I once attended a class in salesmanship.  It was one of those sessions that was mandatory for everyone who relied on a paycheck.  And that is because the company from which I received a paycheck believed in the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth—as long as it was their truth.  My task was to memorize the entire session, and live by it—or seek employment elsewhere.  I came to know this dictum as a way of life, more or less, in government, in education, and in the private sector.   

The session on that day consisted of building an atmosphere of trust.  I quickly realized it was not about trust as you and I know it, but trust as the con artist knows it.  And that meant getting into the customers’ private world of thoughts, ideas, and values—with the objective of convincing them that you were just like them.  What?  How is that possible? you may be thinking.   

The key to winning trust according to said company’s lesson plan was to get prospects into a frame of mind that made them conducive to your salesmanship efforts.  You accomplished this in small steps by mirroring their actions.  For example, if they scratched their right ear from time to time, you did the same.  If they blinked once every three seconds, you did the same.  If they crossed their legs, you crossed your legs.  The wisdom behind these moves was that on a subliminal level, they began to believe that you were just like them, that you valued the same things, and you would fit right into their circle of bright friendly people—even if in reality they were serial killers.  You would know when it was working because they would begin to relax, to smile, and to become amenable to whatever you were trying to sell them.  You merely had to observe them becoming putty in your hands before you pushed the contract in front of them, handed them a pen, smiled, pointed to the bottom line and said “sign here.” 

I had to have a label for this set of conditioning other than mirroring.  And so I recorded it into my memory banks as “being all things to all people.”  In my world, that meant you were well on your way to driving yourself nuts if you tried it more than two or three times.  It meant you had to be adaptable and mimic the mannerisms of a saint, a sinner, a moron, or a profligate prostitute in order to make the sale.  But let us press on.    

I reasoned that if there is a slice of good in everyone, and a bit of honesty in every circumstance, then there must be a noble way to use this method to my advantage without upsetting all the apple carts in heaven.   And with but a moment’s reflection, it occurred to me as to how I might use it.  If I valued my sanity, I would no doubt be seeking employment soon, and this bit of devious maneuvering might be useful—in a semi-devious sort of way.  Why not try it on the person who will be interviewing me at my next job interview, or the next 10, depending on my fate? 

Many months later, and after exhausting my meager savings, I finally landed an interview.  I was desperate, morally weak, and willing to go to any length to recapture a paycheck.  My interviewer was a cigar smoking, knee-slapping, vulgar, big butt farter, who thought he was witty, charming, and a barrel of fun.  OMG.  I had just spent my entire life in casting all those vices to the winds.  But, hunger has a way of trumping vices and virtues.  And I was determined.  “Bring it on,” I thought.  “The end justifies the means.” 

His hand was the size of a catcher’s mitt, and he crushed my outstretched hand as if it were an empty beer can.  I could not mirror that move.  “Have a seat, there, good buddy,” said he while motioning to that folded up chair by his cluttered desk.  I opened it, pulled it over by his desk, and waited for him to sit down.  He sat with a thud, more or less like a 300 lb. sack of potatoes crashing onto a giant cushion.  As his ass hit the leather, it emitted a loud roar, much like you might imagine an entire herd of elephants farting in unison.  The best I can say is that another opportunity at mirroring just sailed by me like two ships passing in the night. 

He leaned forward and flashed a set of yellow and brown teeth my way while saying “Well, Tom, how the hell are you doin’?”  He had half a dozen pieces of paper in front of him with my name on every one of them.  “Tom” was not on any of them.  So I leaned forward and said “Hell’s bells, Goober, I’m fit as a fiddle.”  As I leaned back, the chair collapsed, and I fell flat on my face.  

He must have laughed for two minutes, while I got up, reopened the folded chair, put it back in its place, and carefully sat back down.  I tried to laugh but could only manage a short grunt.  “Dammit I been meanin’ to git that thing fixed for six months,” he stammered between laughs.  “You shudda seen your face just before it hit the floor.  That’s the best fun I’ve had all day, Billy boy.”   

“That’s quite OK, Goober.  I haven’t hit the floor like that for at least a month.  Last time was down at Billy Joe’s Tavern, when I got all caught up in a bar room brawl,” I said while dusting the dirt off my trousers.  “Best fun I had in a long time.” 

“Let me tell you sumpin, Jimbo.  I gave up that shit five years ago.  Company rules. We don’t allow none of that crap around here.”  I was quick:  “Me too.  Gave it all up.  I took the pledge.”   

“Well, alright.  Now tell me why you want this job that pays minimum wage.”  I looked him straight in the eye and said “Minimum wage is great.  That’s right where I started 35 years ago.  But I sure am willin’ to talk about minimum wage—plus 35 years of pay raises—right up to today’s wage level.”  I was still smiling as he lit up a cigar.   

“Hey, you’re pretty quick on your feet, in a manner of speakin’, George boy. “But you must be after my job.  Is that what you’re up to?’”  He was squinty-eyed.  “Not me,” said I.  “Your job is safe.  I want to be the CEO of this operation.”  I pulled out a cigar, lit it, and put on my best squint face on.  

We both broke into laughter at the same time.  He stood up, and I followed.  He put out his hand, and I put out my fist.  He crushed it, and I squinted.  Then he said, “Billie Bob, you’re my kind of flunky, and I mean that in the best possible way.”  Then he pushed a funny looking form in front of me, pointed to the bottom line and said “Just sign right here and that $7.15 per hour is all yours.”    

I looked him right in the eye and said “Goober, there ain’t no way in heck that I am going to work for no $7.15 and hour.  Just move that decimal point over one space to the right, and we are in business.”   

His squint changed to a huge smile, and then into laughter.  “Hell, I just been having fun with you.  I knew all along that you were special, just like me—more or less.  But you are in luck.  I can offer only one person per year $8 bucks an hour.  So just sign now, and it’s all yours, Willy boy” 

 I replied “Goober, you’re only about 50 years behind the times.  But it’s been fun to practice my skills on you.”  He went back to his squint.  “If you’re talking about that mirror stuff, it ain’t workin, Barney boy.  I learned about that shit 25 years ago as a used car salesman.  It didn’t work then; it still don’t work.  But nice try there, good buddy.” 

The next day I piled up 700 years of bad luck, more or less, as I broke every mirror I could find in my house.  I’m pretty sure that explains the glassy look in my eyes today as they blink once every three seconds, while I stand in the unemployment line clutching a weather-beaten copy of the Power of Positive Thinking, the best selling self-help book from 1952.