the chocolate fix
When I was in Elementary school I always tricked myself into getting excited for the annual candy or bulb sales. You know, the ones where if you sell a certain number of generic chocolate bars or geranium bulbs you get a prize? The thing is, year after year I failed miserably. I hated going door to door, and by the time I got up the nerve, the other kids in the neighborhood had cleaned up.
I was astounded, year after year, when kids like Danny Matheson, with his perfect little bowl-haircut, produced hundreds of dollars worth of sales. Seeing me upset, my parents shook their heads and always said the same thing: “Their parents bring that stuff into their offices and sell it there.” They said this as if it was some heinous, immoral act. I imagined moms and dads pimping dark chocolate and tulips to their hapless co-workers.
By fifth grade I’d had enough – I was determined to at least claim a low-level prize (a pair of cheap headphones or maybe a wiffle-ball set). After dropping off my backpack at home, I raced out to get a jump on the other kids with the confidence of a life-long salesman – I would be a closer, I would close.
Walking out the door and across the front lawn, I took a right turn down our street, Elsmere Ave. I decided to skip our neighbors’ house. They were an older couple with a middle-aged son who had been working on his car every day for years, usually wearing a wife beater and boxers. I was too young at the time to realize that there was something seriously wrong with him, not the car. Regardless, he still freaked me out.
Next up was Mr. Wilson’s house. He was the oldest person on the block (probably in his seventies), but would still come out and toss the football around with my friends and I sometimes, even though it took every muscle in his body just to throw it ten feet. “Did you know they named an award after my wife at the high school when she died?” he’d ask us. “Yes.” we’d say, wondering why he couldn’t remember that he’d already told us.
I rang the bell and when he came to the door and saw me, his face lit up. “I’m selling flower bulbs,” I said, “Would you like to buy some?”
“Well, sure.” He said, reaching down to take the catalogue from me. He flipped a page and pointed to a moderately sized Spring ensemble. “I’ll take these.” He said.
“Thanks, Mr. Wilson!” I said, and skipped back down his front walkway.
Ecstatic from the thrill of the sale, I figured I’d treat myself to a break. Even the best salesmen need to put their feet up every once in a while. Back at home my mom was so proud of me that she agreed to buy some bulbs – the first and last time this ever happened. Although these would be my only sales (and my only attempted sales, at that), it would be enough to reach that lower tier of prizes – not a Walkman, but something at least. After I delivered the bulbs and collected the money I’d get to choose my prize.
A month later when the bulbs came, it was time to deliver and collect. I headed out to Mr. Wilson’s house with his bulbs, practically shaking with excitement. When he came to the door he looked at me differently than usual. “Can I help you?” He said.
“Hi, Mr. Wilson,” I said, “I’ve got the bulbs you ordered.”
“Oh, no thanks,” He said, “I don’t want any.” and shut the door.
I was bawling by the time I got home. I couldn’t understand why he’d do such a thing. My mom tried to explain Alzheimer’s to me and said she’d pay for the bulbs, but it didn’t matter – I was devastated.
*********
Now I work in corporate America, and around the corner my co-worker Sybel sells chocolate for her kids. There’s no pressure to buy – she just leaves the box on the counter by her desk and the product sells itself. To this day I have no idea why my parents had such a problem with this, although I imagine it might have less to do with the act itself and more to do with the growth of capitalism.
It doesn’t matter though, because I’m Sybel’s best customer. Every day after lunch I can hear the chocolate bars calling to me from around the corner. And some days if I’m still there after she’s gone, I’ll go into her desk and find the box, taking a chocolate crisp bar and leaving a dollar in the envelope. What can I say? I’m a buyer, not a seller.
I was astounded, year after year, when kids like Danny Matheson, with his perfect little bowl-haircut, produced hundreds of dollars worth of sales. Seeing me upset, my parents shook their heads and always said the same thing: “Their parents bring that stuff into their offices and sell it there.” They said this as if it was some heinous, immoral act. I imagined moms and dads pimping dark chocolate and tulips to their hapless co-workers.
By fifth grade I’d had enough – I was determined to at least claim a low-level prize (a pair of cheap headphones or maybe a wiffle-ball set). After dropping off my backpack at home, I raced out to get a jump on the other kids with the confidence of a life-long salesman – I would be a closer, I would close.
Walking out the door and across the front lawn, I took a right turn down our street, Elsmere Ave. I decided to skip our neighbors’ house. They were an older couple with a middle-aged son who had been working on his car every day for years, usually wearing a wife beater and boxers. I was too young at the time to realize that there was something seriously wrong with him, not the car. Regardless, he still freaked me out.
Next up was Mr. Wilson’s house. He was the oldest person on the block (probably in his seventies), but would still come out and toss the football around with my friends and I sometimes, even though it took every muscle in his body just to throw it ten feet. “Did you know they named an award after my wife at the high school when she died?” he’d ask us. “Yes.” we’d say, wondering why he couldn’t remember that he’d already told us.
I rang the bell and when he came to the door and saw me, his face lit up. “I’m selling flower bulbs,” I said, “Would you like to buy some?”
“Well, sure.” He said, reaching down to take the catalogue from me. He flipped a page and pointed to a moderately sized Spring ensemble. “I’ll take these.” He said.
“Thanks, Mr. Wilson!” I said, and skipped back down his front walkway.
Ecstatic from the thrill of the sale, I figured I’d treat myself to a break. Even the best salesmen need to put their feet up every once in a while. Back at home my mom was so proud of me that she agreed to buy some bulbs – the first and last time this ever happened. Although these would be my only sales (and my only attempted sales, at that), it would be enough to reach that lower tier of prizes – not a Walkman, but something at least. After I delivered the bulbs and collected the money I’d get to choose my prize.
A month later when the bulbs came, it was time to deliver and collect. I headed out to Mr. Wilson’s house with his bulbs, practically shaking with excitement. When he came to the door he looked at me differently than usual. “Can I help you?” He said.
“Hi, Mr. Wilson,” I said, “I’ve got the bulbs you ordered.”
“Oh, no thanks,” He said, “I don’t want any.” and shut the door.
I was bawling by the time I got home. I couldn’t understand why he’d do such a thing. My mom tried to explain Alzheimer’s to me and said she’d pay for the bulbs, but it didn’t matter – I was devastated.
*********
Now I work in corporate America, and around the corner my co-worker Sybel sells chocolate for her kids. There’s no pressure to buy – she just leaves the box on the counter by her desk and the product sells itself. To this day I have no idea why my parents had such a problem with this, although I imagine it might have less to do with the act itself and more to do with the growth of capitalism.
It doesn’t matter though, because I’m Sybel’s best customer. Every day after lunch I can hear the chocolate bars calling to me from around the corner. And some days if I’m still there after she’s gone, I’ll go into her desk and find the box, taking a chocolate crisp bar and leaving a dollar in the envelope. What can I say? I’m a buyer, not a seller.
posted by Justin at 8:38 PM
2 Comments:
Great story. I sold Cutco knives one summer. I sucked at it. I did get that trick down where you cut a penny into a spiral with the super Cutco scissors. (Which, looking back, was most likely a violation of federal law.)
I sold Cutco, too! I lasted one weekend, although I sold to five of the six people I presented to. My parents were the only ones who didn't buy. My dad fell asleep during my presentation and I cut myself. The penny trick might have been illegal by then - we used a leather strap and bread.
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