from me so far, I was determined to get the sale one way or another.
I used to catch a ride to my sales calls with Hans, the delivery driver for McInley & McDougall. One afternoon, he had a delivery to make to a new store that was just getting ready to open called Peter’s Paints. Steven & Sons was just around the corner, so I went with him.
Hans pulled over to the side of the road, just outside Peter’s Paints. They were still renovating the store, and the only thing that seemed to be finished was the sign. Outside, on the sidewalk, lay the remnants of the former tenant. From the look of the garbage, I guessed they had been some kind of office stationery or arts supply store. A large, four-foot-long plastic pencil caught my eye, obviously something that had been used in a display.
Hans hopped out of the van and a few moments later I heard him open the back doors. In the side mirror I saw him slide a couple of boxes out and then haul them on a cart through the maze of refuse and into the store.
While he was inside I used the few minutes of silence to meditate on my sale to Steven & Sons. They were partly owned by New England Paints and, by no coincidence, had all their paints supplied by them. Steven & Sons did a lot of work on parking lots, using New England paints, which didn’t weather the winters too well. One of our suppliers had the right paint for the job, and that’s what I’d been pitching to Steven & Sons. But Johnson, the buyer, wouldn’t budge; their relationship with New England Paints was apparently too tight to let another supplier in the door. Because I knew they needed a better paint, I didn’t want to give up. I asked Johnson if he would mind if I came by occasionally to see him. He said that would be all right and I dropped by every couple of weeks with coffee and a box of pastries. We got along well, but still he wouldn’t buy from me. I needed something to push him over the edge. I racked my brains. I’d told him all the wonders of my paint, I’d promised him a significant discount, I brought him refreshments… I needed something, but what?
I saw Hans emerge from Peter’s Paints, wheeling his cart freely behind him. In a moment he was back in the driver’s seat gunning the engine.
“Hold it, Hans,” I said, as he was pulling out.
I hopped out of the van, stepped over some garbage and grabbed what I wanted from the heap of junk.
I swung open the back doors and shoved my prize inside, sliding it on top of the boxes of paint.
Back inside the van, Hans looked over at me, his eyes quizzical. “What’re you gonna do with that giant pencil?” he asked.
“You’ll see,” I said, “just take me to Steven & Sons…”
I had a hell of a time negotiating the giant pencil through the front doors of Steven & Sons. Joanne at the front desk laughed at my struggles. “Hi, David,” she said with a grin. “I guess your hands were too full for pastries this time?”
“I never come empty handed, Joanne, you know that. They’re right here, on the other side of the pencil,” I said, nodding at the box dangling from my left pinkie. The string from the pastry box was cutting a deep groove in my flesh.
Joanne eased the box off my finger and led me in to see Johnson, the pencil pivoting wildly on my shoulder.
Johnson looked up from his desk in amazement. “What the heck do you have there, David?”
“I brought this big, giant pencil to help you sign that big, giant order for the parking-lot paint you need,” I said, and waited.
Johnson laughed, “Man, you’re never gonna give up, are you?”
“Not till you sign for an order.”
“All right,” Johnson sighed, throwing his hands in the air, “give me the order form. I’ll try your paint and see how I like it.”
I returned to the van, pencil over my shoulder, grin on my face. “What’re you so happy about?” Hans asked.
I told Hans the story and watched him roll his eyeballs. “You’re a little crazy, David, but you’ve got balls, that’s for sure. I never thought you’d sell to Steven & Sons in a million years.”
“Yeah, Hans, that’s the difference, I guess, between you and me… I knew it all along.” I didn’t mean it as an insult and Hans didn’t take it as one. We liked each other a lot. But we were very different: he was happy where he was, I wasn’t. I wanted a lot more out of life, and I was determined to get it.
The thing that I’d needed to close the sale with Steven & Sons wasn’t a big, plastic pencil – the pencil could have been any one of a number of props. What I’d needed, and found, was courage, the courage to take a risk on a creative approach.
Before long, I was faced with another difficult career choice, but because I had a plan to follow I was able to make the right decision.
The sale I made to Steven & Sons impressed McDougall quite a bit. He’d seen many other salespeople attempt to sell them, but nobody had come through. I would make many other valuable sales, and McInley and McDougall, who wanted to make certain I stayed with the company, eventually offered me a partnership. McInley was tighter than McDougall, but the deal was rather sweet. I remember discussing the offer with Hans during one of our deliveries.
“Wow, David, that’s amazing. These guys have never offered anyone a partnership before. Hell, I’ve been working for them longer than anybody, and I’ve barely gotten a raise.”
“Yeah, it’s a good deal all right. Too bad I’m not taking it.”
Hans hit the brakes, the van stopped suddenly and we were both thrown forward. “Pardon me,” he said incredulously. A horn bellowed from behind.
“Hans,” I said, “you better start moving, you’re holding up traffic.” Instead he pulled over to the side of the road.
“You’re kidding me, man. Nobody turns down an offer like that.”
“I do.”
Hans sat in his seat, his jaw hanging loosely. He was a big German man. He’d come over with his family when he was a child, so he didn’t have much of an accent, but whenever he got mad or emotional he reverted to his Teutonic roots. “You’re a dummkopf,” he said. “Why? It don’t make any sense.”
“I’ve got a plan, and working for McInley & McDougall isn’t in it.”
“What’s your plan?” he asked.
“Well, my dream is to become wealthy, and my plan for achieving that is to work for myself. Nobody gets rich working for somebody else. I might make a decent living working for McInley & McDougall, but I’m shooting for more than just decent.”
“But what are you going to do, exactly?”
“I’m not quite sure. I’m still figuring it out. I’m looking at a few things – the types of careers where you can work for yourself and make a lot of money.”
“And what are those?” Hans asked.
“The three that I’m exploring are real estate, securities, and insurance. You can certainly do well in the first two, but there’s a problem with them. They’re cyclical. When a depression or recession hits, real estate and securities suffer. But insurance is different. You still need insurance when the economy goes through a downturn.”
“Yeah, but who’s gonna buy insurance then? Nobody’s got money when a depression hits.” Hans said.
“Truth is, during a depression, the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. And I plan to sell to the rich, anyway.”
My plan was a long-term one, and although the decision I made meant I suffered in the short term, I knew it was the right thing to do for my future.
After a few months of selling paint, I went out and bought a car. It wasn’t the Thunderbird I wanted. It was a large, garish green two-door Buick with a faulty exhaust system, but it would get me around at least. When I phoned to get car insurance,