List of Jobs I've Had, Part 2

(Note: For the set-up to this story, see "List of Jobs I've Had", #13, appropriately enough.)  

So there I was, 19 years old, with a cast of shady characters, a/k/a my co-workers, at the Black Angus Hotel in Albany, GA.  I know the hotel's name makes it sound luxurious, but it really wasn't.   Albany is a small city not far from the Florida border, and is as redneck as you're thinking it is.  This is good for sales of crappy housewares made in China, but not for much else. Albany is also well below the infamous "gnat line" of Georgia, where the soil changes from clay-based to more of a sand composition.  This is apparently fertile ground for gnats most of the year, and they aren't bashful---they spend most of their time going straight for your eyes.   How and why people live in stifling humidity with this added bonus of pest action is beyond me.  On the plus side, there are a number of small cities nearby where they don't often see people selling things out of the back of their cars in parking lots.  I would add that most of the residents of these towns aren't very bright, but seeing that I'm an accomplished blogger and therefore above such slander, I won't.  

So our motley sales crew checked in, we unloaded all of the merchandise into a room that would serve as a makeshift warehouse for the next three days.  With our Operations Center established, we probably got drunk in celebration.  I say, "probably" because I don't quite recall, since this was  twenty-five or so years ago.  I also say, "probably" because getting drunk is what people who respond to classified ads for sales jobs with a "rock and roll atmosphere" do.  But I digress.

The next day we spit into teams of two and spread out into the city and countryside in search of suckers.  I was paired with a charming young man named Bartlett, who was in his early twenties and had a criminal record for things non-violent, according to him, anyway.  He was one of those guys who, a) could've done more with his smarts if they were properly channeled, and b) had a name that was vaguely "blue-blood", probably an effort by his working-class parents to throw people off .   But like I said, Bartlett was quite likable, and entertaining as well.   More importantly, he was the one with the car.

So off the two of us went to Moultrie,---a charmless South Georgia town full of gullible folk who hadn't seen the wine glass sets, wall clocks, and car stereo speakers we about to offer them at low, low prices.  We first hit up some fast food parking lots, catching people with bellies full of McMuffin's, yet hungering for a bargain.   We also would visit trailer parks and cheap apartment complexes for customers because these people clearly had a knack for money management and were wise to avoid impulse purchases.   Oddly enough this method is pretty fruitful, and some people actually thanked us for bringing our store to them and throwing in the tupperware set into the deal for "free".   One lady even made us promise to come back and rip her off, err, give her another bargain when we came through next year.  I recall wondering why someone would not aspire to live somewhere other than a trailer home within the next twelve months, but after all, it takes all kinds.   

I should take a moment to describe in more detail how these transactions usually went down.  First of all, it was always a plea for help on our part.  As in: "We're in a real bind here Ma'am. The bossman has told us that if we don't sell X amount of product today, we're going to be on the Greyhound back to Atlanta."  Or something along those lines.  Reason being our target market can certainly relate to bosses being overly-demanding jerks, and now we had a kinship formed.  It's a lot easier to sell something to people who are on your side.   Another tactic was to make them a bulk deal, i.e. if they wanted a clock and a wine set, well, we'd throw in the bakeware for only ten more bucks, just because we have to get rid of this stuff!  Fair enough?  

That was the closer phrase that paid.  "Fair enough?".   Now they're thinking: "Well, he sure seems like he's being fair, and I'm getting that entire set of bakeware for only ten bucks..."  You get the picture.  

So with a few morning sales under our belts, Bartlett and I were on a roll.  That's the thing about sales: getting started takes some doing, but once you start running your yap the adrenaline starts to flow,  you're practically running from one potential customer to the next.  Anyway, we then headed for the well-stocked pond of customers also known as a second-rate strip mall.  Ironically enough, this is where our momentum came to a grinding halt.  

There we were, happily helping out the locals with rock-bottom prices on pots and pans, steak knife sets, and all the rest of our wares.   Hell, we were even making sales inside stores, to people who worked in them.  Yes, it was sales heaven---until the cops showed up.   And I don't mean two cops in one car, I'm talking about three or four cars swooping in, like this was a movie and we were playing the part of drug smugglers.   This was definitely not supposed to be part of the plan as far as I was concerned.  Bartlett?  He seemed to be taking it all in stride, almost like he'd been there before.

In retrospect, it became clear why it was so easy for me to score this particular sales gig with no previous experience.   Besides the fact that it was 100% commission, there was risk involved.   You're probably saying: "Duh, dude.", but at nineteen years old and sorely needing work, this didn't really occur to me.  I thought I was being paid in cash as a courtesy to me.  Ha.

So you gotta love multiple police units descending upon two young goofs slinging cheap Chinese merchandise in a strip center parking lot.  Slow day for law enforcement in Moultrie, apparently.  Probably like every other day.  In any event, they were not very nice, and I'll go ahead and say it: they were downright accusatory!  "Stolen?  Hell no this stuff isn't stolen!  We had to load and unload it ourselves!"   I guess this was good enough for the cops, because we never got charged for anything involving stolen property.   In fact, Bartlett and I were never officially charged with anything, but this doesn't mean we weren't hauled into the station anyway.  

"Soliciting Without a Permit" was the rap, I suppose, but these details are South Georgia hazy, if you get my drift, and to this day I'm not sure what officially happened.   I do know that my cohort and I landed in the local lock-up, however.  We were told that we were being kept as a precaution pending further investigation, and we would be out as soon as they got to the bottom of things.  Bartlett assured me that our bosses would be along to iron all of this out as soon as they got back to the Black Angus and retrieved their messages.   

Being that this was my first time behind bars, I was glad to have my sales partner as a cell mate.  It was pretty scary in there.  Not due to fellow inmates, but because after two or three hours, I started wondering what the hell was going on and whether we would in fact be released at all.  

The next day we came to learn that our bosses had in fact made it by to discuss the matter with Moultrie's finest, and bail us out if need be.   Unbeknownst to us in the lock-up, our crew leaders were told we would be let out in the morning with a warning.   This would've been nice information to have while I was in there reading the last story in the only piece of reading material available: a Weekly Examiner, or whatever the fuck it was.  Or when it was three in the morning and I wasn't sleeping, wondering if I'd ever get out.  

So morning comes, and incarcerated we remained.   Around lunchtime we got the news that we were finally being sprung, and we were taken to the release area and returned our possessions.   It is now where things are fuzzy.  I don't know a fine was paid on Bartlett and my behalves, or if they fronted us the money to be taken from future earnings, or if the company itself was fined for soliciting with no license.   The details of our release are lost in the haze of time, and I can't ask because I don't know where Bartlett is anymore.  I do know that my personal rap sheet shows nothing of a run-in with South Georgia law, however, and I guess that's all that really matters.   And if you must know, I was once convicted of disorderly conduct for calling a cop a "dick", back when I was twenty-six.   He deserved it.    Anyway, you'd think I had to worst part of this enlightening road trip behind me.  You'd think wrong.