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No Dog. Beware of Manager.

The following is a post about my job:

We get a lot of sales people coming into the shop. Despite the sign on the front window right next to the door that says “NO SOLICITING,” they trundle in and attempt to ply their wares. Mind you, they aren’t peddling unbreakable knives, cordless vacuum cleaners, or Girl Scout cookies. No, their merchandise is ten thousand dollar color copiers that mail merge, fold, staple, bind, and make mochaccinos in-line. Normally, these guys wouldn’t be a problem.

But my new boss used to be a children’s pastor at an area church. He’s new to the business and likes making people feel like they’re doing well, even if they’re bloodless carrion-feeders from the United Association of Merde You Don’t Need. What he’s only now beginning to understand is that these people don’t know the meaning of “mild interest.” He says, “I’m thinking of getting a new machine next fall,” and they hear, “Come by every day and pester me until I sign a lease.” He’s a softie, and there’s nothing wrong with that, but sales folk need a firm hand. They’re like bear. Like underage alcoholic freshman bear. You give them anything, and they’ll never leave you alone.

Now, I’ve got a roller in my desk. It’s a hardened rubber rod with a steel core about eighteen inches long that Ikon uses to push paper through their industrial-grade copiers, and I’m aching to use it like Mr. Echo’s Jesus Stick on the next rabid solicitor who comes through our door. I take the text “No Soliciting” very seriously. To me, it means that if you ignore it and enter the office anyway, you waive any and all right to a cordial exchange. I respect the bravery and testicular fortitude it takes to be a cold-calling sales person, but there are rules in businesses.

So, if you happen to be a seller of printing supplies, beware of ignoring signs on your next sales call. The person on the other side of the counter might be me.


One Response

  1. I hope the threat of a knuckle sandwich with a side of bruising is enough to keep those dirty merchants off your doorstep. From now on, your welcome mat reads ‘go away or I’ll find a new home for my hardened rubber rod with a steel core.’

    You put the ‘man’ in ‘manager’ Mr. Taylor.

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