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Three chapters from what I can't bear losing

American Poetry Review, The, Nov/Dec 2003 by Stern, Gerald

A Special APz Supplement

Salesman

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MY ORDINARY RESPONSE TO TELEMARKETing is like everyone else's. Depending on how occupied I am and how much I am enraged at that moment by the national pastime of false witnessing, I can be bored, angry, or vengeful. I always know because there's a little delay on the line since my deluder is making several calls at once; and I know because of the hesitancy in saying my name and, simple as it is, mispronouncing it. My beloved says, "Why don't you get a real job?" whereas I either hang up, or lecture them about decency or scream at them for calling me by my first name, as if they were intimate with me, like a dentist's secretary or a canvasser for the Police Benevolent Association. But this morning I was either lonely or touched by an unusual kindness because I listened to the spiel and stayed on the phone a good ten minutes, as if I were seriously interested in the product and the possibility. Her name was Adrienne and she was from Egg Harbor, New Jersey, and she hated George W. because he stole the election and was owned by the corporations, and she understood why I not only didn't want her to call me "Gerald" but to repeat the name at the end of each and every sentence. She did switch to "Mr. Stern," but she couldn't get out of the litany habit. Though I, in my new mood, forgave her.

Adrienne was selling Thermoguard replacement windows and doors. Her pitch wasn't strong and she quickly accepted the fact that I didn't "need" windows and doors, but her ploy-if it was a ploy-was that I should please order anything, at least express some interest, since she would get credit, a bonus. I responded to the personal appeal, I was, for a second, a good sucker, and I pitied her, probably an overworked single mother with her kids at day care or her resentful mother's house. I suddenly remembered that I did need a kitchen door since the one I had installed maybe four years ago, giving off to my lovely deck, had been split apart at the bottom, probably by the rain, certainly because the door was made of the cheapest material. Adrienne was overjoyed and told me I'd get a hundred-and-fifty-maybe it was two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar rebate on the door. That was the bait. And the offer was only good for seven more days. Her supervisor, Stan, would call me in five minutes sharp, to corroborate the foot in the door, and Dave, the salesman, would be knocking on my front door at 1:00 P.M.-two hours thence. Then we said goodbye. Stan mainly wanted to know if I was the sole owner-he didnt want a recalcitrant spouse to deal with. Dave arrived at twelve.

I knew I wasn't going to buy a door from Thermoguard but I wanted Adrienne to get her bonus. I must admit I wasn't too guilty about the salesman-Dave-and anyhow I rationalized that I might buy a door and-anyhow-I would get information. I even thought for a minute my mind was open and we would see. I always face things when they're right on top of me and I suddenly realized that I first had to go back to the lumber yard where I bought the door and argue with them. But there was no time to do that now.

When I saw Dave on my front porch, I was shocked. He was not a typical tin-man or window salesman, wearing a cheap suit and tie and carrying a dispatch case full of samples. Nor did he have an ingratiating, slimy, or arrogant manner. He had on a blue V-neck sweater over a loose T-shirt, a short, rather flimsy jacket, jeans, sneakers, and no hat. He was in his seventies with a deeply lined face, long carefully combed white hair-the only hint of vanity-small feet, and eyes that showed cunning, fear, and exhaustion. He seemed humbled by life, but there was a reserve. Back-up wisdom, he went through the mechanics with no false enthusiasm and accepted my rules of the game quickly I didn't want any windows; I wouldn't listen to any promotions; I wasn't interested in zero finance for six months. We walked to the back door, we looked at the construction, and the rot, he showed me pictures of replacements. It would be a steel door, the frame would be replaced, and, as I understood it, the steel would be covered with plastic and painted in the white of my choice and it would be guaranteed for either ten or sixty years, I can't remember which. I tried to guess what it would cost. I thought it would be a thousand but it was over two thousand which, due to the recession (2002) was a bargain because the usual price was forty-two hundred dollars. I told Dave I would call him if I wanted the door replaced. He lamely suggested, after some prodding from Stan, whom he called on my phone since his cell phone wasn't working, that he would be happy to write up a contract, get all the paperwork done for convenience's sake, another standard ploy, but his heart wasn't in it and he acquiesced quickly when I rejected that idea. Of course if I signed up now the price would be guaranteed.

The thing about his face, in addition to the wavy hair and the sad eyes, was the broken nose. It had a sideways thrust and was obviously the result of some crushing blows. The way he walked, the resigned and graceful manner, convinced me that he had spent some time in the ring. I had seen those movements before. If he had, he would have been a lightweight. We spent only a half hour together but I felt close to him. It was not just him, it was the type I was seeing. He was from my boyhood and my youth, and several of my high school friends had ended up selling storm windows and cars and ketchup. One of my college friends, Hymie Millstone, had wanted desperately to go to medical school. He had a perfect A average as an undergraduate but his father, a milkman, had no political connections so Hymie was denied entrance. There was a real if unofficial quota of 10 percent Jews and he was low man. He taught at the medical school itself for a while but ended up selling cigars, quite bitter about his lot and particularly angry with the other Jew who was admitted instead of him, since he did have pull, though he ended up in pharmacy school when he couldn't make the grade. Hymie probably was a cynical salesman, probably ruthless, and contemptuous of his customers.

Three chapters from what I can't bear losing

American Poetry Review, The, Nov/Dec 2003 by Stern, Gerald

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