A Day In The Life Of Kirby

By Eric Malcolm

            I found myself looking in the mirror in the bathroom with no soap or toilet paper, adjusting my tie.  All the other new guys stopped wearing ties, but I kept mine to give myself a false sense of professionalism.  It seemed that the higher-ups back at the corporate office did the same thing, when really underneath their ties they were morally inclined salesmen and cokeheads.  The guys I worked for drove brand new cars, wore Rolexes and had expensive drug habits, but they all had trouble with money, lived in crummy apartments and had empty bank accounts.

            The morning meeting started at 10:00 AM, but we never hit the road until at least one or two o’clock.  I spent the morning cleaning my Kirby, reading consumer reports, and chain-smoking, while listening to faint arguments between Mr. B and several of the team leaders, presumably over money.  Mr. B (the puppet master of the whole operation) was very good at hiding his frustration with myself and the other new guys.  But I could sense that under his skin he was crawling with irritation and utter annoyance at our lack of experience.  I also sensed this with our team leaders, but I really didn’t care.

            An elderly black woman opened the first door I knocked that day.  Her little Jack Russell Terrier ran out at me, wagging his little tail curiously at my arrival.  The guys left me there with my Kirby, and after a short talk I realized her credit was about as strong as a paper-towel umbrella.  So I gave up on the unattainable sale, kicked back with a Pepsi, and watched an unfamiliar soap opera with her for a bit.

            Back in the Grand Cherokee I noticed the sweat under my arms, and I said to myself, “It may be hot as a mother-fucker, but at least it’s not winter.”  Positive thinking was essential in this racket.  We continued to drive, and I found myself in the middle of a very wealthy neighborhood.  People in these towns have rock-solid credit, but it doesn’t compare to the rock-solid barrier they put up between themselves and me, a young, suspicious, fast-talking kid in a tie, wearing my false smile and holding my bag of tricks that they know they don’t want to see.

            A beautiful girl named Shasta opened one door.  She told me she was named after a flower, but to this day I still think her father was drinking a Shasta Cola in the delivery room.  She was my age, and for the first time that day I didn’t have to fake my smile.  She lived in a small town I never heard of, and was impressed by my display of culture the local country boys lacked.  I told her that if she were my girlfriend I would write her poetry telling her she was an exquisitely beautiful and exotic flower (playing on the whole name thing).  She didn’t surprise me when she told me that none of the boys in her life ever wrote her any poetry, and she always loved poets.  So I was feeling solid, until her mom walked in from the kitchen, where she was listening to our conversation, and told me to get my shit and leave.  I decided not to argue, because I wanted a cigarette, and this was a non-smoking house.  It was then about 5:30.

            As always, my stomach starting aching, and I decided I had to make friends with the next family I knocked so I could eat something.  Joe shared a little of his packed lunch with me, and while I sat and ate it, I wondered how such a nice guy could get so many sales.  When Joe was alone with clients, he became a psychological genius, playing on every response and closing on his deals like a sledgehammer.  My conscience always kicked my ass when I used the dirty little tricks I learned, so I usually made use of every form of flattery I knew, conveying an aura of politeness swirled with charm, and likewise I usually found myself rummaging threw a strangers fringe for something to eat while they watched contently.  Hell, in the next house I even got a beer with my meal.  What I didn’t get was a sale, but I was trying to think positively.

            7:30 brought me to the Hail Mary of the day, my last chance to strike a deal with someone and actually turn a profit that’s not edible for the day.

            Some of the guys I worked with didn’t like knocking in black neighborhoods.  I’ve always believed racism is just plain ignorance.  Some people fear what they don’t know, while others embrace the unknown and look for the many similar qualities that exist.  The burly black man didn’t want to let me in, but I always had the trick to solve the problem in this particular situation.  First I told him “What will your friends all say when you tell them that you had a white boy cleaning your house?”  This always brought a smile to their face, and showed them that I had a sense of humor that doesn’t come with some white door-to-door salesmen.  Then I hit him with my line “Listen, if you don’t like what I have to say, you can grab my little white ass and toss me out into the street.  You’re a big guy who would seem to have no trouble in doing that.”  Of course, this was the last thing I wanted, but it always got me into a house to do a show, and I never found myself lying in the road bleeding, so I used it.

            The burly man sat by a stereo singing Earth Wind and Fire, his daughter and a family friend were in the living room taking shots of Jose Cuervo, and his granddaughter was intently watching my demonstration.  Now a five year old can’t buy a Kirby, but entertaining a child has a lot of benefits.  Parents tend to like you better when you show patience with their children.  And at the very least, if the parents don’t trust you, they pay more attention to you when you are around their kids, and that’s just what you want, in a sick way.  You want their attention by any means necessary.  But my show was no match for Earth Wind and Fire, so after I blew up some balloons for the little girl and her friends, I decided to change my angle, and warm up a little bit more with these strangers.  I began matching them shots, and we got into a very interesting series of conversations, which in reality was their way of feeling me out, and I represented myself well.  There wasn’t anything I was nervous to talk about, whether it was race, my attraction to black women, as well as white, the differences between black and white women, and even the whole penis issue.  The family friend asked me if I had a penis complex with black guys.  I replied by saying to him that I am the “black sheep” of my family.  It was nine o’clock, and my new friends asked me if I wanted to throw in on some blunts.  Shit, it was my last show of the day, so why not?  By the time I left their house, invited to come back any time I please, I was a little fucked up.  In fact, I had trouble putting the damn Kirby back in the box.  Sitting in the Cherokee, all the new guys told me they were jealous, and the general phrase was “Wow, you look like you had fun.  I wish I knocked that house!”  But they had it all wrong.  I sat back thinking about them being afraid to talk to people in some of the black neighborhoods.  Plus, I’ve seen them get ripped drinking one bottle of Rolling Rock on the ride back to the office before, and pictured them taking a couple shots of Tequila and puking all over the place.  But they couldn’t understand this, so I just smiled and shook my head to their ignorant envious comments.

            We pulled into the parking lot of the office around eleven o’clock.  Mr. B was back at the office, and his purpose at this point was to pump up all the new guys and feed them with shallow promises about easily accrued fortunes and riches, distracting them from the fact that they put in a thirteen-hour-day and didn’t make a single cent.  Most of all, his job was to train them to become part of his growing army of salesman, making lost little puppies into bulldogs.  I never really paid attention to his little Hitler Pep Rallies, in fact from the start I trained myself to see through them, and he knew this, so I actually commanded more respect from him then the others received.  Ironically, I didn’t give a shit.  The boys all made promises that the next day they were going to get at least three sales each, while Mr. B smiled at his growing little Chia Pets, and I watched in curiosity at their lack of concern for reality, and their naivety towards their fearless leader that I never quite trusted.  We said our goodbyes, and left one by one into the darkness of the night.

            That night at home, I spent my evening ironing my clothes, buffing my shoes, going over consumer reports, and debating whether or not to go in the next day.  I eventually decided to go to bed, watching my window of potential sleep decrease to about four hours.  While lying in bed, I closed my eyes, and felt my head start to spin.  The next morning I was going to face a very ugly hangover.  Thank god for Gatorade and strong coffee.

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