The Slob, page 4
I explained to him that a quality vacuum of this nature ultimately sold itself. It was nothing that the foul product peddler did or said to me outside of his demonstration that helped me in making a decision.
“Why haven’t we seen any female salespersons? A cleaning product from one woman to another seems like a logical sell. What would a man know about cleaning anyway?” I asked him, feeling out if he was understanding the concept.
“Probably because it’s dangerous, you know, just walking into strange houses. Wait a second… what are you saying? You think you can sell these?” Daniel asked me with a hint of concern swelling in his voice.
“They sell themselves, but if someone was a little skeptical, I know I could. You saw it too, this thing is phenomenal. No one knows more about cleaning than me, Daniel, and this is by far the best cleaning device I’ve ever seen. This could be a gold mine for us! If a schlub like that can walk in here and, in about five minutes, walk away with a hundred bucks, can you imagine what someone like me could do?” I explained to him as reassuringly as possible.
“You’re pregnant, Vera. You can’t go door-to-door while you’re pregnant. You know I love you with everything but I’m sorry, this idea, it just… it just sounds crazy to me. Plus, you’ll only be getting bigger as time goes on, you should just try and stay comfortable and forget about the money. We can find a way to manage, we always do.”
I looked at him with a deflated look leaking out of me. I could see he really hated the idea but it excited me so much. I needed him to just give me a chance to prove that it could help us and that it wasn’t as dangerous as he thought.
“Just give me one chance, Daniel. I never said it had to be permanent but I think it’s a good enough idea that we’ve gotta at least explore it.”
“If you keep talking like this... I’m... I’m just going to sell the damn car.”
“No. No, you’re not. I can do this, Daniel, I know I can. Just let me try it for a week. One week. I’m still in the first trimester right now. I can call these people and just see what it’s like. I could be completely wrong, and if I am, then it will be over immediately. But I at least expect you to support me and give me a chance to find out. Can’t you just compromise with me on this, please?”
It was always hard for him to say no to me. We both probably got along so well since we were just a pair of softies. He nodded his head giving me the okay before repeating the agreement, “One week.”
I looked down at the card with a fresh eager eye. Doorway Sales was the name of the company represented on the front. I called the next morning and talked to an annoyed, unintelligent sounding man who spoke rather frankly.
“Lady, you know, they call ‘em salesmen for a reason, right?” he said, putting a hard accent on the men part.
“Are you saying you won’t hire me because I’m a woman?” I asked him.
“No, it’s just, in this business, you’re going into people’s houses a lot. I mean, are you sure you’re comfortable with that? A broad like you coul—”
“I know what the job entails and I’m telling you I want in. If you don’t give me a fair shake then I just might have to let other people know what kind of sexist practices go on at Doorway Sales,” I said to him firmly.
“Whoa, geez, lady, relax. Don’t get your panties in a bunch. You got a car?”
“Yup.”
“Alright, be here tomorrow then!” he barked, slamming down the receiver like he’d just lost a battle.
It felt like things were about to start getting interesting and they only got better when I learned how much I could potentially make. The incentive system was remarkable for door-to-door sales, something that took me by surprise.
It was $20 per unit sold with an additional $20 bonus if I sold three or more each day. If I was any good at it, I could be making a lot more than I would by going full-time at the Hilton and in a much shorter timeframe.
Daniel gave me a concealable canister of pepper spray before I left on the first day. It was easy to tell where his head was at, still thinking the worst was descending upon us. It was sweet of him though. I knew he only cared for me and wanted to be sure I made it home safe. I kissed him on the lips and promised him I’d be careful. I wouldn’t go inside a house if it didn’t feel right and I’d keep the pepper spray handy at all times no matter what.
The first day couldn’t have gone better. It wasn’t long before I noticed that the majority of the women I spoke with related to and respected my humility. I also felt I had an edge against my male counterparts in the aspect that, if a woman was home alone, they would surely be more comfortable with another female entering their house as opposed to a strange man like the one who had appeared on my doorstep. And of course, as I suspected, they loved the product. My analysis had proven correct; the Bissell sold itself.
I approached seven houses fronted by women that day. Three of them had taken my card and the other four made in-cash purchases on the spot. Another house I visited had both a husband and a wife who happened to be home. It felt even more natural to sell to them.
I articulated the features, comparing my own house to theirs, which was also a ranch. This allowed me to key in on the hose-free benefit, which suited the buyer without a hint of embellishment. The couple happily became my fifth sale of the day and I hadn’t even had lunch yet. The getting was good, far better than I could have even imagined.
I only visited three other houses that day. One being another couple who seemed to be pretty high on the product but decided they wanted to think about it, and the other two were men. They were even easier to accommodate. Unsurprisingly, most of them were overly flirtatious with their wives away or being single and ready to mingle. A little sweet talk and a bat of the eyelashes and, suddenly, the Bissell was the ideal gift for their wife, girlfriend, sister, or mother.
