Pot Man  

                               Chicago, Illinois                            

                                    May 2, 1957

He'd been assigned two leads for his first night out: one for six o’clock and the other seven-thirty..

On the first call, in the apartment of Carmen O’Hara: a gangly, homely, not so middle-aged redhead, with both her mother and father sitting at the table watching every fumbling move he made and listening to every stuttering word he stuttered, Mitchell blundered through the entire forty minute presentation and, as if that wasn’t enough, he made a mistake in repacking the second case and, embarrassingly, had to empty the entire sample case and begin again.

As expected, no sale here.

The second call was on the north side, in a shabby, depreciating neighborhood just south of Lawrence Avenue, where Mitchell rang the doorbell to a small house and waited, and waited... and rang the bell again just as the door opened. Thrown off by the suddenness of the door opening, “Uh, Miss... “ thinking a moment or two, “uh, Miss Gerts?”

The woman was short, appearing to be no more than five feet tall, and, to say the least, rotund, weighing in the rage of, to say the least, two hundred pounds... and old.

“Gerwitz!” the woman corrected crossly. “Mrs. Alvin Gerwitz!”

Uh-oh!  “Yes!” Remembering. “Sorry, Mrs. Gerwitz.” Off on the wrong foot here. “I’m Mitch Lipensky from Sierra Marketing, and I’m her to see – Her daughter? Her granddaughter? – uh, whoever made the appointment with me.” .

“It’s me!.” Filling the doorway, Mrs. Gerwitz moved aside.  “Come in! Come in!”

 It’s me? What’s she mean, ‘it’s me’? With both arms straining against the weight of the heavy sample cases, stepping into the, to say the least, malodorous home of Mrs. Alvin Gerwitz, thinking, Oh, my God! Mitchell stared in disbelieving awe.

The room was jam-packed with furniture of all description; but if pressed for a description, it would have to be ‘junk’. There were piles of bundled newspaper and magazines stacked from floor to ceiling. Sofas, chairs and tables were loaded with indescribable refuse. There were boxes overflowing with clothing and...? stuff, and so far as Mitchell could see, rags, just rags.

Stunned, really wanting to run from this...? fire hazard, “Uh,” he said haltingly, “I, uh, need a place to, uh, lay out the, uh, merchandise.”

Turning sideways – not that it made much difference – so she could squeeze her bulk through the narrowly crowded aisle, “Right this way, sonny. We’ve room in the kitchen.

Having to walk sideways also, the width of the sample cases barely ‘scraping by’, he followed her into a hot, cluttered kitchen that had the near nauseating, commingled odors of boiled cabbage, rancid oil, fried fish and burnt meat.

The start of the pitch was actually made with the opening of the first sample case, and, “Never!” Al had told him, “Never begin to lay out the merchandise until the buyer is there!”

Dressed in slacks, jacket and tie, sweating from the heat of the kitchen, fighting nausea, Mitchell – Illogically? Logically? – prayed the person he was there to pitch wasn’t home, because if she wasn’t there it’ll give him a courteous excuse to...Jesus Christ, he thought. I want to get the hell out of here!  “Mrs. Gerwitz,” he asked, “is this,,,” hefting one of the sample cases an inch off the floor, “for your daughter, or, uh, grand-daughter?” Hoping she’d say, ‘Yes, but she’s not here’, but...

“No! I thought I told you, it’s me you’re here to see!” Going to the gouged, varnish stripped wooden table, Mrs. Gerwitz took a knife and fork and a dish containing that evening’s, or yesterday’s... or last weeks meal to the sink, came back with a dripping dishrag, swiped it over the table scattering bread crumbs and bits of dried food onto four rickety, wooden chairs and filthy, worn linoleum floor. “You can put your stuff here.”

Looking at Mrs. Gerwitz a moment, lowering the case to the floor, his back to her, opening the case, “Oh, shit!” he silently mouthed.

The odors getting to him, not knowing if he would be able to finish before having to vomit, hurrying through the presentation, all he wanted to do was wrap it up and get the hell out of there! But somehow, this time, even though he rushed, his words came out right and his pitch came out straight and, although Mrs. Gerwitz had sat in all but stony silence throughout his entire spiel, muttering a barely heard, “Uh-huh” each time he’d asked a ‘minor close’ question, when he came to the ‘major close’ question: “Mrs. Gerwitz, you do want this set, don’t you?” Amazingly, she said...

“I’ll take it!”

“Huh?”

“I’ll take it!”

Thinking, She’s buying? Finding it hard to believe, “Uh, yes,” looking about the cluttered kitchen, figuring, because of the jam-packed, shabby appearance – to say the least – of her house, Mrs. Gerwitz must be impoverished, or damn near.  “Let me fill out the order form.” Finding his order book, not wanting to sit on the crumb covered chair, standing while writing, “Uh, how much would you like to put down?”.

“ ‘Put down’? No, sonny.” The eccentric – to say the least – old lady reached into the pocket of her apron, removed a roll of cash, snapped off the straining rubber band and handed him the top bill. “I always pay cash,”

He looked at the hundred dollar bill, then back to the wad in the old lady’s hand, and could see that the next bill was a hundred, too.

Folding the roll open, the lady took two twenties off the backside, and handed it to him.

“Uh, Mrs. Gerwitz, it’s a hundred-twenty plus tax, and I don’t have enough to make change for you.”

“No, no, sonny, it’s okay. The rest is for you.”

Calling home,  “Marcie, guess what?” Thanking the old lady profusely, packing the sample cases quickly, properly, leaving the home of Mrs. Alvin Gerwitz...

 “Marcie, guess what?” he’d driven to the first phone booth he could find.

“You sold a set of pots and pans.”

“Huh?” The wind taken from his sails, “How’d you know?”

“I didn’t, Mitchie, I was only trying to be funny... You did? You really made a sale, so soon?”

 “Yeah, and it’s only my second call! I can’t believe it, and she even gave me a fifteen dollar tip.”

“Mitchie, God, that’s great! I’m so proud of you!”