Birth of a Salesman: The Toad

I woke up to a cold smear of daylight peeking through the curtains and the prospect of yet another job interview. This was about a month before I started work at Kirby Fryston, and marked another milestone on my path to becoming a salesman. The company in question was another one selling advertising (‘bespoke’ advertising), this time to law firms. I had decided to acquiesce slightly in my unwillingness to apply for jobs like this, at the insistence of the agency I’d signed with: they’d managed to convince me I was desperate. Or at least that if I wasn’t yet, I would be soon.

So again I took the underground to some satellite district of central London, stopping briefly for a morale-boosting coffee, and located the large, imposing building that sat before the busy street like a child in front of a television. The company (whose full name ran to five whole words) referred to themselves affectionately as ‘Taylors’. I strode through the front door and introduced myself: it was to be me and nine other hopefuls. We were led down three flights of stairs and into a large windowless basement, the darkness stretching away behind us as we sat around a square table. Our inquisitor was already waiting at the head of the table: a very fat, middle-aged woman with an enormous head and cruel, beady eyes, like a toad. She was unique in that you could actually imagine her auditioning to play a live-action role in an otherwise animated film of The Wind in the Willows. We tried not to stare as we sat down.

She began with a speech about how wonderful Taylors is, and how wonderful all the people who work there are. ‘Other companies say this, but here it’s really true. We do have an exceptional working atmosphere here. Truly exceptional. Everyone really cares about the well-being of new starters. You will be given all the help and support you need. I really can’t emphasize enough that we’ve got a special atmosphere here. We’ve got a real buzz on our sales floor.’ She then individually eyeballed everybody in the room. I was terrified. ‘Now let’s get straight to the point,’ she continued. ‘Between March and October is our busy period. Very intense. We do a lot of business then. So during that time, we expect you to go the extra mile. Nobody can be ill during that period. Nobody ever takes a day off.’

She stated this as non-negotiable fact, switching then to a warm, smiling purr:

‘To compensate for this we give you all, every year, what we like to call a Duvet Day.’ Several of my fellow interviewees smiled back at her, as if she had just bestowed a wonderful gift on them.

‘Your Duvet Day is a pass, a ticket, a right if you will, to call up work one morning – any morning you like, outside of the busy period – and say, “I’m taking my Duvet Day.” And then take the day off and do whatever you want. Some people decide to use it when they’ve got a hangover but that seems silly to me. Book a trip, go to Paris, do something nice.’

Some of those around the table nodded in satisfaction at this unique and generous feature of the job. Then the toad leaned forward. She started tapping her chubby digits on the table and narrowed her little eyes. ‘What I would like to do is see what you’re all like on the fly.’ She locked eyes with the girl to her immediate left, and said:

‘I’m an Eskimo. Sell me some ice.’

There was a long silence. A young Irish man at the far end of the table put up his hand. ‘I’m – I’m really sorry.’ His voice cracked. ‘I’m sorry but this just isn’t for me.’ With that, he stood up and fled the basement.

With hindsight, that’s what I should have done.

It’s what everybody should have done.

But the toad didn’t flinch.

‘You heard me. I’m an Eskimo. Sell me some ice.’

‘Okay, so – ’ the girl stuttered, ‘do you like your drinks cold?’

‘No, I’m an Eskimo, I like them hot. I like tea.’

‘Right. Do you like… iced tea?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Ah, well that’s great, because I’ve got a product that might just be for you.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Ice.’

‘I live in Lapland. There’s ice everywhere.’

‘Oh. Right.’

Her first contestant was defeated. ‘You.’ She raised a fat finger to point at a skinny teenager, sitting cockily at the end of the table. She consulted the pile of CVs in front of her. ‘Are you Darren?’

‘I am indeed.’

‘The man with the telesales background. Do you like the telephone, Darren?’

‘Workman can’t hate his tools.’

‘No, he can’t. So sell me some ice, Darren.’

Darren clicked into telesales mode; a born canvasser, speaking like a character out of Mary Poppins:

‘So you’re an Eskimo, then?’

‘I am.’

‘Excellent, excellent. And whereabouts d’you live?’

‘London.’

‘An Eskimo in London, eh? Very nice. Whereabouts?’

‘North-central.’

‘Excellent, excellent. And do you ever find yourself, in the summer time, when it gets all hot, do you ever find yourself wanting a cool drink?’

