A FBOW excerpt in sequence: “Big Bucks”

Motioning to a chair on the opposite side of his desk… Hesitating. Waiting until the young man settled himself.

Looking at the ceiling and clearing his throat, the older man brought his attention back to Mitchell. “You do know we usually let the part-timers go after New Year’s. But this year business went on, at least until now and I was able to justify to them…” jerking his head upward, he glanced at the ceiling, “a part-time staff. But now…” hesitating again, “...I’ve got to let you go.”

“ ‘Mister Bornstein’…”

“Please, Mitchell...” holding his hand in a halting gesture, “...let me finish. ‘Believe me’, knowing you’ve just had a baby I ‘know ‘how badly you must need this job and I feel ‘terrible’ having to do this, and also you’re a good salesman and I ‘hate’ to lose you, but…”

___________________________________________________________

Chicago, Illinois

April 28 through May 2, 1957

Due to Marsha’s unexpected surgery and extended stay in the hospital, Michael had been weaned from his mother while quarantined in ‘pediatrics's’ and placed on formula. So in addition to the other immediate expenses, formula was needed and formula cost money, too. And even with an added dependent and less withholding for tax and a five dollar a week raise, eighty dollars a week did not stretch that far… Oh, no, not by a long shot!

****

“Here’s one that sounds interesting, Marcie.”

He circled the ad in the classified section of Sunday’s ‘Chicago Tribune’ then handed the paper to her.

$$$ Earn BIG $$$ Outside salesman needed for evenings

& weekends. Selling experience not necessary. We train &

supply all leads. Car needed. Or. 3-7722

Desperate for ‘anything’. “So...” he asked, “...what do you think?”

“Sounds okay to me. Give ‘em a call and find out what it’s about.”

April 30, 1957

The small warehouse was in Skokie, located in the same light industrial complex where Mitchell had worked during his last year of high school.

Sitting on steel folding chairs, the eight potential ‘trainees’ watched and listened to the man that had introduced himself simply as ‘Al’.

Demonstrating the ‘pitch’, Al stood behind a kitchen table pitching to an attractive young woman wearing slacks and a blouse who had been introduced simply as ‘Ann’ who sat at the far right of the table with her chair angled towards the trainees.

On the table was an assortment of stainless steel pots, pans and skillets of varying sizes that had, somehow, come out of two large, imitation leather suitcases.

In a well practised demonstration, Ann parried each of Al’s selling points, by rote, with an objection that in turn was rebutted by Al, by rote, who continued the pitch as smoothly as running water.

“But there’s ‘so’ much here! I’ll never need ‘all’ of it!”

“Maybe not now, Miss Smith, but this is for your hope chest. For when you and, uh, what did you say your fiancé’s name is?”

Turning to the trainees. “Most women respond to our calls because they either are getting married or hope to get married.”

Turning his attention back to ‘Miss Smith’.…

“ ‘Harry’,” Miss Smith said.

“When you and Harry get married, you ‘do’ plan on having a family, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course we want children.”

To the trainees. “Try to get her used to saying ‘yes’.”

To Miss Smith. “Then you’ll need this...” lifting the one quart saucepan, “...for heating the baby’s bottles. And this...” pointing to the largest pot, “...for those special times when you have your and Harry’s families over for dinner.”

Forcing a giggle, “I burn water.”

“I think not with these, Miss Smith. You see our cooking utensils all come with a ‘space age’, heat conducting core…” tapping the bottom of the saucepan, “...that makes it almost impossible for ‘anyone’...” forcing a laugh, “...even you, Miss Smith to burn ‘anything’! You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Miss Smith?”

“Oh, ‘yes’!”

“And we have another feature found in ‘no’ other cooking utensil. This is our patented ‘Spin Seal lid’.”

Taking the lid from the one quart sauce pan, using a spray bottle Al sprayed the outer edge of the lid. Placing the lid back onto the pot, spinning it, Al then held the pot a foot off the table by the lid handle.

’“See, we form a perfect ‘water seal’ on your pot that retains all the healthful, valuable vitamins and minerals your family will need. That’s a pretty wonderful feature, wouldn’t you say, Miss Smith?”

“Oh, yes!”

“And you ‘would’ be happy if you ‘could’ make dinner for your fiancé’s family, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, of ‘course’ I would!”

“Well, Miss Smith, with this ‘wonderful’ set of ‘marvellous’ heat conducting, stainless steel cook wear, your meals will practically cook themselves! That is pretty wonderful, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is!”

“But you know what? That’s not ‘all’ there is, Miss Smith, because we also give you, ‘absolutely free’, this ‘wonderful’ set of cutlery.”

Opening an oblong cardboard box, lifting each item individually and holding it forward, Al showed the trainees…

If this were a movie, Mitchell thought, there’d be a drum roll.

Al laid out an assortment of imitation bone-handled knives, including a carving knife and fork, four paring knives of varying sizes and six serrated-edge steak knives.

Once again speaking to ‘Miss Smith’...

