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I am a member in good standing of the Brotherhood of Unemployed Reserve Pilots, or BURP for short. A few months ago I graduated from the U.S. Army Rotary Wing Flight School and am now serving my military obligation by flying with the Army National Guard a few days a month. The rest of my time is spent looking for a real job. I have resumes on file with every helicopter service within 500 miles of my home, but no one hires pilots with less than 1000 hours of flight time.

"Twelve hundred dollars per month guaranteed," said the ad in the Seattle Times. "A career in sales with our established company and management opportunity within ninety days. Give us a try!" The words (especially the dollar sign) seemed to leap off the page. I dialed the number and set up an interview. With all my leadership training I knew I would have no trouble in management.

The next day I typed up my resume, knotted my tie, and drove to the Holiday Inn on I-5. I had poured my last five dollars into the gas tank of my pickup and was really looking forward to making $1200.00 a month. The Guard pays aviators a good salary, but I was not flying very often and I really needed another source of income. This could be just what I was looking for, I thought, business people are notorious for large bank accounts.

When I found the designated room to be locked, I looked at my expensive Seiko chronometer (a gift from my mother when I was in flight school) and realized that I was a few minutes early. A nice looking young man in a business suit was also waiting.

"Hi, I'm Taylor," I said, shaking his hand.

"David," he replied. "Are you here for an interview?" We talked for a while and discovered that we were both graduates of Seattle University. I was impressed with his business degree and he wondered what a pilot was doing applying for a job in marketing. When I explained what a BURP was, he expressed his sympathy and wished me good luck on the interview.

A small crowd had gathered outside the locked room when a friendly-looking woman appeared with the key.

"Hi, my name's Frankie," she announced. "Sorry I'm late, but if you'll all come inside and take a seat, we'll get started." She shook all of our hands warmly as we filed inside and sat around an oval table. Frankie walked to the front of the room and stood between a chalk board and a videotape machine.

"Let me tell you a little about the Scott-Fetzer Company," Frankie began. "We were founded in 1914 and originally manufactured flare pistols for the Army, so you can see that we have been around for a while. We are not some fly-by-night company." I had always enjoyed flying at night, but I decided to let the remark pass. Frankie passed out job applications and we filled them out. She then handed each of us a test booklet and read the instructions out loud.

"You will have forty minutes to complete the test, which serves to tell us a little about yourselves. It is not a difficult test, but it is an important part of the selection process." I glanced across the table at David and suppressed a grin. He was not thrilled with the presentation so far.

"Ready, begin," Frankie wrote the time on the board and sat at the head of the table.

The test consisted of simple math and reading comprehension questions and David and I were the first ones finished. We passed our worksheets to Frankie and waited for the others to complete their exams. When Frankie had collected all the test sheets, she stacked them on the table and turned towards the group.

"Now what we are offering is a chance for you to learn sales and to discover whether or not you're right for the business," she said. "I noticed that we have quite a varied group here today. Bob, you were involved with drywall, is that right?" Bob smiled sheepishly and looked around. "And Taylor, you were in the Army, and worked with helicopters, maintainence or something, wasn't it?"

"Something like that," I said.

"As I said before, the Scott-Fetzer Company has been around for over seventy years and I'll bet you're all wondering what it is that we do." a few people nodded their heads. When I looked at David, it was apparent that the thought had crossed his mind.

"This videotape will show you our product and tell you a little more about the company," she said. "It is hosted by John Houseman and he talks a little slowly, but the tape isn't very long, so sit back and I'll start the tape." Well, I thought, it must be a good company if they can get John Houseman to do their videotapes.

"This program is about the Scott-Fetzer Company," John Houseman began. "Allow me to introduce the president, Mr. Norman Fitz." Mr. Fitz was dressed in a striped leisure suit and looked like an insurance salesman. He was holding an electric motor.

"Thank you, John," said Mr. Fitz as the famous actor walked offstage. "The Scott-Fetzer Company has developed a number of products for home cleaning that are all based on our dual-speed power plant." He held the motor towards the camera like a father with a new baby.

