Red Tie Car Men Equalling Nothing But Cars – Jim Meirose

The pens the paperwork the desks the phones; the edges on top on sides and on bottom, all the same. The top edges of the partitions the worn down flat carpet, rug, or carpet, carpet, or rug version number three ha, ha the whiteshirts go to these desks, pluck up their phones, and talk to no one. They’re feigning checking with the manager to make the patrons believe the deal slapped in their faces is so in their favor, that the manager may think this hotshot young whiteshirt’s giving the farm away, but. The manager’s all, My boys, my boys, yah; do it, do it, make every deal seem to your fishes like you’re giving the farm away, because you like them; see him on the phone over there, Madge, lord. He must have this deal cut so deep in our favor, Madge, he will be in trouble at end-of-month with the top cheese of this place, cheeses, bosses, Gods or megamen, who danced this business into being, hut hut hut, into being, into being, but, look see, no; I’m told these car men even yearly gather at a top secret pep rally and get yelled all around at with suchlike like these:

We must wear the white shirt the red ties and the short hair.

We must each be nothing particular but pure salesman.

When they see us, we must be car men equaling cars.

Who dresses like this no one dresses like this ‘but Flamingtown car men equaling cars.

Way up and way down and both sides of the road this look grew this business.

This is the reason we can never look different; all likewise, as the founder directed, must wear the superdistinct non-identifiable white shirt short hair glasses and red tie car men who equal nothing but cars. That’s right; today every Flamingtown car man’s face must equal only cars. A moment’s shallow research, and a lick of God’s toetip, told the great founder a green car man’s face equals nothing but green; does not point out to this that or the other but just to itself. And a car man’s face pointing only to itself does not equal only cars.

So; I say to you today, white shirted red tied green faced man what what w-h-a-t whose faces super-exclusively equal cars.

So. The oath now, before we overspread our selling floors.

Brothers in Flamingtown Motors salesforce!

We are the friendless of this earth.

Every man’s hand is against us.

We have been kicked, spat upon—and driven back to our desks, unsealed deals in our hands, again and again, like wild things.

My father was a salesman, and he was nearly hanged.

His father was fired for lack of great monthly numbers.

And what of your kinsmen, your fathers, their fathers, and their fathers’ fathers, before them?

My brothers in sales, a new day is at hand.

I have read the specs and suggested prices for the new models, and they are good.

Three nights ago, a great sedan’s horn blared from the cloud way out, up the left.

Another answered from the cloud way out, up the right, in reply.

What did that sign mean, my sales force children?

It means that Mother Big-Auto, in her palace Detroit, with all her arms outstretched, hugs us to her bosom, welcoming us back as hot salesmen—hot salesman awakened from a sleep of another full year.

So!

Let the neophytes and their teachers draw near.

Where are the hot as shit quicktalking negotiators?

Give them their clipboards sharp pencils wide desks and phones.

Give them their new model literature spec sheets and floormobiles.

Swear by our Mother Big-Auto up in Detroit to be thrice faithful to her and to me and to our pure-white-shirt red tie order, and to all of us.

Rise, white shirted red tie short hair in glasses Flamingtown brothers!

Stick on your spectacles! Rise and sell!

Sell, lest you be sold yourselves!

Sell for the love of selling!

Sell for the love of Big-Auto the great Mother!

Sell!

Sell!

Sell!

By all that’s big-dawg shirt ass da monkeycut, sell-men!

Sell, sell; yah sell sell right now!

Ready, Next; this very same salesman snapped his face toward his fast nibbling fishpair. Quick quick quick, go quick; see they’re all set, all in, ‘n tight; one swat now, and we’ll net them. Swing the feet off the desk. Sit up. Pay attention. So, hey, now; now’s the time to move in.

Approach them slow. With a classic bright smile.

Heads turn, Look, Madge, look; he’s off the phone. Look, Madge, look; he’s off and he’s coming. He—he; he comes up all soothingly outchested with, Listen n’ listen t’, ah, folks. I spoke to the manager. Luckily, he’d not yet left for the day. Your deal is okayed. Nothing’s left but the paperwork. Congratulations—said while silently handshaking smiling all sparkly-eyed thinking, Yes! I knew that when we crossed the sill this’d be a live one. Yes! So; seal it now, ‘n seal it quick. Close in, close in, eh; Please be seated. Eh; Penflash. Eh; Inklines. Squirrely, but legal. Hold back, hold. Penworkingly afterthough going, gone, ack; That’s it, all done. Rising, grinning, and shaking hands. All’s done and all’s sealed; go go go, all shouting like it’s some swat-show. Stick on your spectacles! Rise and sell! The pens, the paperwork, the desks, the phones. Sell, lest you be sold yourselves! Hands up get down why do you mug? You lucky devils; congratulations again on your very wise purchase. Take delivery next week same day same time. Madge you free? Yah free. Yes, we’re good, we’ll be there.

So.

Breathe deep, eyes closed.

Sell!

Sell for the love of Selling! The edges on top on sides and on bottom all the same, are all free. Why do why else do you sell?

So. Thi’ ‘s it.

Sell for the love of Big-Auto the great Mother; and for the sake of them plucky-chickens chicken-scratching at the worn down super-seedy flat dealership’s carpet, rug, or carpet. See you then, thanks again bye bye carpet or rug version number three; Sell! Yes! Then carpet or rug version number four; Sell! Yes! Carpet or rug version number five; Sell! Number six, Sell!

Number s’ seven, Sell! Left eight, Sell! Right nine, Sell! Ten—aha—good work, she will tell me. Yes, me pat yo’ head, yah yo’ head, she will say. And we’ll all go home in one piece tonight, atopitall, yes we will; said the each to their others; said every single greenfaced whiteshirt later on, when finally left. F’ the day.

http://www.jimmeirose.com

Image via Pixabay

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