“In addition to this wonderful set of our patented heat conducting, stainless steel cookware…” Al said, sweeping his hand across the table with a flourish, “…and this practical set of ‘beautiful’ knives, we will also give you, ‘absolutely free’, this two volume set of ‘The Bride’s Cookbook’.”

Holding one in each hand, Al showed the two 8x10 paperback books to the trainees, then handed both to ‘Miss Smith’ who pretended to look through them.

“Now, Miss Smith...” Al went on, “… if’ you can find them, the cookbooks alone would sell for ‘at least’ five dollars each in ‘any’ book store! But the books are given to you ‘absolutely free! And they are in addition to this wonderful set of carving utensils that are also free!”

Allowing the words to sink in Al waited a number of seconds.

Then once again dramatically sweeping his arm over the miscellany of pots, pans, knives and books. “And we will give ‘all’ of this to you for the wonderfully low, ‘direct’ factory to you ‘wholesale’ price of ‘just’ one hundred, twenty dollars! Seems too good to be true , doesn’t it, Miss Smith?”

Walking around the tale, sitting on the edge. “Remember, each time you get her to say ‘yes’ you’ve got a ‘minor close’. And each time you’ve got a minor close, you’re that much closer to a ‘major close’.”

Momentarily looking from man to man.

Going back to the other side of the table, he nodded to Ann, who said…

“All of this! For ‘only’ one hundred and twenty dollars?”

“Yes, Miss Smith! You ‘do’ want this set, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes! Only problem is, I just can’t afford it.”

“Sure you can, Miss Smith! With our E-Z Credit Plan. With just… How much did you say you’re going to put down, Miss Smith?”

Looking at the trainees. “Close by ‘assumption’!” Al said, nodding at Ann.

“Would twenty dollars be enough?”

“Yes, twenty dollars will be just fine, Miss Smith. Here…” reaching into one of the suitcases, Al removed an order pad, “…let me show you how we can work it out…. Okay, Ann, thanks.”

“Yeah, okay, Al.”

Going to the so called ‘boiler room’. To one of the four plaster board partitioned desks at the far end of the small warehouse, glancing at a list on the desk Ann sat and dialed a number.

“Hi!” Picking up where she’d left off when asked to assist in the demonstration, “Is this Nancy Warren?” Ann, once again, began to make soliciting phone calls.

Once again perched on the end of the table. “We’ll give you...” Al said, “...as many qualified leads as you can ‘effectively’ handle. Each time you sell a unit...” jerking his thumb over his shoulder, “...you make twenty-five bucks, clear. You’re working as an ‘independent’, so we don’t take tax. We give you a monthly statement and what you pay Uncle Sam is up to you. If you get the broad to go for credit, there’s another ten spot for you, and that’s thirty-five bucks for, maybe, an hour’s work.”

“What’s the average?” a middle-aged, balding man asked. “How many calls a guy usually make before he sells this stuff?”

“ ‘Closing’ is the name of the game.” Al said. “And how often you close depends on you. The longer you do this kind of work the better you get at it. And the better you get at it, the more you’ll close.”

Knowing the next question. “If you work smart, you guys ought to be making ‘easy’, better’n a ‘C-note’ note a week working part time in a couple’a weeks. And if you don’t, we don’t want you around and won’t waste the leads on you!”

More than hundred bucks a week! Mitchell thought. I’d have to work at Field’s over a month to make that kind of money.

“Where do the original leads come from?” asked another of the trainees.

“Yeah...” the balding man asked, “...and how good are they?”

“Caterers, formal-wear shops, florists, hotels, banquet halls and some other sources I’d rather not mention.” Pointing towards the four partitioned desks. “Ann and the three other girls make calls from here five nights a week.” Turning to the balding man, Al added, “And those four are ‘very’ qualified!”

Another man, obviously having experience at this type of selling, or at least this type of demonstration. “What’s it gonna cost us? What do ‘we’ pay...” he asked, pointing to the table, “...for our demo kit?”

“A hundred for the demo set and cases. The freebies for the customers are pro-rated into the cost of the set.”

A hundred bucks! Mitchell, who had decided he was going to do it, asked, “What if I don’t have a hundred bucks?”

Al, of course, had noticed Mitchell. “ ‘E-Z Credit’.” He said with mixed feeling due to past experience telling him that men as good looking as this man could either be an asset or a liability because, if the girl’s boyfriend or fiancé happened to be there when the pitch was made, the girl will often love him, but the guy will almost always hate him!

“We take twenty bucks down and you’ll pay fifteen a month till it’s paid. If you quit or we let you go, your girlfriend, wife or mother’ll have a great set of pots’n’pans!”

“No...” Mitchell said, “...no girlfriends. I’m married and got a kid and don’t care how great they are! One thing I sure as hell don’t need is another set of pot’n’pans.”

“Good...” Al said, “...then you sell lots’a pots and pans and we’ll all be happy.”

May 1, 1957

“He’s got to pay for his own samples? I’ve never heard of such a thing!” Reaching for Michael, “Here, let me hold him.” Taking the baby from Marsha, Rhea sat on the sofa.

