Story so far: The Old Saleswoman is telling her niece Sara about a stormy evening in Rutland in 1978 when she and her husband Roy head out to a ski lodge to deliver a $19. case of wine glasses.
We hit route 4 on 4 semi bald tires with looses chains rattling and threatening to come loose. I’d reach out the passenger window and snap the wiper blades every 60 seconds or so to loosen the ice and release the blades. The defroster worked only on the driver’s side. I prayed we had a decent ice scraper somewhere in the backseat. After 5 minutes I begged Roy to turn back.
“You‘re killing me!” I screamed at him. “You’re going to kill me!”
Roy knew instantly I meant our life together. And I knew it too for the first time. The cold, the stump, the flat, the laser like concentration to live, the dainty and delicate blonde. We both knew I was only with him that evening to protect my meager interest in the only adult life I ever knew.
I stopped talking now and looked over at Sara to see if I could gauge her reaction to my story. Sara was staring at me, waiting for more. But there really was no more. Not really.
Finally she asked “Well, what happened that night?” Did you make it?”
“We slid of the road about half way there, and had to be towed. The towing company wouldn’t take our card because we were over the limit. It was a mess. We
eventually got out of there somehow and made it back to the flat. We must have. I’m here now, aren’t I?” I just wanted my story to go away.
“And you stay married to him for how long after that?”
“About six years.”
“Six years.” she repeated staring out her window.
“But it was different between us from then on. We didn’t give each other breaks anymore. We were still married, still teamed up, but that didn’t mean we had to be nice to each other or give each other breaks.”
For the rest of the ride to Killington, Sara kept the ear bud in. When we finally entered the ski lodge, I felt stiff and icy inside. I was trying to shake off Rutland, and the, brittle, awkward feeling you get when you know you’ve given away too much of yourself, hoping for some return, but realize there will be none.
We caught up with the rest of the family easily enough. It was a helpful to connect with people who knew me while my back story was being written. Since I still felt wide open and shaken, to chatter aimlessly seemed to help. Sara simply drifted away to meet with some girls who looked of a similar age and life.
Not long after we arrived, everyone in the lodge turned their heads at the sound of broken glass. A waiter, not far from my niece, had dropped a very large drink tray, spraying glass and cocktails all over his vicinity. Instinctively, I pulled myself out of the deep leather sofa I had staked out for myself to try to disappear into, and took a few steps in her direction.
I could see she was unhurt, and could hear her reassuring her friends that the waiter wouldn’t get in trouble because those glasses didn’t cost much. She knows that because her aunt lived in Vermont the 70’s and had been close to the restaurant industry. The glasses probably cost $19.00 in the 70’s and $30.00 now. Then she told them it wasn’t much money then, and it still isn’t much money now.
I turned to walk away and found myself in the pub on the other side of the lodge. A glimmering big screen TV hung over one end of what looked like a very old wooden bar. I took a stool and placed my shoulder bag on the bar.
“Excuse me, Sir? Sir? What’s your best good, dry, crisp chardonnay? I’d like a glass. No, could I have a bottle?”
The stool I took was comfortable, it was situated nicely to watch the TV if I cared to; the wine glass I held in my hand was pretty and delicate. As I sipped my wine, I watched the bartender use his motor memory to clean and stack glasses .Then I watched as my purse slid slowly off the top of the smooth old wooden bar, and slowly down the side, to the floor.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
"Guts" Chapters 3 and 4
Story so far: The Old Sales Woman has begun to describe her life in Rutland in the 1070’s, as a one half of a young married couple working in commission sales, to her niece Sara. After showing Sara her old apartment in the “gut”, she heads to the center of town and Sara asks her to tell her about one sales call in particular.
Well, I got there on time, but the owner wasn’t there yet, and the door was still locked, so I had to wait on the sidewalk. The sidewalks were never shoveled till after 10, and this was a real problem because I couldn’t get my sample cases wet. I paid for my samples. I had a big artist portfolio for the bags and flattened boxes and a doctor’s bag for the ribbons and bows and wrapping paper. In a situation like that I had to sort of hoist the cases up under my armpits and lean against the building. I had shiny brown plastic boots with thick heels that I could get on with three or four pairs of socks and pantyhose. Those plastic boots were warm. I know leather’s supposed to be better, it breaths and all, but plastic keeps the heat in. Remember that. It may come in handy some day.
***************************************************************
“I’m going to take a minute and drive by the Yankee Peddler and see if it’s still there, it that’s Ok with you.” I said a little too tentatively for an aunt. I drove down Main Street and saw it was still there. But now it was the Vermont Peddler. It looked like a cute store. The whole street was cuter than it was when I lived there. The sidewalks were wider, and shoveled. There were fancy streetlights, and a few wrought iron benches placed along the street. We found a place to park and walked down the wider, fully shoveled sidewalks to what used to be the Yankee Peddler. The counter looked like the original; the wood so worn and shiny and slippery I wouldn’t have been able to lean my sample cases against them.
