a lot of white fur. I shut the vacuum off and unclicked the round filter from its housing to show her to results.

“Oh my!” she said.

“Do you have a cat?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Do you know just how menacing cat dander can be to the sinuses?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s bad.”

“Maybe it’s just that one particular area?”

I threw another filter in, moved to another area in the living room, and gassed up the Kirby. Shhoooooooooooom! Just 20 seconds this time. Same results.

“Oh my.”

“It looks to me like your vacuum isn’t picking up any of the horrible debris lurking under your rug.”

“I can see that.”

“Now, let me ask you a question: Did you know that your bedding can harbor dust mites and that this vacuum right here has the ability to pull them out of your mattress? Take a look at this.” I pulled and unfolded a glossy picture of a dust mite from my pants pocket. A horrible looking white monster. “Do you know these are microscopic insects that dwell where you sleep?”

“Oh my.”

“Will you allow me to go upstairs to your bedroom and show you how your trusty Kirby can help you sleep better at night?”

“Yes.”

I lugged the Kirby up a narrow set of stairs with her following behind. A white cat darted in the hallway.

“I don’t know how I’d ever carry that damn thing up these stairs.”

“You could have two. One for up and one for down.”

“That’s true.”

I went to the bedroom and asked her to pull the sheets off the bed.

“You see here,” I said. “This bottom part of the trusty Kirby detaches and becomes a hand held.”

“That’s neat.”

I demonstrated again with the filter attachment. The most disgusting part of the job. Again, just 30 seconds of suck which produced a round pile of dead human skin.

“The mites feed off the sheddings of your skin while you sleep.”

“Oh my.”

Demonstration over, I found myself in the kitchen having a coffee, paperwork and pen at the ready.

“Just how much is the vacuum,” she said.

“$1,600.”

“Excuse me?”

“Four easy installments of $400 over the course of the year.”

“I’m not sure my social security can afford something like that.”

“But don’t you think your health and your sleep deserve it? Do you believe your current vacuum is doing a good job? Think of all the dirt we pulled out of your carpeting and especially your mattress.”

“Yes, that’s true, but…I’ll have to talk to my son to get the money.”

“Ok.”

She picked up her phone and after a brief conversation told me the son said “no.” I asked to use her phone. I was required to call Sam if I couldn’t close a deal.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, Sam, it’s me.”

“Late start?”

“I’m here with Mrs. Winters.”

“And?”

“I had it, but she says her son won’t let her spend the money.”

“Put her on the phone.”

I stretched the line out and told Mrs. Winters my main salesman asked to speak with her. They had a brief conversation and she passed the phone back.

“Never let them speak to a family member!” I imagined his face, seething, the giant teeth bared back like a grinning skull, the monstrous hair flying wildly behind him. “C’mon man! How many times do we have to go over this!”

“I know, I know.” I looked at Mrs. Winters, just a little old lady. Alone in a big house with all that cat hair and dead skin. No money.

“You gotta close one of these man! It’s been two weeks since we brought you on! You need to smell the blood in the water! Where’s your killer instinct?!?”

“I don’t know.”

I left on got back on the road. Onto the next demonstration.