“Well, that’s the way they do it, Mother. Mitchell says he’s pretty sure he’ll be able to make about two hundred a month.”

“By selling pots and pans to girls?” Rhea asked dubiously.

“Not ‘girls,’ Mother! ‘Engaged women’! These are engaged women who make appointments so they can see the, uh, merchandise in their own homes and Mitchell’ll make between twenty-five and thirty-five dollars every time he sells a set.”

“Okay. But don’t most of these girls… ‘engaged women’ think that, ‘maybe’, they might get a set of pots and pans as a gift? You did.”

“Yeah, some might, I suppose. But not everyone’s lucky enough to have a wedding like Mitchell and me. And anyway, this way the girl, uh, ‘woman’ is able to have what she wants, not what someone wants to give her.”

“Well, the whole thing doesn’t smell very kosher to me. But if ‘you’ don’t mind your husband being alone with these women in their homes, with no one else there…”

“‘Mother’...” Marsha said angrily, “...are you trying to tell me that you think Mitchell would fool around with his customers?”

“I told you before, Marsha, your husband looks at women!”

“And I told you before ‘Mother’, Mitchell ‘only’ looks!...”

****

Since living in the same building there had been three instances when Mitchell had been sent upstairs for one reason or another. And knowing they would be alone, Rhea had—subconsciously?—worn something inconspicuously alluring: her clinging, leopard skin patterned robe, unzipped a bit lower than need be; or a low-cut, tight fitting sweater and a slip. Once, rationalising It’s only Mitchell, Rhea had worn something ‘not’ so inconspicuously alluring; only a bra and slip… a shimmering bra that allowed the outline of her course nipples to become embossed upon the silky material, that became even more, much more defined once she knew Mitchell was looking, and, oh yes, he did slyly look.”

Rhea had ‘no’ intention of ‘ever’ being physical with her son-in-law, whom she— so she told herself— disliked… hated? Because, after all, she was the mother of his wife and he has ‘no’ business looking at her as he did—on those occasions when ‘she’ induced ‘those’ looks.

Though, actually, if Mitchell or other men did ‘not’ look at her, Rhea’s ego would certainly have been shattered.

Mitchell, on the other hand, liked his mother-in-law and on those occasions when he had been sent upstairs, he had gone willingly because —remembering the low zipped, nylon, leopard skin patterned robe she had worn on the morning Marsha and he had arrived at the apartment—he never knew what to expect from his mother-in-law and she hardly ever disappointed him. Because...

Especially the time she had come to the door in that shimmering, nipple displaying bra…

Because he would then envision his wife at the age of her mother, thinking, Of course, Marsha could never have boobs ‘that big’! But if my wife looks as good as her mother when she’s ‘that’ old; growing older sure as hell ain’t going to be all ‘that’ bad.

 ****

“And I told you before ‘Mother’, Mitchell ‘only’ looks!”

Not caring if she did… Possibly— for some deeply hidden reason, wanting to cause distrust between her daughter and Mitchell.

“ ‘Sure,...” Rhea said, in her— so she told herself: dislike… hatred? Or possibly deeply hidden jealousy. “...he ‘only’ looks!”

“Yes, ‘Mother’!” Marsha once again repeated angrily. “He ‘only’ looks!”

Mitchell had told Marsha—before they were married, that he had always been a ‘looker’ but it means nothing because he loved her and so far as he was concerned, she was the most beautiful girl in the world and ‘looking’ is nothing more than an unbreakable lifetime habit…

Marsha also considered that when she ‘angrily’ left Seagate to attend Rosalie’s wedding in Chicago he had ample opportunity to do more than ‘just’ look…

Having an apartment mere blocks from Coney Island and, handsome as he was, Marsha had not the slightest doubt that he could have picked up a girl and instead, after two full days of separation drove day and night to reunite with her.

Of course Mitchell never mentioned the girl with the golden pubic hair.

Rhea, conveniently forgetting it was she that had suggested Mitchell find a part time job…

“Another thing!” Angrily snubbing her cigarette out. “Why does he have to work part time at all? Jesus! Walter and Myra are his parents and they’re paying him ‘coolie wages’! The two of you gave them their ‘only’ grandchild and they give him a lousy five dollar a week raise! We don’t belong to a fancy yacht club, and we pay your brother enough to live on! Why the hell can’t they?”

“I told you before, Mother, he hasn’t covered his draw yet!”

“And that’s another thing I don’t understand! You mean to tell me for all the time your husband has been working for his folks, ‘he’, somehow, ends up owing ‘them’ money?”

“I told you before: they pay him a weekly salary that applies against his commission, and…”

“Yes, Marsha, I ‘know’...” Rhea said tiredly. “...you ‘don’t’ have to tell me again!”

Wishing her mother would go upstairs and leave her alone.

“Anyway...” Marsha said, “... he’s going back this evening to get his samples and they’ll go over the whole presentation with him again, and he’ll start making calls tomorrow.”

 Next FBOW excerpt in sequence: Carmen O’hara & Mrs Gerwitz