Why I am not a magazine salesman...

Shortly after my father's death, we found a certificate in his papers from the Curtis Publishing Company. It acknowledged my father as a "young hustler", yes those were the exact words. In 1929 the term was probably not reserved for the pool halls, though it is likely that my dad knew the then current pool hall term from first hand experience, either losing his money or earning it. The certificate has a very nice gold seal on parchment so it must have been important. His name was nicely written below the statement of what a young hustler was. It told the world that he was a successful magazine salesman. He was 13 at the time and sold magazines door to door. I think he was still selling magazines when he died 68 years later or if not selling them, he was probably figuring out new ways to sell them.

As kids, my brother and sisters and I all had opportunities to work for dad, selling magazines. My career started when I was about 11 or perhaps a bit younger. I pulled my wagon of Redbooks and Good Housekeeping magazines down the streets of the neighborhoods near old town in Albuquerque. I guess my neighborhood was not quite up-scale enough or perhaps I had worked it already. I sold them for 50 cents each and earned more than I could ever earn doing anything else, though at 11 I did not have a lot of options.

I avoided selling magazines as much as I could during High School. It was a bit silly since I could make two or three times selling magazines as I could washing dishes at Glenwood Manor. But occasionally I would need a bit extra and try my hand at selling over the phone. "Hi this is... with ... periodical. We are calling some of the ... (auto shops, hair dressers, etc.) in the area. " That was not really too bad, I had been in the auto shops and barber shops and seen the piles of magazines in the waiting rooms. The goal was to make the calls, the orders would come. I learned a lot about selling that would come in handy 30 years later. But I was a lousy salesman.

But then one summer, I found myself in need of a job and dishwashing did not fit the profile of a junior college student. My dad had moved back to California and I was in Kansas. He wanted me to close orders that one of his saleswomen sold. I finally caved into the financial reality, selling magazines is more profitable than lots of other occupations for a 19 year old college student. So that summer I became a closer. A closer is the one who gets the contract signed, 5 magazines for 5 years. "So in addition to Life, Look, and Newseek would you prefer Field and Stream or Popular Electronics", became my refrain. I travelled the back roads of Kansas and Missouri getting contracts signed. In Abeline Kansas my Toyota died, teaching me that water and oil really are important. In Oklahoma City I learned that Greyhound bus stations are probably not the best places to get advice on where to stay when the last bus has left. And in Tulsa I learned about rose gardens.

But it was in Derby, Kansas, that my career changed forever. I did not mind working the auto shops and beauty salons. But I did not like selling to residences. One day somewhere near Derby I pulled up to a house, a bit worn, but a fairly typical farm house. Knocking on the screen door eventually brought the woman of the house out, dressed in a moomoo and looking out of place, even for rural Kansas. I proceeded with my pitch, conscious of the aura of sloth that surrounded me on this farm. The decision was a big decision for the woman, Woman's Day or Motor Trend. But I left successful, contract signed and first payment received. I think the deal was actually for more than 5 magazines. That night in a motel named something like Derby Inn or Maint Street Motel, I reflected on the day. I do not remember the scene but I remember the revulsion. I had just sold 6 or 7 magazines a month to a woman whom I was convinced was never going to read any of them. Was it me, perhaps my charm or my scrawniness, that made her want to write me the check? In my heart of hearts I knew it was over. I could never walk up to a farm house and sell them four or five hundred dollars of magazines. Maybe I could do it in Kansas City, but not in Derby or Junction City. It might have helped if I was actually a good sales person. Thus my career in magazine sales ended, and that without ever earning the coveted, Young Hustler certificate.

I did actually become a verifier a couple of years later but that was just a momentary diversion. A verifier is similar to a closer but it was all done on the phone and there was a bit less sales involved. But it was the farm house in Derby that sealed my fate.

Such was my first career...

A Cerebral Fourth of July

Smoke on the horizon, a huge red ball shining through the haze, and it is the fourth of July. But neither the smoke or the red ball is part of a fireworks show. It's sunset, looking up the coast toward the smoke in Santa Barbara. I missed the very cool picture of a red globe muted by the cloud of smoke while I was driving on the freeway. The fires have muted the celebrations a bit.

