RUDIMENTS, pt. 938
(just close the deal, ok?)
Selling magazines was no big deal,
an idiot's Winter's work. It probably
ran from say November thru that
February. It saw the little ad for the
easy money in the Perth Amboy
Evening News, (local paper, then),
Evening News, (local paper, then),
and had my mother drive me there -
to Perth Amboy, right in the middle
of town. There used to be a small
synagogue there, right across the
street, and this 2nd floor office
faced it - even though the office
itself was about a mess of nothing
but paper and samples. I forget the
guy, he was maybe 40. This other
kid, Melton, from Avenel - I'd
known him a little growing up -
he too was there, just by chance.
We both got 'hired' and the guy
told us where to meet him. I didn't
know beans about selling magazines,
but it beat the alternative jobs my
mother kept throwing up at me. She
was a real stickler that I should not
have idle time and should immediately
find a way of making some coin, so
I just went along. It always seemed
that I was always doing things to
get out of the house. It wasn't so
bad, but they never seemed to want
me, as the oldest, weird, kid, to stick
round either. After the seminary those
last months were brutal. Once I finished
that last of senior year locally, in the
shitshack they called high school, I
was gone anyway. It seemed they
never wanted me there either - the
school people - they were always
throwing me out or sending me home
over dumb-ass infractions. About
clothes, or boots or shoes or too
much hair. 1967 was a damned mess,
and the local school sucked. Hell,
Avenel sucked. Doing anything to
get out of there was better than
anything else.
-
He'd pick us up (we learned as we
went along) and then drop us off.
The places we went to were cheap
projects or two-family or more, homes.
Elizabeth was filled with old housing
stock that once had been large single
family homes which then were broken
up into the usual Puerto Rican 1960
hovels with four or more crazy
families jamming all the space, and
umpteen kids too. Seemed like all
they must have done was fornicate
(the parents), because the kids were
dropped everywhere like flies.
That whole ethnic thing (my own
parents had five kids) was buttressed
a lot by demanding a large family,
something connected with pride,
boasting, and, probably, insecurity
too. The pleasure part of it, I don't
know about - for that seemed to
go away early on. I never knew
what people were up to.
-
The thing with me was, there
were a few levels going on. Ghetto
neighborhoods were always pretty
cool - the cooking smells and the
hallways, I mentioned already. The
mothers were always cooking, but
they'd come to the door, barely
understanding me, or pretending to,
or not too - lots of nods, smiles,
and interest. In something. I
often enough would get someone,
three or four people a night, to
sign on, initial the card, etc.
Then, back to the car-guy and
he'd act as the 'closer' and go
and re-visit the people, to get a
formal subscription blank going
and get some money. He eventually
got angered with me, because he
could never 'close' my deals. Losing
the sale bugged him; bad for the
numbers. The thing was a lot of
times I could get these women
wrapped around my finger - with
a sales pitch cuteness they fell for,
even if they had no budget, or
money. Heck, to them I was an
entertainment. Only he was the
Grinch. By three or four months
later, the whole gig, for me, had
fallen apart, and I just stopped
going. The cool thing for me
was how inevitably, on these
walks of mine through the
different streets and such, I'd
usually get a small group of
kids - girls and toddlers, maybe
the girls would be 12 or 14 years
old. They thought it was all cool
what I was doing and stayed around
like I was their entertainment, and,
I admit, I had fun with it to. All
that Perth Amboy, and Elizabeth,
housing stuff was real interesting
to me. I never saw too much of
any Dads around, but I guess they
were still at work, but there were
doorways and kids and halls and
neat spots and places to see.
-
Probably a more normal guy
would have had some great
advantages here about getting
a squeeze, finding some lonely
house-mouse wife looking for
some action - all those cool
cliches you used to read about
in the smut mags, back when
that was all there was. There
was always a tale or three
about the door-to-door guy
boffing a lonely housewife,
and getting a sale too, and
even a 'Please come back again!'
Not for me; not even with a
daughter. Drat all that, and
a Drake's Cake to the winner.
The mind is a funny companion
to be alone with.
-
These sorts of ignorant immigrant
neighborhoods used to astound
me. Native American lands, solid
and storied, and not a one of these
quirky, teeming, hordes had a clue.
They just swarmed in and took.
I used to figure, for each of those
houses, built for one family, now
there were probably 6 or more,
with a rapacious, grinning landlord
somewhere who had thrown in a
few extra bathrooms and kitchens,
jammed in where they could fit
by the plumbing, cheaply, and a
few extra cheesy walls, some
doorbells, partitions, etc., and they
were probably getting 15 times
the monthly value out of the
house and doing very little or
nothing to keep or maintain it.
They had turned our dear American
turf into a story of greed and the
over-riding love of a buck. Dirty
as all get-out. And, heck, that
was 50 plus years ago! All those
wives and kids inside, and running
the streets, to them it was just place
and chore - a home to cook in
and a place to raise the brat kids,
who would then themselves do
the same thing and multiply it
all again tenfold in another 15
years. It just goes on, and the
world gets destroyed, let alone the
country. It's called 'exponential'
growth, the rate that takes off,
5 kids, have 5 kids each, making a
sudden 25, and then each of those
have 5 kids, making, thirty years
later, 125, who then do it again.
They all have to go somewhere!
And, I guess the thinking used
to be, they'll all need magazine
subscriptions - if the darned
guy could just close the deal.
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