As I stalked the greater metropolitan berry patch, I came to realize how much of New York I had never known. Of course, I knew Manhattan or, more accurately, its known coordinates - the Village, the Met, the Cloisters, Lord & Taylors, Battery Park, Katz's... and so on. I knew points north and points “out on the Island.” I even knew points “out west” in Jersey but I was oblivious to the subtle weave and variety of neighborhoods that lay hidden within the vast panorama of urban monotony.
My own place on Austin Street was a perfect example. One emerged from the Union Turnpike station onto the harsh, tree-less, storescape of Queens Boulevard an avenue that might have been grand but that managed to abort its potential into everything that was at best banal. It was -- and this is the truth -- better to travel under Queens Boulevard than on it. And yet, but one block south and one was in a quiet tree-lined neighborhood of individually designed homes and front lawns that could have been Westchester County or the lower Connecticut shore. Again, three blocks in another direction and one and one was on the desolate concrete strand of what was, after all, a turnpike.
And so, when I think back on this summer, two contrary images come to mind. On the one hand there is the memory of always feeling hot, thirsty and sticky amid hot, humid, harsh, unforgiving, brick and asphalt ugliness where forty year old concrete overpasses built with too much sand were beginning to crumble before one's eyes, where a breeze was always mixed with dust and where an oasis of rest was a grimy corner drug-store-cum-soda-fountain or a metal-faced White Castle steamed-burger joint.
On the other hand, my memory calls up images of suburban townships. They were places of lush green lawns under sprawling trees and of children laughing and splashing in plastic pools. They were places of hotdogs and hamburgers roasting outback, amid the chatter of gatherings, or the sound of a wood bat meeting a ball as field lights brightly lit the town's commons and the falling dusk was livened by the cheers of fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers and friends ... while boy and girl slipped off quietly out of sight. They were places of seemingly deserted tranquility where open garage doors revealed a cornucopia of sports or hobby equipment. They were in short the America -- the complacent, confident, victorious America of prosperous equality -- I had always espied from afar and longed to share in upclose.
In a way, the lovely areas were worse. At dusk, suburban summers in the East Coast have a soft, languid air that exudes a trusting peacefulness and yet here I was, a predator sharp-talker descending on unsuspecting hamlets to pick off “berries” in a stealth commerce-war. I never felt more alienated and alone, nor more excluded and embarrassed even if my poaching was a necessity which I could not escape.
Early on in my rounds one afternoon, it began to rain. Oh Christ. I quickly darted up the steps and under a front door awning two houses down. There was no other cover in the neat row of suburban lawns that stretched before me. I stood there on the landing wondering when the rain would stop. After a while the front door opened part way. A middle aged woman peeked through the crack. “What are you doing?” “Oh, I'm sorry; I'm just trying to get out from under the rain.” “Are you a college student?” “Yes.” “Well, okay. But don't stand there too long.” “No ma'am.” The door shut and I went back to listening to the patter of rain drops on the aluminum awning. I wondered what I would do when “too long” was up.
After about five minutes the door opened again. It was still raining and my heart sank. “Well, there's no sense in you continuing to stand out there, so you might as well come inside; only promise you won't to try to sell us anything,” she said in cheerful, jocular manner. “I promise I won't.”
So I stepped inside, into the kitchen breakfast nook to the right of the front door and over the garage. The woman and her husband introduced themselves and beckoned me to sit down at the table. After shaking hands, I put my briefcase down and took a seat.
You're working your way through college, right?
“Yes, sir, that's right.”
“Would you like a coke or something to drink,” the wife asked.
“Oh... thanks very much; but that's ok. I'm fine.”
“No, no. Have something to drink,” she said as she poured a seven-up or coke.
So we sat there and talked a while; or, more accurately, I answered their questions as to where I was from, where I had been, what was I studying and so forth. After a bit, either their young son or daughter or both came in. “This is Kieran... (have I got that right?)... this is Kieran, he's working his way through college selling books.” I shook hands with the kids.
“Would you like a piece of cake?” the woman asked.
“Oh, no; that's fine, but thank you very much.”
“No, no. Have a piece of cake, it's left-over from a party.”
So I had a piece of cake, as we continued talking about innocuous things.
“So what's in the briefcase,” the husband asked.
“Oh, just my presentation materials.”
“Open it up, lemme see.”
Somewhat hesitantly, I opened it up and showed him the sample volume.
“Tell, you what; why don't you run through your presentation; let us see what it's like.”
“Yes, yes,” chimed in the wife, “that would be interesting.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” I said. “You made me promise.... I promised not to try to sell you anything. You've been more than kind letting me in from the rain. I'm not doing that.”
“Aw nah... don't worry about it. We're not gonna buy anything. It's just for fun. Just run it through like you normally would.”
I still demurred. They still insisted. They had given me shelter, coke and cake; how could I refuse? “Okay, but just so it's understood; I'm not selling you anything.” They laughed and assured me they wouldn't buy anything either.
So we moved over to the living room where they sat down on the couch flanked by their two kids, as I pulled up a chair and faced them over the coffee table. We pretended I had just knocked on the door and I showed them the types of testimonials we were looking for...
They followed attentively -- interrupting only once or twice to ask some pertinent question -- as I ran through the whole spiel down to the piggy-bank conversion.
At that point, however, I leaned back and said,
“Well... that's about it....”
“We'll take it.”
They were a light-hearted couple; they had to be joking.
“You're joking, right?”
“No. We want it; what do we have to do?”
I reiterated that fact that we had agreed I wouldn't sell them anything and that I had we had done it all just for fun. They repeated that they really wanted to buy it. So we moved over to the kitchen counter where I pulled out the paper work and where Mr. Marcinak wrote a check for the down payment. The rain had by now stopped and we took our farewells. They wished me luck for the summer and at college and I hoped that they would enjoy the encyclopedia. I really did.
For years afterwards, I thought the incident demonstrated the magical convincing force of the presentation. But maybe Jack was right. Maybe we didn't really sell anything. Maybe all we did was offer an opening for people to do what they really wanted.
Still, it was hard work facilitating people's inner desires. For every presentation made there were 50 doors slammed in my face; and for every sale made, there were 10 presentations that failed to “convert.” On average, I made only one sale per week which was barely enough to live on and very disheartening.
One early afternoon, as we assembled at midtown headquarters, Lloyd Altman came over and mentioned that I looked dispirited. I was, I replied. I told him I did not like the manipulativeness of what we were doing, how alienated I felt and, besides, how it was just plain hot, humid and tiring, and for all that I wasn't making many sales. Altman paused for a moment, looked down at me and then, in a booming baritone, belted out
riiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-iiiii diiii pagli-aaaa-a ccooooo !
I was stunned. At that moment, I acquired a new appreciation for Altman. He had heard exactly what I was saying and had given me a humane, and in fact a manly, reply. Yes the summer sucked, life sucked, life will always suck; we're pathetic clowns for the gods, what was I going to do about it except carry on? As pissed as I was, I had to smile.
©kcm
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