I spent the evening sitting outside at a Starbucks reading a good book, enjoying a quiet evening. Driving home through the hills by a small lake, I could see occasional fireworks in the rear view mirror. I had appreciated the quietness of a holiday during the day but it was only this evening that I appreciated that it really was the Fourth of July. I reflected on it on the way home. I watched the fireworks following the Boston Pops concert on TV. The emotion of the fourth came out as the cameras showed the faces of children watching or the soldier holding his children enthralled by the brilliance of the display. The cerebral part came first on listening to an interviewee on Tavis Smiley who stated that if Obama wins the presidency he will not be a spokesman for African Americans but for all Americans. Then David McCullough gave brief snippets on several of his books on US Presidents and other American history to Charlie Rose. As he spoke of Adams and Jefferson and Teddy Roosevelt the simple truth of my life welled up in my consciousness, I am proud to be an American despite all of our failures and the current state of the noble experiment begun 232 years ago.

As a boy I would go into our library and pull out the books looking at the pictures, reading a few pages, gently unfolding the maps or copies of documents. The books were 100 or 150 years old, a few over 200 years old. For a 9 or 10 year old boy they were a special world. We had one set 6 or 8 volumes of the letters of John Adams and another set of the letters of Thomas Jefferson. They often only had the response so I would compare letters to Jefferson in the Adams book to find the corresponding letters in the Jefferson book. I do not recall any great findings but there was a feeling of discovery as I went from one volume to the other. As a 10 or 11 year old I learned that Jefferson did not just write the Declaration of Independence in one nice perfect draft. There is a copy of the draft that unfolds from the book, in handwriting with the crossed out words and the insertions. We also had some Civil War histories from the 1880s that had the best maps of the various battles. There was a copy of the Gettysburg Address that I loved to look at. I developed a connection with the history or our nation at a very young age, a sense of where we had come from and the imperfections of the people who brought us here. I did not really learn a lot of facts but the Revolution and the Civil War did become part of my being.

If I went to a site of our early US history tomorrow I would probably shed a tear. I am not a blind patriot but I am a patriot. Perhaps if I were a more effective patriot I should spend one day celebrating our independence and the rest of the year working to make it actually work...

Happy 232nd!

To work, to sleep, to write...

I find myself in Dallas tonight. I have a million things to do, some fun code to write, a class to get ready for, and a good book to read to help me get plenty of sleep. Yet instead of being stressed about what I cannot get done or happy with what I have gotten done, I am consumed with an email. It should have taken about 5 minutes to respond, or not to respond, and yet it took the energy out of the evening.

I was on the verge of not being overly productive due to a long disjointed travel day. So not accomplishing too much was not a surprise. But an email should not be the cause of the ruining of any one's day. Just to be clear, the email did not come from anyone reading this blog!

My dilemma is whether to spend 5 minutes zipping off a curt reply or 30 minutes crafting an appropriate answer. I may not think my 5 minute response is curt, but all too often when I want to express some emotion I do not usually express the quick answer does not work. So my 5 minute answer turns into a 30 minute analysis, "am I right", "are they wrong", "are we both right", and then figuring out how to write a response that is appropriate, tactful, clear, and, by the way, looks like it took 5 minutes. It is at the moment of realizing that 30 minutes has gone by and the response is no better than the tactless bit of froth I started with that I throw it away or put it in my draft emails to never see the light of day. Sometimes I actually do come up with an appropriate response but that is usually due to seeing whatever the issue is in the light of day and not while sitting alone in a hotel room waiting for sleep to come upon me.

The picture was not from Dallas. It was from home. In refocusing my mind, I thought I would start with a nice picture. My choices were the crashing waves of my beach (see note) or the serene beach with the mountains and the pier in the distance. So I decided to begin tonight's entry with the roar and foam and end with a more serene perspecitve, the view of my town from the beach (see note).

Note 1: In California we all own the beach - usually they say the state owns it but I prefer my perspective!
Note 2: In my town, I do own a piece of property, it is a part of the city, therefore I own a part of the city, therefore it is my town - to a degree.

More serious reflections will follow soon, just as soon as I deal with that email...

I was the stranger - Coffee Shops part 3...