"We have improved the system down through the years and we now feel that we can offer the public the finest home cleaning system on the market today." He set the motor on a small table and the camera cut to show him standing next to an elderly gentleman who was holding an orbital sander. "This is Ralph Gates, Vice-President of production, and he is holding the Kirby 'Turbo Sander'. Why don't you show the folks how well it works, Ralph?"

"Why I'd be glad to, Norm," said Ralph. He connected a hose to the front of the dual-speed power plant, turned the motor on, and started sanding the tabletop. Norm looked on with pride. David was trying not to laugh as he silently mouthed the word "Kirby?" The remainder of the tape showed the upper-level management of the Scott-Fetzer Company buffing floors, shampooing carpets, spraying insecticide, and deep-cleaning mattresses. They seemed to save the best for last.

"Frank Kelly, the Chief Financial Officer, will demonstrate our most popular product," announced Mr. Fitz.

"This is what made the Kirby famous, the upright vacuum cleaner," said Frank. David couldn't take any more and laughed noisily as the man pushed the vacuum around. Frankie turned off the tape machine and smiled at the group.

"I know what you're all thinking," she stated. "You're all thinking there's no way I would ever sell dirtsuckers. You know, I felt the same way when I was sitting where you are now, but I gave it a try, started making money, and eight years later, here I am. I just moved into my new house on the waterfront and I am glad I gave it a try." David was sobbing and I found it difficult not to laugh.

"Okay, let's talk money," declared Frankie. "As it said in the ad, you are guaranteed $1200.00 per month if you have sixty appointments. In that time you only have to sell three machines. If you sell more, the commission is higher, but to find out how much higher, you'll have to start the training course tomorrow. It will take some time to grade the tests, please call between seven and seven-thirty this evening to see how you did." As we filed out of the room, Frankie shook all of our hands and said goodbye to each of us by name. I was impressed with her memory.

"Vacuum cleaners," said David as we walked back to our cars. "Do you believe that?" I laughed and waved as I drove out of the parking lot.

On the way home I stopped at the cash machine. My Guard check had not yet come in and my account balance was lower than it had been in months. Twelve hundred dollars would look really good if I were to add it to my savings, and I was getting tired of paying my Visa bill with my Master Card. Vacuum cleaner salesman? Why not! I've had worse jobs, and decided that if I could laugh about what I was doing it might even be fun. I called Frankie at seven-twenty five.

The next day I found myself in the back room of a Kirby distributor store. Eight of the twenty people from the interview were sitting in chairs arranged in semicircle and I noticed that David was not there. Frankie was standing on a raised platform at the front of the room.

"Well," she said, "before we get started, why don't we go around the room and have everyone tell a little bit about themselves." She gestured towards a man in a light blue suit and cowboy boots.

"Hi," he said with a heavy southern accent, "mah name's Keith and ah just moved here from Texas. My wife-to-be lives up here and we're gonna get married after the first of the year." Next in line was an attractive young blonde named Susan. She said she was going to a community college at night and majoring in business administration. A young black man named Carl stood up when she finished.

"I graduated from high school last spring and I would really like to make some money. My mom keeps bugging me to find a job, so here I am." Then it was my turn.

"My name's Taylor, I graduated from Seattle University two years ago and went immediately to flight school at Fort Rucker, Alabama. I fly part time for the Washington Army National Guard, and I'm looking for a way to make a little extra money."

"You're a pilot?" asked the kid on my left. "Why don't you find a flying job?" I explained that most companies will not hire pilots with less than 1000 hours because of insurance. He said his name was Mark and that he had thought about joining the Army when he graduated from high school, but had decided to work instead. On his left was a heavy-set man named Bob, who was a former contract laborer. His last job involved working with drywall. The other two men in our group had both been involved in sales before, one in used cars and the other in retail clothing.

"Well, said Frankie, "let's talk about money. I'm sure that most of you want to know how much you can make." We all nodded and she handed each of us a price sheet. "As you can see, a Complete sells for $1399.00, and your commission is $335.00." You have got to be kidding, I thought. Fourteen hundred dollars for a vacuum cleaner? This has got to be some kind of machine! Frankie continued,

"Sometimes you will have to offer part of your commission to the buyers in order to make a sale and we will show you how to do that a little later on, but now let's split into groups of two and I'll show you how to demonstrate the Kirby to a customer."