By the day’s end, I returned to Daniel safe and sound, and, to his delight, much earlier than expected. I was all in one piece but a hell of a lot richer as evidenced by the fistful of Jacksons that I was clenching. I approached him cheerfully, ready to spread the good word and lucrative karma.
“I think I might’ve solved our problem,” I stated, looking at Daniel.
He didn’t seem especially happy still since I’d been gone for what would usually be my day off. He was probably sore that he was losing the time we normally spent with each other. Despite his overall disapproval, I knew he understood that what I’d fallen into was going to help our future.
I was able to convince him quite effortlessly that I was going to keep selling past the initial one-week agreement. The money was just too good to turn down and, for the first time, I think while he wished I didn’t have to continue selling, he understood that I should. I’d found a niche previously unbeknownst to me that I could exploit for a small window to help us eek our way just a tad further ahead.
I began mapping out the many neighborhoods around us and charting houses that I’d sold to in addition to ones who didn’t buy. Eventually, I could also keep a tally of the houses I’d been to that had sold or changed ownership. I might be able to revisit some of the same properties again with new clients inside. That was down the road, but maybe if sales remained consistent, I could resume my routes after I gave birth.
The weeks continued to fly by and the money continued to roll in. Once I was a few weeks into the second trimester, Daniel really started to petition for me to retire, at the very least until the baby was born.
“I can see that your feet are swollen, honey, I know you can’t be comfortable out there. I don’t want you walking around in pain all day. The money is nice but you’ve already made so much extra, don’t you think it’s time you take a break so we can count the earnings?” he pleaded with me.
I wasn’t ready to stop yet, there was too much cash up for grabs. I felt greedy but, at the same time, I knew I wasn’t. I was just supplying people with high-end customer service and useful products that made their lives much more convenient. All of that effort was going into brightening the future for our baby.
I expounded further for him, “This gravy train we are on is almost too good to be true, surely it won’t be around forever, right? We need to capitalize on this while we can. This is our opportunity and we have to grab it by the horns. It’s easy money, too easy to give up on yet.”
Ultimately, we ended up compromising. We came to the exact same conclusion we had initially: one week.
I would have one more week to make as many sales as I possibly could. I’d sell a few hours after my shift and then on the days I was off, and after that, it was all over. One more week to cash in on this fluky jackpot I’d hit. Once the week expired, it was time for me to focus solely on being a mother and the best wife I could be. We made a deal and he even made me shake his hand, apparently unconvinced that he could tear me away from my newest infatuation.
After we settled on the plan, everything went just as we had agreed. I was on the verge of capping off another exceedingly lucrative week of work but still set to retire, for the immediate future anyway. Before I knew it, Friday afternoon was upon me. I’d just finished selling two vacuums in an area that was a bit further away from where we lived. I was running out of houses. If I could just sell one more, I’d be eligible for the bonus. One more sale, forty more dollars. What a way to finish.
The pickings had become a bit slimmer, at least as far as what was considered a reasonable drive for me. The last two days, I’d found myself in more rural areas and further out from the burbs. I was okay with that though, it seemed like if I could step into a house out there, I could close a sale.
The folks in isolation were typically the friendly type and probably weren’t accustomed to sweet ladies like myself popping in at random times. I wasn’t blessed with a perfect childhood but at least I was blessed with good genetics. A pretty face like mine can go a long way in a business where everyone meets in person.
I had about two hours left before I would be set to head home and concentrate on my maternity. There was a road to my left I hadn’t been down yet. Through the bushy overgrown vegetation that seemed more prominent the further I looked down, I could see a street sign. It was too faded to make out the name, although the dead-end sign beside it was clear as day.
Those old country roads went quick. Many of them didn’t have more than a handful of houses on them. Two hours should’ve been more than enough time for me to at least put a good dent in it, if not get through the whole strip.
At the time, I figured that if it was longer than I expected, I could just mark it down on the map and come back at a later time. What I eventually would come to realize is that coming back wasn’t what I needed to worry about, it was coming out.
THE SLOB
As I traveled down the road for the first few minutes, I didn’t notice a single house. Sure, it was rural out there, but after five minutes, you’d expect to see something. The concrete turned to dirt and the trek got a bit more rigid. The bouncing suspension in my Chevy Spectrum was on the fritz; it was far from an all-terrain vehicle. I slowed my speed, starting to wonder if this drive was even going to be worth it. As I began looking for somewhere to turn around, I noticed a chipped russet roof further off in the distance.
“Finally,” I said aloud in the car to myself. I was really in the sticks now; the house was encompassed by a mixture of oaks and pines. The land surrounding me had become raw and unmaintained—the ruggedness of a road less traveled. The trees were not in their infancy by any means and towered over the front of the property, isolating it from any hope of outside contact.
Pulling into the driveway almost felt like it did when you arrived at a park campsite. After finally making it to the end, I noticed a big red pickup truck parked out in front of the house. I could also hear some pheasants clucking frantically in the barn to the right of the property, this was clearly country living.
