Job

I really can't sell kitchen knives. For that matter, I can't sell any damn thing. I couldn't sell a dying man a fresh start. I'd tell him I have this incredible opportunity for him to live fifteen more years.

"How do I know you're telling me the truth?" he'd ask.

I'd have to say I don't have a fuckin' clue. "The guy that trained me said that for only one thousand dollars down and five easy payments of five hundred dollars a month for the next five months, you could be the proud owner of a new heart and a fresh set of lungs. He said to ask you, 'Doesn't that sound great?'. So I'm asking."

He'd die right there in front of me and leave me holding a lot of valuable body parts I have no use for. I hate this bloody job.

I don't know if you could equate kitchen knives with a fresh start. The guys at the company think you can. They'd have you believing that, as of the precise moment you take ownership of whatever knife they're demonstrating to you, your life is exactly this much --hold thumb and forefinger a millimetre apart-- better, more fulfilled. After the demonstration the boss gave me of how to show the product without being pushy, I wanted to have what he was selling. I lost sight of what I was there for. To be recruited as a salesperson for the company.

He told me he never thought he could do this job, either, but that once he had sold a few orders, he became quite confident in himself and in the product. He could tolerate hundreds of rejections. He believes that I can sell knives too. All I'd have to do is believe in myself. Well I do. But I know I can't sell. My best pitch is:

"Here it is. It's a damn good product. I'd buy one if I had the money. And I will have the money if you help me out by buying one right now."

(At this point I pause and smile sarcastically.)

"You say you can't afford it? You have to ask your wife first? I understand. Here's my number if you should change your mind."

Once outside I begin cursing. "What kind of a pussy-whipped wimp has to ask his wife for permission to buy something he'd be better off having? I don't believe he can't afford it. He's a lying sack o' shit. Ah fuck, they're probably all like that. In that case, fuck 'em all, the whole goddamn bunch. I don't need this shit."

Selling knives with this company isn't all bad. For some guys it works out. You demonstrate the product to a few of your close friends, neighbours, people you know. You ask them if they know of anyone who would be nice enough to take a look, and could you please demonstrate the knives to them? You call on these referred people on the telephone or in person. They should be expecting you because their good friend told them about you, about what a nice person you are. You work only through referrals, and you demonstrate right in the peoples' own homes.

My boss said, "You don't have to sweet talk the customer because the product sells itself."

And they'll never have to buy another set of knives. (That's supposed to be the clincher.) When I heard that, I signed up to sell for them.
I did two demonstrations. One for my buddy; one for my Mom. I performed all the amazing feats I learned the knives could do. I stuttered through the manual, regurgitating every heartfelt syllable to the best of my ill appetite, pointing out every interesting feature of every last knife. I showed the razor-sharp edges, the durable construction, and the electronically heat infused handles. When I finished, I breathed deeply.

"So whatdya think?"

"Yeah, but how much?" they both said.

"The important part is that you'll never have to buy another knife."

Not good enough. They wanted dollars and cents. (Even Jon, who routinely drops half his salary on lime and lagers at The Gay Maiden.)

"It's only eight- hundred-and-thirty-eight dollars for the homemaker set with eight tables knives." I looked at the floor. And then, full of hope, I looked up.

'You've got to be kidding' was etched on their faces, right over their awestruck open jaws.

"Okay then", I began as I was taught to, "we have several other sets that might interest you..." By now, my lack of resolve and lack of enthusiasm were heavy in my gut. I could have gone on, stuttering through the manual, regurgitating every heartfelt syllable. But that familiar nausea which I always feel when I'm trying to sell something, would get worse.

And so, my blabbering mouth fatigued. I wanted to go home. That's a bad sign, I thought, and I knew it was time for me to quit. After just two demonstrations; twenty hours after I signed the terms of employment.

I do believe there's good money to be made in this venture. That's what's really disconcerting to me, as I announce my retirement from the knife selling business. The product is really good. Every knife the company sells comes with a lifetime guarantee, all parts and service. In the knife business, a lifetime guarantee is extremely hard to come by because, as I understand it, most knives are constructed with planned obsolescence in mind. Most knives are intended to rust, corrode, dull (the blades) and crack (wood handles), among their numerous shortcomings.

But some of these knives do really cool tricks. One cuts a half-inch thick piece of rope in a single slice. The table knife can cut leather strips better than any knife it's been compared with. My Mom sure was impressed. The butcher knife is menacing. Another one called the 'Fisherman's Solution' had me aching to bait a hook. The scissors are the most awesome. With them, I cut a Canadian penny into a corkscrew. Then I did it again. Then I cut paper to make sure they were still sharp. Razor-sharp they were. Man, I wanted a pair.

But it was too much. The forty-minute rehearsed sales pitch, straight from the sales manual, dealing with objections. I get crazy. Jiving through all that shit makes me feel silly, then tongue-tied.

So I'm covered with sweat and the demonstration's ending in a refusal. "Thanks for showing it to me. I really liked it, but..."

I'm thinkin' I might become homicidal. I'd become keenly aware of the knives I have at my disposal. My knives would take on lives of their own. They would do human-carving acrobatics. The butcher knife would lead a raucous parade of knife tomfoolery with his bravado and sheer power. The daring petite carver would search out the heart of the victim with cold precision. Meanwhile, the steak knife would ready itself at the cutting board for whatever organs randomly splash out from said person and onto the floor. I'd scoop up an eye, an intestine, part of a lung, and set it carefully on the board, anticipating what wondrous feats the steak knife might perform on it. No concern for damages. I am a knife-toting maniac.

The boss and I agreed on the reason why I quit. I don't want to sell kitchen knives, just like I said. We both felt I could do it, if I'd wanted to. Well, he thought so anyway.