Keith and I paired up behind a large box with the words 'Kirby Heritage II' printed on the cardboard. Frankie had opened a similar box and had arranged the vacuum in a display on the platform.

"Now everyone take your Kirbys out of the boxes and arrange your display like mine." Keith shrugged his shoulders and dumped the parts onto the floor with a clank. When Carl, who was being overly cautious with his machine, turned to stare at Keith, Frankie spoke up,

"It's okay, it's a Kirby." Oooo, I thought. Kirby the indestructible vacuum! We finally arranged the various parts into recognizable groups and looked expectantly at Frankie.

"Let's start first with the 'Turbo Sander'," she said. "Now I'm going to demonstrate this just as you will to a customer and then we'll practice on each other." Keith and I looked at one another sheepishly.

"Mark, I want you to be my customer," said Frankie, "Always stay on a first-name basis with the prospect and be sure to smile." She hooked a black hose to the front of the dual-speed power plant and attached a cylindrical metal and glass device where the bag would normally go.

"This is your Kirby Dirtmeter," she explained as she slipped a white paper filter into the bottom of the cylinder. "You'll get one in your briefcase along with a bunch of dirtpads," she indicated the filter paper. "Now Mark, do you do much sanding around the house?"

"Not really," he replied. Frankie pulled a rather ordinary looking orbital sander from a small box.

"Most people don't do a lot of sanding, but if you're putting up new wall paper you will want to sand the walls. And I'll bet your cutting board has a lot of nicks and scratches in it, doesn't it?"

"Well, yeah," he confessed. "What would you say if I could show you a way to sand in your home and eliminate ninety-eight percent of the dust that is normally produced?" she asked with a broad smile.

"I think that would be pretty cool," said Mark. Frankie spread a sheet of newspaper on the bright orange carpet and set a two-by-four on top. She then clipped a sheet of sandpaper on the bottom of the sander and explained how it used standard-sized sheets, nothing special to buy. Mark nodded that he understood. Frankie pressed a raised black button on the rear of the power plant and an ear-splitting whine filled the room.

"NOW, YOU CAN SEE HOW EFFECTIVE THE SANDER IS," she yelled above the noise. "AND LOOK INSIDE THE DIRTMETER! ALL OF THE DUST," she turned off the machine, "is collected right inside the bag. She removed the dirtpad and showed us how the name 'Kirby' had been stenciled in sawdust across the surface of the filter.

"Now Mark, would you use something like this if you had it?"

"I sure would," he agreed. "How much would you expect to pay for a sander like this?" she asked. Mark looked thoughtful.

"Oh, forty or fifty bucks at least," he replied.

"Well, why don't you write that figure down on your Consumer Reaction Survey and I'll show you how the Kirby can pay for itself over time."

As the morning faded into afternoon, we learned how the Kirby could polish the car, massage tired muscles, inflate children's toys, polish the floors, deep-clean mattresses, remove cat hair from clothing, shampoo furniture and carpets, spray water-based paint and insecticides, dust the house, and blow the leaves out of the driveway. Each feature came with its own pricetag, and I started to believe that $1400.00 might not be all that unreasonable.

"Now in order to get ready to meet customers," said Frankie, "all of you need to pick six friends to do count-down demonstrations for. This will give you a chance to work all the bugs out of your demo and you might even sell."

The next day we were asked to come in early so we could participate in the daily sales meeting. Pep rally was more like it. Each person who had made a sale the day before was given a round of applause and everyone who had sold two received a standing ovation. The successful salesmen were then paraded to the front of the room where they stood on the platform, rang a bell (twice for a double) and told the room about their sale.

"Well, I got through the first part of the demo," began Tim, a new salesman who was doing quite well. The excitement in his voice was evident as he continued, "and she was really grossed out by the dirt I was pulling out of her carpet, so I said 'wouldn't you like to start cleaning like this today?' and she said yes; her nine-month old kid was crawling across all the dirt pads I had scattered all over the place. Then I set it up in the hand-portable and sucked five or six really thick pads out of her mattress and told her that it was all the dead skin and bacteria that her and her husband shed every night and she was turning green, so I called in, we shot her a really good deal and I made the sale!" We all clapped enthusiastically as Tim returned to his seat.