The house itself was monstrous, the wood siding looked beat to hell and the shades that hung in the windows were yellowed from ages of sun-blocking. One of the odd features of the house was the barred windows, this was more of a style that you’d notice in the inner-city, not out in the boonies. So far, during my relatively brief travels, I’d yet to see it in that setting. Some people can be overly precautious, I rationalized.
One thing seemed certain, a massive house like the one I was faced with was a real pain in the ass to keep clean. The place had a lot of potential to be an easy sell. I’d come so far out of my way at this point, I was going to be pretty pissed if I couldn’t get a bite out of the interaction. I was hungry to finish my last run with a big payday and this next sale would be worth double. It was time to wrap things up on a high note.
I pulled the Bissell up to the front door beside me, envisioning the sale before I even pitched it. When I pressed the front button, it buzzed, sounding more like a telephone from the 60s than a doorbell. I could see one of the blinds behind the set of four windows in the half-hexagon design getting pulled sideways.
It was hard to see who was looking out due to the glare but it was good to know they were home. I could hear someone closing in on the door, and once they got near, a short series of unlocking noises.
I pulled the screen door toward me ready to meet the owner face to face and sell them the dream. As the flaking black door came ajar, the sunlight crept into the darker background. It was hard to make out initially but as it continued to further extend, the owner’s presence became more apparent.
The smell made its way out well before the owner; a pungent odor a million times worse than the disheveled salesman. As repulsive as it was to me, in the cleaning business, that was the smell of success. The smell of double-payout.
My sense of smell had evolved into something unique. It wasn’t the run of the mill, straightforward type that the majority of people took for granted without thanks. I’d had an unfortunate accident when I was younger that changed me and how I picked up on scents.
I wasn’t sure if I was able to still smell everything (although I liked to believe I could) but to what degree, and the potency seemed to be the major variance. Usually, I could at least pick up on most fragrances in the air, but on more than one occasion, people have pointed out odors that I’d been oblivious to. So, when a house’s aroma was too funky for me, I knew the situation must have been dire. But that just threw up more dollar signs and raised an extra calculated awareness within me. It let me know that the client, no matter how repugnant, had a high probability of being profitable.
The first thing I saw was his teeth. They reminded me of a bumblebee because they were mostly yellow and black. They were caked with plaque that looked like something you’d scrape off the bottom of an aquarium. There was also a buildup, possibly of food in the corners of his mouth. The leftovers were both crusty and wet in some areas. His gray jogging pants looked as if they were the only pair he’d ever put on. They were worn-out at the knees and frayed in other random areas.
The girth of his gut stretched the limits of his elastic waistband. It didn’t just hang over it, the ball of fat was so large that it had grown in both directions, taking both the over and under like a bet that didn’t make sense.
Not that I believed that the bizarre man was having sex, but if he was, it would be a serious challenge to find his manhood. It would be an equally serious challenge to clean himself in the shower… again, not that he appeared to be targeting that…
One of his shoelaces was untied and the other was missing completely. He was like a child that had tried dressing himself for the first time without Mommy. The boots he wore certainly had some miles on them. The steel-toe tip of his left boot was partially exposed while the other was missing completely. This left his foot open to the public. By the looks of it, his sickening stilt could use some fresh air but this would be at humanity’s expense.
His big toe was missing the nail like it’d been savagely ripped off. The skin had regrown over the torn area and still looked fresh with wrinkles and a rawness that was painful to look at. After examining the two toes beside it, the nail’s absence might’ve been for the best.
There was a marbled combination of beige and purple that he exhibited running through the base underneath the remaining cracked toenails. All of these areas were surrounded by a thick lip of dead skin. This wasn’t your typical case of athlete’s foot—this man was sure as hell no athlete. The man displayed a special level of bodily negligence that didn’t stop there.
The “white” undershirt he was wearing had lost any resemblance to the initial product it had been on the shelf. The discoloration was bleeding out from his skin; grime layered upon grime. His permanent armpit stains had stretched so far out that it felt like there was a possibility that they might get to meet someday. Curls of hair and flakes of dried skin overgrew out of his pits and sternum.
The man’s face was by far the most stomach-rumbling aspect of his presence. The dirt matted on his skin could be seen visibly clogging his pores, and an oil forest of irritation marched around his pancake cheeks. Many of the whiteheads and blackheads had hairs emerging out from them. Other parts of his face appeared as if he’d been clawing at them like a dog. They were scabby and leaking a mishmash of clear and red fluid while mostly absent of stubble.
He looked relatively young, but his many rows of crinkles were created from the massive amounts of lard insulating his surface. The blubber was distributed unevenly, so some areas mushroomed out more than others. His nose protruded outward, each nostril ejecting two crusted sprouting lengths of hair and a large bone at the halfway point, which almost curved a bit like a triangle.
His hair truly resembled a mop, stretching down behind his head to the back of his kneecaps. People seem to use that description often but I’d never met someone who it applied to more. Large clumps of his follicles found themselves clinging together by a self-generated hair gel that used his own ingredients as a secret formula. A mixture of grease, oil, and dried skin amongst other indescribable fluids that I could only speculate had joined together to birth the gross but effective adhesive.
