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' anada "Harder Than the Hard Sell" 19 feb '
' 293 by Infernal 2001 '
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I've got a piece of advice for any of you reading this who are
currently toiling in the sales profession, especially that odious branch of
it that involves "cold calls" on the phone, door-to-door solicitation, or
pyramid-scheme style exhortations of total strangers.
Quit.
Get the fuck out of the business, before your soul gets sucked out of
your asshole with a soda straw and you end up a grinning, twitching
automoron, hated by all you solicit, unwilling to concede defeat in the
fact of vehement ambivalence, slinking back time after time like a
battered puppy to hump the leg of the most abusive master. I'm riled
because twice today, while simply trying to go about my life, I was
accosted by these high-pressure hemorrhoids, worrying me like a terrier,
trying to extract money and assent from me like blood from a stone, and
squeezing just as hard.
Why would you choose this for a line of work? Why would you want to
walk into my place and make me despise you within twenty seconds of
meeting you? That's no way to earn a living. Sell drugs, suck dick, do
something people WANT, at least. Here's a thought, sunshine ñ if your
fucking long distance plan was such a wonderful boon to humanity,
wouldn't people come to YOU (or, more accurately, to the pigs who send
you out on these suicide com-missions) for it? Would you have to go
door to door like a bum looking for a meal? No, you would not.
And I know of which I speak. I run my own business, and I sell
stuff, but I don't SELL it, if you know what I mean. People come to me with
their wants, I tell them what I have and what I recommend, but I never
force shit down their throat with a jackhammer. I don't have to. I
chose a line of work where people might actually want to buy what I'm
selling. I advertise, I promote, I work hard to take care of my people
ñ but I don't do this quasi-ethical high-pressure snake oil dance to
keep the wolf from the door. And I sleep just fine at night.
Let me illustrate ñ these two women sauntered into my place today,
both of them cut from that "professional hot chicks who KNOW they're
professional hot chicks" cloth. Mildly flirty, flicking the hair back,
talking a mile a minute so that I can't get a word (or an order to
leave) in edgewise, telling me how they drove two hours "to get here"
(to my dinky shop? Specifically? You're either equivocating, or you're
retarded) and had a flat on the way (amazing, no grease on the hands or
dirt under the nails for all that. I'd have respected that). They're
"out taking care of" the phone customers in this area because the rates
are going up and people "have to get switched over to Sprint." Oh, be
still my heart! You drove ALL THIS WAY to SAVE ME MONEY? Should I get
you a glass of water, maybe peel you a grape?
At this point, they could have been hawking a free banana split and a
year's supply of Rice-a-Roni with every long distance call, and I
wouldn't have cared. They blow into my place (where I'm frantically
trying to get shit ready for the post office before five), turn on the
high-pressure hosejob, and expect me, because they're attractive, to
drool and grin and guffaw and sign whatever deal with the devil they put
in front of me. Either that, or they think I'm imbecilic enough to
think I HAVE to switch over, based on their legally dubious line of
bullshit. All I know is, they've been here for a minute ñ maybe two ñ
and I want to slug both of them.
"I'm sorry, but I'm real busy, this is a bad time," I try to beg off
politely, after four or five minutes of their verbal downpour.
"No problem," says one. "We can just fill out your paperwork for you
while you're working."
"Look. I don't mean to be rude, but I am not interested. At all.
Thank you."
And then, the kicker. They get that slanty-mouthed "sorry about your
luck" look and one says "oh, it's okay, you're not being rude. If you
want to pay more for your long distance, have at it." And they leave,
in a cloud of huff and a perfume I'd no doubt recognize if I frequented
frat bars on Date Rape Wednesdays. What did that accomplish? Was I
supposed to stiffen my back and say "pay more, will I? Give me that
paperwork, I'll sign it!" Fuck you, you cookie-cutter, cubic zirconium,
fluff-headed, manipulative, dead-end-job-having bitches. I hope neither
of you make quota and you end up homeless.
And lest you think this is a sexist rant, two hours later, I get the
same damn shit sundae in a different bowl. This pimply, nervous dude
comes in, and automatically sets me off with the overly-friendly bit:
"how long ya been open here? Really? Awesome! Great place ya got
here." He's spitting out replies to his own questions before I answer.
Then it comes out ñ do I think it's unfair that small business owners
like myself (oh, I identify already!) can't afford adequate access to
legal help? Thankfully, I won't have to tear out my remaining hair over
this life-crippling dilemma, because my newfound pal wants to hook me up
with some sort of deal where I pay monthly, get unlimited access to "the
best lawyers in the country," and make money signing others up for this
godsend.
Not wanting to hear any more sales pitches today, I cut the kid off
with "that sounds great, but my father's an attorney." He's not, but I
thought it was a good conversation-stopper.
Does this stop our plucky pyramid schemer? He falters, but regains
his footing ñ AND KEEPS RIGHT ON GOING. "Well with this program, you can
get help setting up a will, writing letters for legal purposesÖ"
"Did you hear me? I said, my father's a lawyer. I'm all set,
thanks."
"Oh, well, uhÖ many of the people in our program have family members
in the legal profession. They'd rather stand on their own and use our
program than burden their family with their legal problems."
I have to give the kid credit for a decent save, but is implying that
I'm a leech on my family the best way to prime me for a sale? Even
after I flat-out said I was not, and would not be, interested, he said
he'd "stop by with a flyer and a card in case I was to change my mind."
Is there a strain of the human race for whom such daily self-
debasement is fun? Do they honestly feel no shame? Are they just good
enough at sucking it down, like boiling bile, and letting it burble in their
guts while they trundle off to piss off another person who makes a
relatively honest living? And the worst thing is, it must work, because if
it didn't, they wouldn't keep sending people like this out on the streets,
and into boiler rooms full of phone banks to call and pester me about
magazine subscriptions and credit card accounts.
At the risk of getting highfalutin on you here, what's so hard about
finding work with a little bit of honor to it? The guy who slogs it out
washing dishes forty hours a week to keep his bills paid and his car
running has more honor than these twits. Do something you're passionate
about, or, failing that, at least find work that allows an honest day's
work for an honest day's pay. There's nothing at all redeeming about
browbeating people into changing their long distance just to be shut of
the sight of you. There's nothing but shame and misery down that road.
And if you find that you're one of the good ones at it? Then, my
friend, you're fucked. Get the noose ready. You have not one drop of
humanity left in you.
And hey, if I'm ever in need of a lawyer because my long distance
bills are too high and I can't find one, I'll admit I'm wrong. But I know
what I do, and how I contribute to the world, and I know that as
imperfect as I am, I can scrape people like these Junior Achievement
rejects off the bottom of my boots. I just wish I could get them out of
my shop.
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` anada293 by Infernal (c) 2001 anada e'zine `