The applause died down as Morton Decker, the Outlet Manager, stepped up to the podium. His black moustache and imposing size, along with his cheap suit and condescending manner combined to make me dislike him at once.

"You see how he does it?" he asked. "He pulls dirt! I want at least eighty dirt pads pulled before you even try to close the sale. Some of you old pros had better wake up or you'll be out of here. I'd rather have a room full of rookies who can pull dirt than a bunch of old salesmen who are too smart to try and sell to people that they know won't buy. DON'T EVER PREJUDGE A SALE! You know why Tim made that sale? He was too stupid to know that they didn't want to buy, so he just kept trying and he made it! Now who's the stupid one?" Some of the more experienced salesmen looked sheepish. Morton stomped out of the room and Frankie timidly took his place. She smiled and suggested that we sing a song. A song?

"Get out your Kirby songbooks," she said cheerfully. "Let's do number twenty-six." Carl and I found the indicated page and looked incredulously at the lyrics.

"OH-SHE-WOULDN'T-DUST-WITH-ANOTHER.....WOOOOOOO!" sang the group. "WHEN-SHE-SAW-HER-KIR-BY-THERE!" What a weird place, I thought.

"HOW'S YOUR ATTITUDE?" yelled Tim in a manner reminiscent of basic training.

"POSITIVE!" echoed the room.

"HOW'S YOUR ATTITUDE?"

"POSITIVE!"

"YEAH!" he screamed. "LET'S GET OUT THERE AND SELL!" Our training class stayed behind with Frankie as the other salesmen walked out the door.

"This morning we're going to talk about closing the sale," she announced. "You're all pretty familiar with the demo, now how do you get people to buy? Well take a look at these." We each received a pamphlet entitled "Ninety-nine Sales Clinchers." It was separated into four categories of dealer appeals, 'Time and Labor', 'Economy and Pride', 'Cleanliness and Comfort', and last but not least, 'Price'.

"Take a look at number forty-four," she suggested. "The carpeting is your infant's playground. You want it to be as clean as possible, don't you? What mother could resist such an appeal?" I read some of the other lines. Number forty-six: There is no such thing as harmless dirt. Number one: With the pride you take in your home, you shouldn't compromise with this dirt (refer to dirt pads) when it is so quickly and easily removed with the Kirby. Number seventeen: No woman can afford to use a cleaner that just runs and doesn't clean. Number forty: This dirt is not your dirt. It is everybody's dirt. It has been carried into your home from the outside. You certainly don't want this condition to continue in your home, do you? Number fifty-nine: If men did the cleaning, all would have efficient vacuum cleaners. Number seventy-three: You wouldn't knowingly walk in that dirt, would you? Number eighty-three: Don't think of what the Kirby costs, but of what it saves.

"So how is everyone doing on their countdowns?" Frankie asked later in the day. Susan led the class with two, Mark and Carl had each done one, and the rest of us hadn't started yet. I was having trouble sorting which friends I wanted to keep and which ones I was going to try and sell Kirbys.

"Well remember," she continued, "you have to do six before you can set appointments out of the office." We spent rest of the day learning how to fill out sales contracts and credit applications. I had arranged my first demo with my roommate Tom and could hardly wait until I could start making money.

Later that afternoon I set up my display in the living room at home. Tom sat on the couch and waited for me to clean up the house.

"I have to call in and tell them that I'm starting," I explained.

"Well do I have to sit here and watch?" he asked. "I'm not going to buy a vacuum you know."

"I know," I replied as I dialed. "This is just for practice. Now be quiet while I talk to the boss."

"This is Mort," said the phone. "This is Taylor," I said. "I'm starting a demo now and I can be reached at 555-2134."

"Fine," he answered, "make sure you do a good job." As I went through the demo, Tom became more and more impressed with the machine. I showed him suds gun could make shampooing the furniture a breeze and he asked me how much it cost.

"Well," I said. "Think of how much money the Kirby can save for you."

"How much is it?" he asked again. "Look at all this dirt," I refered to the dirtpads. "Did you know we were sitting in all this dirt?"

"How much?"

"Well, think of all that dead skin and bacteria I just pulled out of the mattresses. You can't put a pricetag on your health."