Sitting at my table in the back of the coffee shop, a young woman wheeled her double stroller up to a table, facing me just about 5 feet from where I was working. She had three kids with her, the oldest a boy of 4 or 5, stood by the stroller looking at me. The next younger one sat in the stroller looking around. The mom took the third child into the restroom after giving the boy a stern warning, "Don't speak with strangers."

The boy continued to stare at me as I worked away on my computer. Not too long ago, I would have had an interchange with him, "Are you at such-and-such school?", "Are you too big for the stroller now?", etc. But not wanting to get the boy in trouble I held my tongue, he continued to stare.

Mom came out of the restroom bending down nicely and asking, "Did you speak with any strangers?" He shook his head, "No". But as she said it she glanced over at me as if to say, "you are the stranger I was referring to". I politely said that he was very good and did not say anything. She turned and gave me an awkward stare. She did not respond. She did not speak with strangers. It took a moment for her reaction to sink in to my emotions.

I think, I hope, the look was one of confusion. I had put her in an impossible position. If she spoke with my she violated her own fear or countered the lesson she was trying to teach her son. If she engaged in conversation she was a hypocrite. If she ignored me she was consistent, if perhaps rude. But it could be that she was not confused, and this is the scariest option of all. She assessed the situation and determined that I, the stranger, was a threat. While I did need a haircut, I don't believe I was too seedy looking, so her reaction was deeper, more rational, more disturbing. Her calculated look was one of, "And, why would you speak to me?"

Are the days of polite civility from protecting parents gone. Traded for silence. Will I never be able to say, "So cute!", "How old?", or "Wow, that is a cool toy!" again without worrying whether I am violating a boundary erected to fend off the evil ones. Yes, unfortunately there are evil ones.

But just to put her at ease, I did not return the stares of her son and made no comment on her glare. My hope is that her son will somehow not learn the lesson of rudeness but instead transcend the obvious role modelling of his mother. And indeed may he also learn the art of being politely paranoid.

Such is life as the stranger...

Coffee shops part 2...

I work in coffee shops. No not pouring coffee, steaming milk, calling out, "No foam, extra hot, double shot, non fat latte for George". No, I sit at my computer thinking or writing or visualizing some aspect of project management or software or both.

I have often wondered what folks do, sitting at their computers, in coffee shops. At "my" local coffee shop I have a table. They don't reserve it for me but more often than not it is there for me. I can sit and work amidst the buzz of talk and the grind of ice in blenders and the occasional - too loud - siren of some machine making some extra hot drink. The music, just the right volume, tempers the other sounds and conversations and helps them blend into the background.

Back to working at the coffee shop... Some of the people working are serious. Probably, on chapter 43 of that great American novel. Others are curious and engage the old guys in conversation providing a new ear to old stories. I will have to capture some of those stories, give a new venue to them. I have thought of putting some books I have worked on and in which my name is referenced on the shelves of the shop but that would look a little too egocentric. But when I do write that great American novel I will get it on the shelves.

One of my coffee shop friends, J for now, is working on a screenplay. He is intense but we always have a nice conversation whenever I break his concentration. Occasionally we talk about the latest bite he has gotten, seldom about the frustrations of the quest for the right connection. The frustrations are understood. Usually, I ask if he has had any good fishing and he asks me about any more Albanian travels. Someday his screenplay will be picked up and I will buy him a cup of coffee. And someday I will go back to Albania and he will ask to see the pictures.

The other day I heard a young woman behind me discussing her work with Third Culture Kids. That is a rather esoteric topic that I knew a little about. Not too esoteric a topic if you are like this young woman - a missionary kid who is raised in country A by parents from countries B and C going to college in country D trying to figure out who they are and why no one else gets it. But to sit in a coffee shop in my town to hear the reference was fairly random so I engaged in a brief conversation. She had completed a short documentary on the topic. As a budding photo journalist I noticed that she took the time to stop and engage the old guys in a conversation, sharing her recent success and hearing their story. In this case, I was also probably one of the old guys she chatted with that she might recount to a friend later in the day. Or perhaps there are so many of these random, disconnected conversations today that they just filter into the pool of coffee shop images and encounters.

So for now the time-clock indicates that I must be off to the office, where the coffee is fresh and the sounds of the grinders will provide that bit of inspiration needed.

JMP