The Knife Salesman

From the I-pod we hear Bono’s voice mourning, “The more I see, the less I know.” While I’m filling out my personal info on a job application for Vector Marketing, it strikes me that the Red Hot Chili Peppers expressed that very same sentiment in their song “Snow.” For a moment my thoughts are amiss, trying to figure out which song was released first, who ripped-off who. Then it occurs to me that the “originator” probably just paraphrased a well-known adage I’ve never heard of. I return my focus to the application in front of me.

There are almost twenty of us crammed into this small, white room at Vector Marketing headquarters in a suburb just north of Chicago. Chicago is where I want to live again, the fear and paranoia have ebbed and the regret has set in. Writing is what I want to do, but even the best aren’t likely to make a living doing it until middle-age. Selling knives to potential buyers in their homes is not something I yearn to do, but the ad on Career Builder vowed that this place pays $18 per hour. I am skeptic about selling knives door-to-door, but this business is only ten minutes outside of Chicago, accessible by public transportation, and it pays well, so I am willing to listen to what the recruiter has to say about CUTCO brand knives and the (wink-wink) opportunities Vector has to offer.

The applicants are not allowed to talk to one another, possibly because the recruiters sense that scams are more quickly unearthed in a sociable group. Conversation leads to speculation. As I glance around the room, I realize that at age 25, I’m one of the oldest people in attendance. I wonder how many people in this room, the recruiter who included U2 on his shuffle mix and myself excluded, can name five songs by the savior –rock quartet from Dublin. I guess two, then remember the application I have been neglecting.

As it turns out, the application hardly matters. When I first entered the headquarters of Vector Marketing, a minute or two late because of the lack of leeway I allow for delays in the Chicago Transit Authority, I was handed an application by a strikingly gorgeous secretary and ushered into the presentation room. I hadn’t even reached the past employment portion when I was called into the manager’s office for an interview. When I explained that I wasn’t quite finished with my application, he assures me it’s no big deal, as if applications for this job are as unneeded as name-tags for the cows at a slaughterhouse.

He reads what I have completed on the application, which might as well have read, “Name: Nicholas John Oli.” He seems distracted while I tell him about my Communications degree and—although it bares no relevance here—my work at the college newspaper and public access television. It’s as if my words are being drowned out by the chunky riff from “Even Better Than the Real Thing” at a U2 concert and all he can think about is stealing the secretary away to the men’s bathroom before the start of the first encore. After a minute or two of jabbering about my moot accomplishments, he decides the interview has run its course and he tells me to return to the room with all the other applicants.



When the presentation starts, we are finally allowed to speak, but only in response to the questions the hiring manager is asking us. The questions seldom require a thoughtful response; we are expected to supply answers merely to prove we are not timid wallflowers incapable of naming two words that rhyme with “knife.”

The hiring manager looks like a model for Axe body wash. He asks if anyone has a penny and when the group is slow to produce one, he remarks, “No one has a penny? I guess you really are poor college students.”

But we’re not all poor college students. Some of us are poor college graduates.

His comment induces a laugh from the group, and even though I know most of the kids who say yes to a job offer will be slighted and exploited, I laugh, too. To prove that I can handle a playful ribbing from one of the Corporate Bros. Later that night, sleeplessly lying supine on the couch at my friends Chris and Mike’s apartment, I will scold myself for snorting at the Axe model’s wisecrack.

When someone finally gives him a penny, he proceeds to peel its perforated edge as testament to the sharpness of CUTCO-brand knives. He has done this many times before and the demonstration is fairly impressive. We react like the audience in an infomercial, some of us rubbing our eyes in gaudy disbelief, others mouthing the words, “Holy Mary Mother of God.” We’re quietly awed, because we all need jobs.

I am jotting notes and raising my hand to answer an occasional question even though I know I’d be a stooge to work for Vector Marketing. Here is a sample of the notes I wrote down.

“CUTCO knives stay sharp for 7-10 yrs. Cutting edges are between the points, not on the points. Knives can be sold individually or in a set. Extendable flaying knife for the fisherman.”

“Representatives are given $540 worth of CUTCO supplies, used as long as rep. wants the set. Deposit of $135.”

The second sample of notes refers to the $135 deposit required to become a sales representative for Vector Marketing. In addition to paying for these shiny murder weapons, the four-day training seminar pays nothing. That means if you’re a lousy salesperson, or the customers just aren’t feeling profligate ever since their 401-K plan went broke faster than Bernie Madoff, an employee could work seven appointments and still fall short of breaking even with Vector Marketing.