"HOW MUCH IS THE STUPID THING?"

"The Kirby sells for only $1399.00," I timidly answered.

"FOURTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS FOR A VACUUM CLEANER," he yelled. "You have got to be kidding me!"

"Well, let me call my boss and tell him you don't want it. This was just a practice demo anyway." I picked up the phone and Tom started replacing the parts in the box.

"This is Mort," said the phone.

"Hi, this is Taylor and I just finished the demo."

"Did you make sure he filled out the credit application completely?"

"No, Tom said he wasn't in the market for a vacuum."

"Did you pull at least eighty dirtpads?" he demanded.

"Yes, but he really can't afford the machine right now," I argued.

"Did you tell him he could get it for fifty dollars down and thirty-eight dollars a month?"

"Yes," I replied, "and he still says he can't afford it." Mort was really starting to be annoying.

"Well tell him that we'll give him a special, one-time shot at wholesale. Offer him three hundred on his trade in and tell him that he can have the Kirby for nothing down and thirty dollars a month." I felt dishonest as I explained the deal to Tom.

"I don't want to pay for a vacuum for the next thirty years," he smirked.

"He still says he doesn't want it," I told the phone.

"Well I guess there's nothing we can do," Mort replied. "Try harder next time." I slammed down the phone and finished repacking the equipment.

"It's a good machine," said Tom, "but fourteen hundred dollars is really unbelievable."

"I can't believe they offered you three-hundred for your old vacuum," I said. "I wonder what kind of a profit they're making on these things if they always make deals like that."

The next day I sat in the back room and suffered through another sales meeting with my fellow trainees. Susan had sold a machine the night before and Carl was enthusiastically describing his successful demo.

"Oh man, when I pulled a pad out of the mattress mom went nuts! She wanted the machine right then!" I had visions of Carl selling his mother for medical experiments, but I did not share them with the class. I had a demo scheduled with my girlfriend's mother that day and I wondered how guilty I would feel if she actually bought the thing.

"HOW"S YOUR ATTITUDE?"

"POSITIVE!" I lied. Later that morning I had the machine set up in the Andersen's livingroom. Mrs. Andersen listened politely to the whole demonstration and even helped me shampoo the carpet.

"Well Taylor," she said when I had finished, "it's a very nice machine and you did very well. You should have no trouble selling it to people who can use it." She already had machines that did everything that the Kirby did, and I was relieved that she wasn't thinking of buying from me. I don't think my girlfriend would have talked to me again if I made her mom spend all that money.

"Do you think you would use the Kirby if you had it?" I asked out of curiosity.

"Oh sure," she replied. "Consumer Reports says it's a really good machine. I looked up the article before you came over." She handed me a well-worn copy of the "Consumer Reports Buying Guide Issue" and I looked at the chapter on vacuum cleaners. The Kirby was a better machine than most, but what stood out more than anything else on the page was the suggested retail price. Fourteen hundred bucks was indeed a lot of money to pay for a four hundred dollar machine.

"See," said Mrs. Andersen, "it's just as good as my Hoover, even though the article says they're overpriced. Who on earth would pay five hundred dollars for a vacuum?" I felt queasy as I cleaned the machine and put it back into the box.

Instead of calling, I drove back to the shop and knocked on Mort's office door.

"Come in," he grumbled.

"Um, Mort, I need to talk to you," I stammered. "I thought you were on a demo," he demanded. "Why didn't you call before you left?"

"Well, she said she didn't want to buy the machine, so I left."

"That's not the way we do things around here," he insisted. "You call when you start and I decide when you finish."

"No, I think I'm finished right now," I said.

"What do you mean?" he asked. The veins in his neck stood out as he pushed his chair away from the desk.

"Well, I just don't think I'm right for this job."

"I'll say, I don't think you could make a sale if your life depended on it." My military discipline and pride conflicted as I fought to control my temper.

"Mr. Decker, it simply goes against my personal and professional ethics to sell anything at a two-hundred percent markup."

"That's sales," he insisted, "and you just can't cut it."

"Maybe not," I said calmly, "but at least the term dirtbag doesn't describe both my job and my personality." I turned in my vacuum and drove home.

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