You see, Ramsey is a salesman who comes from Tennessee. That, plus the motivational patter that runs through The Total Money Makeover, takes me straight down memory lane to my days as summer door-to-door seller for The Southwestern Company.
Yes. Drink that in for a second. I was one of those college kids running (and they always encouraged you to run! from house to house to keep up the energy) around suburban neighborhoods with a sales case full of children's dictionaries or Bible study aids or cookbooks.
We worked on straight commission--a simple percentage of each book sold. I think it was about 40 percent, but I may not be remembering that correctly. There was a one-week (free) sales school in Nashville, then you drove to your territory, took orders all summer and, during the last two weeks, had your books shipped in and you hand-delivered them. The last thing was check-in and reconciling accounts and selling back leftovers--once again in Nashville.
I did it all four summers of college (Texas, California, Ohio, Texas) In fact, we'd be driving down for Sales School this very weekend.
People who do personality assessments to determine what your ideal career should be would no doubt be prostrate in seizures, if they knew me. My adventures as a door-to-door seller are a classic bad fit. Think of trying to make this guy:
Into this one:
Of course I was horrible at it, which is why I call myself a "seller" and not a "salesman."
Selling things door to door is an experience like no other. The hatred and disdain of the customers, the harassment from police, the fear for your personal safety and of course, the money worries leave every nerve raw and sensitive. To do it and do it well, you need an inner reserve of self confidence I certainly had never dreamed of. That plus the ability to lie to yourself and really, really believe it.
I took several things away from this experience:
a) A resourceful outlook on obtaining food. One summer, when my roommates and I were short of cash--which was always--we'd drag ourselves into a fast food place that was open late. One of us would order something small. Fries or something. Then she would go up to the condiment bar and heap a napkin high with pickle slices. Someone else would get ketchup. That was our feast. Thanks to pickles and ketchup, we never went to bed hungry.
b)A twisted attitude toward "positive thinking." We were expected to work 80-hour weeks, Monday through Saturday. Sunday was reserved for church with your host family (we stayed in one place all summer, and were encouraged to join a church and find a landlord from amongst the parishioners). And for "sales meetings" that lasted hours. Of course, no one stood over you to make sure you worked that hard. You could get away with a nap in the car--if you had one--or a nice cool afternoon reading at the library. But if you did that, you didn't sell any books. The managers preached "positive attitude" pretty hard, to keep us going.
c)A blinding, unreasoning hatred of Texas and all things Southern. (So sorry, Lone Star State. I witnessed some true ugliness there, up close.)
The Southwestern Company didn't like you having a lot of extra time on your hands. If you did, you'd surely start thinking about home and how much you missed your family. So most of our "down time" was devoted to calls from the student managers and sales meetings designed to cheer us up. There was a whole positive attitude regimen we were supposed to follow as well.
When your alarm went off (and it was supposed to ring at 6 sharp, every day) you were supposed to leap from bed and jump straight into a cold shower. Cold! It had to be cold! because that's what got you pepped up. Then off you went to the mom-and-pop diner for breakfast. On the way, be sure and practice screaming, "I feel happy! I feel healthy! I feel terrific!" And smile! Big smile! BIGGER!
The Sunday sales school was a combination of inspirational, uplifting stories and ridicule of those who had jumped ship and gone home early. The quitters. No one wanted to be a quitter.
In a lot of ways, it was like a cult, or at least what I've read cults are like. You didn't want to argue with the group think. You didn't want to be "negative."
Believe me, I tried. But all the affirmations just never sank in. No matter how many times I yelled, "I feel happy, I feel healthy, I feel terrific!" I knew the truth. I felt fearful, nauseous and wan. And to deny my roommate, who had tears in her eyes with homesickness, a shoulder to cry on seemed cruel, even though it was the rule. I know the company thought it had my best interests at heart, but all those "positive attitude" rules felt like psychological bullying to me.
Given all that, why did I join up? I just wanted a chance to get out of my little Iowa farming town and see some sights. My grandparents had been through the Depression (I think I've mentioned this before) and did not believe much in vacations. As a result, one of my own family's priorities has always been a yearly trip of some kind.
Why did I stay with it four summers? That's harder to answer. Partly, I bought the bit about being a "quitter." And partly, I wanted to become a different person. Deep down, I wanted to become like those sales manager guys who walk into a room and are instantly laughing and joking and chatting with everyone. Like it's easy. Like my grandma always wanted me to be.
Don't get me wrong. I had some good times and made some good friends, too. You don't eat ketchup and pickles for supper several times a week without finding some way to make the experience worthwhile.
So if you see any of these kids with the plastic sales cases in your neighborhood, be good to them. Offer them a glass of water or tea, even if you don't buy anything.
But be careful. You might want to steer clear of asking any of them how they feel.
I see they still do the "pie contest." Here's a clip from a Seattle group, 2008.
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1 comment:
Great stuff, Rox
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