As my gnarled hand moves back and forth across a piece of scratch paper, I am simultaneously eager raise my hand to offer proof that I’m not an imbecile and cursing myself for being dumb enough to ride down to Chicago on a Greyhound to explore a mediocre prospect such as this. Even if I was somehow provided with enough appointments per week for a few months, I’m no salesman. An exchange between a potential buyer and I would be comparable to this…

“Hello, there, Mrs. Epstein. Um, I have here, in my possession, some amazing knives courtesy of the good people at CUTCO. If you’re ever struck by the fancy to peel the ridges off one of your hard-earned pennies, I’m told these knives will do the trick. So, would you—uh—like to purchase a set?”

“No,” Mrs. Epstein says. “We’ve got no need for these kinds of luxury items right now. The economy is in the shitter, as I’m sure you know.”

“Right. I’ve heard the news reports about that. The economy is the main reason I’m trying to sell people like you knives in the first place. Because the economy is, you know…”

“In the shitter. Yes, I figured that’s what brought you into my kitchen for this uncomfortable demonstration.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I guess it’s a no-sale, then. Hmmm. We’ve still got 58 minutes to kill before the end of this appointment. In the meantime, if I shredded my belt into pieces with one of these CUTCO-brand knives, would that maybe persuade you to reconsider?”

“No. It would not.”

“Okay. Jeez, I feel like a turd for even asking you that. Plus I really need this belt; it’s the only one I own. I guess I’m just trying to be more—uh—persistent with making sales. Anyway, at least I still get paid eighteen bucks for this appointment.”

“Sure. And along with the other appointments you’ve arranged today, you’ve made…”

“Eighteen dollars.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah. Suddenly my throat is feeling parched. Can I have a glass of water?”

“Get out of my house.”

“Right then. Okay. I’ll see you later—er…goodbye. Forever. Sorry.”

I would sell knives with as much deftness as Bob Newhart propositioning a stripper for a blow-job.

But the crux of the entire process was that I still wanted to be accepted for the job, even though I knew damn well I had no business selling knives part-time. This was a corporation that accessed its customers through desperate college students; the poor kids were one step up from bottom-feeders. If I wasn’t qualified enough for the approval of the CUTCO shills, I was seriously going to have to rethink my career options. I would have no choice but to take the plunge into the carnie racket, guessing people’s weight with 10% accuracy or modeling for the gawking carnival-goers the world’s longest leg hairs.

****

When he offers his hand to shake and tells me the job is mine if I want it, I am elated. I thank him effusively and revel in the moment of artificial triumph. I’m grinning broadly as I light up a cigarette and walk across the street to the bus stop.

The bus drops me off at the train station. On the el ride back to my cousin Eliot’s condo, where I slept last night, I don’t invest much thought into what I will say tomorrow morning when I dial Vector headquarters to announce my abrupt resignation, or rather, my unwillingness to attend the four day training session worth a net gross of -$135. Instead I write notes on a scratch piece of paper concerning vampire fights. Specifically, when the blood-suckers are engaged in battle with each other, is victory attained by chomping the opponent’s neck or thrusting a stake through the opponent’s heart? The el-train provides a wondrous setting for expounding on inane ideas.

At Chris and Mike’s apartment later that night, I’m eager to guzzle a six-pack of Budweiser and play a few competitive games of Madden Football. When I tell Chris about the Vector Marketing prospect, he responds with indignant empathy and, with righteous bluster, explains all the reasons I shouldn’t become a part-time knife-salesman in terms much more trenchant and elaborate than I have previously described. His input assures me that I’m making a prudent decision in continuing to be unemployed.

****

Because Christmas is in a few days, the Greyhound station is packed with impatient travelers. I walk in alongside Annie, a cute and bookish blond I met on the el-train not ten minutes ago. Brought together by a common destination, we’re making conversation suitable for a first date. Annie is the secretary for a professor at DePaul University, and she’s traveling home to Iowa for the holidays. We discover a number of remarkable coincidences about the other. Both our mothers are named Ruth. Both our fathers are retired police officers. We’re the youngest in our families, with two brothers and a sister apiece. We both love baseball and especially the Cubs. When I call attention to all these surprising happenstances, she merely shrugs and says, “That’s just the way life is.” She is used to the stars aligning in a familiar and comforting way, a feeling that only strikes me in rare moments of hopefulness.

Annie’s parents live just outside of the town where the movie “Field of Dreams” was filmed. For awhile we discuss the baseball museum located there. Even though I’m not even sure which door the bus to Milwaukee will be parked outside of, I stand alongside Annie as she waits in line for her bus to arrive. Without any wrangling, she gives me her phone number. Her bus arrives and the appropriate door opens. A gust of cold air rushes through the terminal. Through a shield of glass doors, I watch her lug her cumbersome bags onto the bus and wish I could offer to carry them. But I’m not traveling to Iowa, with good reason, perhaps. The sigh I let out is overpowered by the chilly gust from outside. I realize that my phone number triumph won’t amount to much while I’m living in Fond du Lac.

