OCR Text |
Show For 1 whom the Bell (Telephone Company) Toils , by Marvin Kitman y skyscraper very morning in some conference room I'm sure something like this conversation takes place: "How are we going to meet our sales quotas today, sirr "Call 'Kitman Marvin Writr . . . Ltonia NJ' says the vice- president "He's loaded." I owe my reputation for being a big spender to the fact that I have a telephone. Every day some looks me shrewd salesman or charity fund-raisup in the local Dun & Bradstreet, which is the New Jersey Bell Telephone Company's Bergen County type directory. I'm listed there in along with 288,946 other northern New Jersey millionaires with phones. My wife almost never says "No" to a phone solicitation or to a door-to-dosalesman, for that matter. I declared a new deal in both categories when I started working at home as a freelance writer. "From now on only I talk to salesmen or volunteer workers," I said confidently. "Nobody is going to be bilked around here anymore." Rather than trigger a depression by suddenly saying "Sorry, Bankrupt!" I decided to use a little business psychology. My plan was to make them feci as if they had somehow muffed the sale. "Is the woman of the house in?" asked the first caller. Assuming she meant the boss of the house, I answered, "Speaking. Can I help you?" big-cit- E er or "We're conducting a survey of American homes," explained a tough career woman's voice. "And your name has been given to us because you're an opinion leader in the community. If you'll answer a few. . ." "I'm sorry, miss," I interrupted what sounded like a memorized speech. "I thought you were selling magazines. I'm a busy man, but I'm always ready to help a girl working her way through college selling magazines." Something I said acted like truth scrum on the caller. "As a matter of fact," she cooed, "I am calling for the publishers of Life magazine. They have a wonderful gift subscription price just for you. It works out to only nine cents a copy." "That's a little steep. Isn't it?" I asked coldly. "It's the lowest price in our history." she said in a shocked tonex"But we're willing to make this sacrifice because once you become familiar with Life you'll agree no American home should be without it" Just then the doorbell rang. I quietly placed the phone receiver on my desk and ran to the front door, where a man was waiting. "I don't want any 10 today," I said cordially. He smiled and explained that coincidentally he happened to be with a home remodeling firm and wanted to discuss some possible improvements. He was stopping by to do me a favor. His com' pany's truck had just finished dropping off a load of blacktop at another house in town. There happened to be a little bit left over on the truck, just enough to resurface my driveway at a special low price. "What color is it?" "Asphalt's black," he said. "Wrong color," I said. "If you have any in red on the back of the truck, you've got a deal. But don't call me; I'll call you." I took his card and rushed back to the phone. The woman was still talking about how swell Life was. ". . . And for participating in this survey, you're also entitled to two free magazines every month." - "I'll take it," I said quickly. "I knew I could count on you," she said. "For how many years do you want Life?". "You don't seem to understand. I only want the two free magazines you just said I was entitled to." I gave her the addresses of friends' houses where 1 wanted the magazines sent for Christmas. "And will you be sure to put in gift cards." The door bell rang again. A heavily made-u- p woman in her late 20's or early 40's greeted me cheerfully. "I don't want any," I said. "I'm the woman from Beauty Counselors," she said gaily. "Your wife asked me to stop by today to show her our entire line of cosmetics." Not wanting to disappoint her, I decided the least I could do was supply her with the name of another prospect. I gave her the phone number of the asphalt guy. They would certainly understand each other's language. Then I ru&hed back to the phone. But the Life lady had hung up. She sounded intelligent, and I hoped she had all the addresses and names straight. "Is Suzy Kitman in?" the next caller asked. "I'm from the Dow-JonCompany, and we'd like to know if she is planning to renew her subscription to the Wall Street Journal." "I'll ask her when she gets back from school." "Oh, is she away at college?" the woman asked. "No, she's away at second grade at the Anna C. Scott Elementary School in Leonia." It was so quiet you could hear a market drop. "We've sent Miss Kitman several letters asking her to renew," she finally said, plunging back into her sales pitch. "Didn't it meet her requirements?" "To tell you the truth, I gave her the subscription as a present It was costing me so much for her new school clothes we found we simply couldn't make ends meet on $7,000 a year. Then I saw your ads saying we could earn $20,000 a year just by reading the Journal regularly." "Families earn extra income by reading the Journal," she said proudly. "Has it worked for you?" "Since we started reading the paper, my income has dropped. It takes so long to read the Journal from cover to cover, I haven't had time to do my other work." Very much agitated, the saleswoman said she would give my name to the circulation manager and he would straighten everything out. The next caller said she was with the Fred Astaire Dance Studio. "We have an important question," the woman said. "What was the name of the first President of the United States?" I shrewdly answered, "John Adams." "That's close enough," she said breathlessly. "Congratulations! You've just won a free trial lesson at the Fred Astaire Dance Studio nearest your es self-assur- ed home. This is your chance to learn the dance steps that may have kept you from achieving social success." I knew that I had to be on my toes to avoid this trap; once you fall into a dance studio's clutches, it sometimes takes a lifetime to really learn how 1 to dance. "Will Fred himself be able to teach me the gavotte in my free lesson?" I asked. "Isn't there another dance you'd like to learn?" she asked. "The minuette," I exclaimed, certain that I had heard the last from the Fred Astaire people. I didn't start running into real trouble until a caller near the end of the day said, "Mental Health. May 1 speak to Mrs. Kitman?" "I wish you would," I said. "She's been very, depressed since I started working at home. I think she misses not being able to talk on the phone any more." "We're planning to make a pick-u- p on Monday," she said. "I absolutely ref use to let you pick her up." "There must be some misunderstanding," she said. "We don't want ta pick up your wife. Only her old clothes." "Who are you anyway?" I asked suspiciously. "I represent the Bergen County Mental Health Association," she explained. "I have so many calls on my schedule I just say 'Mental Health' and the women immediately know what I'm calling about" That would explain what that other woman meant when she said "Malaria." No wonder she seemed puzzled when I said, "We don't want any." She was only a volunteer worker for the New Jersey Foundation to Wipe Out Mosquitoes. By the end of the week everybody knew that the Kitman house was under new sound business management It wasn't until the next week that I began to suspect everything wasn't going right Three copies of Life arrived in the mail. By the addresso-graphe- d labels I could see somebody had ordered three subscriptions to the same magazine. Several tlays later the Wall Street Journal began arriving. And when I went outside to find out why the truck was dumping red asphalt on my driveway, I stumbled over a small end table tagged with a label, "Yellow Jaundice Charity Pick Up Bazaar." I looked up in time to see a shapely woman getting her high heels stuck in the red asphalt. "About your gavotte lesson . . ." the Fred Astaire representative sang out, trying to keep her balance while she was putting her footprirts in the asphalt-o- ne, two, three, sidestep. I rushed back into the house and called my business representative at New Jersey BcIL "There's something wrong with my phone," I explained. "I don't seem to be getting through to people." "We'll send a man over right away," she said. Well. I wasn't going to fall for that trick. They would probably try to sell me another extension. I quickly explained what had been happening. "Did you ever think of just hanging up on these people?" she asked. "And ruin my reputation in the business world?" I asked. I finally found a way to handle the problem. Now when people call, I just say: "Sorry, wrong - , Marvin Kitman made sum his first book would be best seller by titling it "The Number-OnBest Seller." He Is the editor of Monicle magazine and a regular contributor to the Saturday Evening Post and Playboy. At present he is the writer at Kitman House, Leonia, N. J. number-on- e Dimensions in Living e j November 1966 |