‘I do like a cold drink in the summer actually.’

Oh dear God above, I thought.

But the toad was loving it, grinning as she let Darren work his magic.

‘And do you have a freezer, with ice in it?’

‘I do.’

‘Excellent, excellent. You get your ice from the supermarket do you?’

‘I do.’

‘How much?’

‘Fifty pence a bag.’

‘But it must be a bit of a pain, hauling all that heavy ice into a bag, into your car, out of your car. Right?’

‘It is actually, now you come to mention it.’

Darren leaned forward, in for the kill.

‘Which is where I come in, Mrs Eskimo, which is where I come in yes. Because we can provide you with ice at thirty-five pence a bag, and deliver it to your home absolutely free!’

It was incredible. Darren actually talked like a brochure.

‘Thirty-five pence? Free delivery? Really?’ asked the toad, feigning delighted confusion. ‘How often?’

‘Once a week, Mrs Eskimo.’

‘Done.’

Darren leaned back, sweating a little, but triumphant.

‘Interesting,’ said the toad, as she scribbled down a note.

She studied the CVs, and spoke without looking up: ‘Which one of you is Tim?’ The blood drained from my face. I nervously raised my arm a few inches.

She looked up, straight at me. Her button eyes locked with my normal eyes as she searched through her mental database of tests, until –

‘Tim, you have good academics. But I am interested in your imagination. Sales people need imagination. So you are a shopping trolley. I want you to stand up, and tell me about your typical day.’

I went blank. What the fuck was she talking about?

Half in a trance, I muttered it back to her: ‘I am a shopping trolley. You want me to give you my typical day?’

‘Yes.’

I stood up, breathed deeply, and desperately tried to dredge up something crazy, witty or insightful to say on this topic. Something that would engage, or that would at least make people laugh. Nothing came. Everyone was staring at me, so I resorted to reality. Grim, dull reality:

‘Well, I get wheeled out at about 8am by one of the supermarket staff and put at the front of the store. When the first customers come in I get wheeled around the aisles, and eventually end up at a till. I am then discarded until I’m put back at the front by a member of staff. Then another customer gets hold of me and wheels me around again.’

The toad looked wholly unimpressed. Everybody else saw her disapproval and decided to mimic it. Detail, she’s looking for imaginative detail.

‘I get lots of things put in me. Chocolate biscuits, steaks, cereal, bananas, soup, washing powder. Erm... And then at the end of the day I get wheeled out the back. And that’s a day in my life.’

There was an uncomfortable silence (my life seemed to be full of them lately) and I sat down, full of shame and failure. I had fucked it up; my heart was thumping. I hardly paid attention as the rest of the room were forced to do various party pieces. ‘A day in the life of a lawnmower.’ ‘I’m a fifty year-old housewife, sell me a skydiving holiday.’ ‘A day in the life of a vase.’ ‘Sell me a pen.’

I glazed over and tried to justify it to myself. If she’d given me something more to work with, say ‘A day in the life of a serial killer,’ or ‘I’m a sixteen year old boy, sell me some Viagra,’ I could have come up with something good. But no – the truth is that I’m just lacking in sales imagination. At the end, the toad gathered all the CVs into a stack and said, ‘Right. I will now decide which of you will go forward for one-on-one interviews with me, right now, this afternoon.’

Everyone looked around nervously, wondering who would make it. She pointed at Darren first. ‘You.’

Then she went around the table, leaving completely unnecessary dramatic pauses between each announcement, as she selected every single person. Until she came to me. She skipped me. I felt sick. She also skipped the girl at the very end to my left, who had been quiet since the start. The successful ones got up and went out, up the stairs to another room. The girl and I sat there. Out of the nine people who had finished the interview, seven had gone to the second round. I was one of the duds.

I walked up the three flights of stairs and out onto the street. The girl was right behind me, obviously taking the same route to the tube station. I slowed my pace so we were walking alongside each other. She looked so shy, I felt confident enough to offer some support.

‘Oh well, you can’t win them all can you?’

She looked at me with surprisingly cold eyes.

‘No,’ she said, then turned and walked off in a different direction – a clear snub. I couldn’t believe it. To hide my embarrassment, I stopped and tied my shoelace.

What was wrong with me?

Something must be wrong with me.