With Annie gone, I turn my focus to learning exactly how the hell I’m going to make it home. The line to the information desk is comparable to that for a new roller-coaster ride at Six Flags, and I figure I can determine which gate to go to by listening to the announcements on the public address system.

The voice that comes through the P.A. system is muffled and submerged in static. We are not listening to an announcement of vital information on schedules and delays; we are listening to a comedian’s impression of the speaker box at a fast-food drive-thru. The omniscient voice that is supposed to edify and subdue our uncertainties is unintelligible. And persistent, too. The ordeal is like listening to a thorough oration from God Himself, who is stinking wasted drunk off the blood of his only son.

Shortly before my bus arrives, I start to ask around the long lines of impassive soon-to-be passengers and finally a frowzy woman of middle-age named Flora informs me that the bus to Milwaukee will be arriving outside of gave 13. Mere feet away from the arcade room, where the moaning of arcade zombies and booming explosions mingles with the indecipherable voice of our Greyhound God, I rest my back against the storage lockers with my luggage resting by my feet.

****
I’ve taken a window seat on the bus when a bubbly Asian girl with flakes of dandruff dotting the strands of her hair asks in broken English if she can sit beside me. I have no qualms with that, and once she has stored her luggage in the overhead compartment, the Asian girl introduces herself as Nee-ying. I say hi. She then summons her dogged determination to hold a conversation with me.

Now, at the risk of making a severe understatement, Asia is a pretty big continent. I’d like to be more specific in regard to Nee-ying’s origins, but when I ask here where she’s from, her response is coy laughter. After “Would you like to super-size your order?” and “Are you familiar with 2 Live Crew?” the question “Where are you from?” ranks at the top of the list of phrases Nee-ying should have learned to answer right away. All this is not to seem xenophobic, but to reiterate that she was just learning the rudiments of the English language the day I spoke to her on the Greyhound bus.

Although I don’t know which country Nee-ying calls her homeland, I CAN provide an exhaustive list of Asian countries I’m fairly certain she does not hail from: Russia. No something-Stans, either.

Aiming her cell phone past the window to my right, she snaps pristinely vivid pictures of downtown Chicago, and later in the drive, she captures the majestic skyline as we escape its wonder. When I steal a glance at her phone as she cycles through her list of contacts, I notice that all the entries are comprised of squiggly and ornate characters. The symbols bring to mind the reverse side of a fortune cookie strip, featuring the ambitious command: “Learn Japanese! Dog = a phonetic translation, cryptic mutations of the pi symbol, the New York Mets logo, and an ink blot rendering that, according to your analyst, represents the suppressed rage you feel toward your seventh grade football coach.

But enough about that smug, pig-faced motherfucker who chomped into self-esteem like it was a Slim-Jim.

With her ticket stub in hand, Nee-ying nudges me and indicates that she’d like to examine mine. I reach into my pocket and produce the stub for her. Her brow strained intently, she examines the cities I’ve traveled to the last few days, along with departure and arrival times and the total cost of my ticket. Having rode from Fond du Lac to Milwaukee to Chicago, now en route back to Milwaukee and on to my final stop in Fond du Lac, she reasons that I’ll be making four stops total.

“Twenty-two dollars, each stop,” she says, leaning over and pointing to the total price of my voyage: $88.00. It takes me a second to realize that she has just used my ticket stub to display the simple arithmetic of a second-grader’s story problem.

English minors despise the adage: “Math is the universal language.” This is partly because numbers can’t be used to evoke wisdom, beauty, or humor. But it’s mainly because the D’s we received in Algebra class made us feel stupid, and well-read people hate being misled into believing we could avoid this meager feeling by means of explicating the shit out of Hawthorne and Ibsen.

But when Nee-ying’s savvy math skills proved valid and I actually understand what she meant, we become overjoyed and bond momentarily.

“Yes! Eighty-eight divided by four is twenty-two,” I proclaim, cheerfully.

“Twenty-two times four is eighty-eight!” Nee-ying returns, glowingly.

That part of the conversation was glorious, but once all the points concerning my ticket stub were exhausted, we are left with nothing else to discuss. In no time I am once more asking where she is from and again she is laughing at my question. In fairness, it was pretty funny—the two of us trying to have a conversation.

Months later, while listening to a John Lennon album, a lyric from the song “Borrowed Time” reminds me of the rift in communication I experienced with Nee-ying. It goes, “The more that I see, the less that I know for sure.”

Riding the Greyhound is humbling and a bit seedy, but the bus has to offer a destination, a place where the outcasts congregate, far from the home that stifles you. I’m riding back from my destination, having gained nothing but more confusion. As the Asian girl feigns a nap beside me, I tell myself that my destination hasn’t changed; I’m just traveling to it in reverse.