**************************************************************************************************
Finally the owner showed up, “Good Morning! Good Morning! It sure is cold, yes so, so cold.”
I tumbled in the store dragging my two black cases. “Can I set up here?”
I leaned my two sample cases against the smooth wood counters, and while they slowly slid to the floor, and started my pitch. I was lasering now. I could snap those gift boxes together with a flourish and talk smoothly at the same time. I know now that’s because of motor memory. My company had small minimums on gift boxes so the little shops liked us, but you had to pay a lot per box. I made a pretty good sale on gift boxes that day. I’m sure I calculated my commission right away, and I’m sure I worried about details of the sale. Did I price it right? Would he pass credit check? Would the company deliver on time? In sales there’s always a hitch on the way to the commission. When I got out on to the sidewalk I was dizzy with the release of adrenalin.
****************************************************************************************
“Why were you so worked up?”
“Well, I’d made some money and I’d done it on my own, and it felt good. “
While leaving the Vermont Peddler, walking back to the SUV, and looking at all the old store fronts and street signs, the memory of the entire day dropped on me and I couldn’t stop telling now.
.*****************************************************************
While I was still on my adrenaline high, I headed to the next store on Center Street. I looked further down the street, and saw Bob’s Toyota, obviously free of the stump, outside the best men’s store in town. That stopped me short. Bob’s Toyota in Rutland? I knew it was Bob’s Toyota, I couldn’t see the plates, but I knew the dents and the faded red color and the blue ski cap in the back window. I dropped my sample cases, stood still and stared till my eyes watered. Then I stuck a case under each arm, tucked my chin in my scarf and walk toward the next store on the block.
I just worked my way down the street, door to door, counter to counter, out in the cold, into the heat. Hello! Hello! Good morning! I was on auto pilot. As I left one store and headed to the next, I refused to look back at the Toyota. When I‘d worked my way to the corner of the street, I started around the block. I told myself, when I ‘m done working this block, the Toyota will be gone and I’ll never be sure it was Roy’s car in the first place. But after a square block of stores, about two hours of calls, it was still there, in front of the men’s store, but now there was movement around it. The passenger door was opening .I watched as Roy helped a tiny, pretty blonde girl get out of the Toyota. My two sample cases dropped to the sidewalk, in the dirty snow. The girl looked dainty. She was laughing. She had on spike heeled boots, no hat, no scarf, and looked attractively chilly, but not cold.
Just keep moving, I mumbled to myself, just sell something, laser your attention, phrases I mumbled to myself for years to come, but never with as much concentration as that morning.
But that didn’t work. After a couple of minutes, I dragged, hiked, and hitched myself and my cases down the sidewalk to the car, blasted the heater, and drove around Rutland for an hour. I probably thought about going to a dollar movie. I did that a lot back then, just to escape and be warm. I might have gone to one, but I’m not sure I could have sat through it. Probably around two o’clock, maybe later, I headed to the flat. When I passed the library I saw the Toyota. That at least, was part of the routine and was strangely reassuring.
When I got back to the flat, I immediately peeled off the layers and got in the tub. I brought in a tumbler full of zinfandel and stayed through Password and Match Game.
Sara broke in. “So, you were upset. Mad.”
“Oh I was upset and mad and all that stuff.”
“Did you pack up? Did you leave?”
“No. I didn’t”
“Why not?”
I couldn’t tell her that, but I could tell her about the rest of the day. So I continued.
****************************************************************************************************
About three o’clock or so that day it started to storm. When Roy wasn’t home by seven, I went on alert. I wandered the flat, bumping into furniture, not sitting for more than a minute, listening to the weather report on TV. There was a storm alert. Icy conditions were reported. I was now officially on duty. If he was in trouble and could get to a phone, I would go on the rescue mission, regardless of the circumstances of the day.
Bob finally got in about eight thirty. I probably tried to act cool and unconcerned because that’s how we were with each other. We thought we were giving each other a break being that way, or at least, I did.
Bob wasn’t home a half hour when the phone rang. He had to deliver a case of glasses to the Killington Ski Resort about 18 miles away. The case of glasses cost about $19. The commission would be about $2.50. It isn’t a lot of money now and it wasn’t a lot of money then. That hasn’t changed. I told Bob so, and I begged him not to go. But he was going. Killington was potentially a big account and it was the general manager himself who called. I told him I was going with him. I put on a few layers and hoped the car wasn’t hooked on the stump.
Well, I got there on time, but the owner wasn’t there yet, and the door was still locked, so I had to wait on the sidewalk. The sidewalks were never shoveled till after 10, and this was a real problem because I couldn’t get my sample cases wet. I paid for my samples. I had a big artist portfolio for the bags and flattened boxes and a doctor’s bag for the ribbons and bows and wrapping paper. In a situation like that I had to sort of hoist the cases up under my armpits and lean against the building. I had shiny brown plastic boots with thick heels that I could get on with three or four pairs of socks and pantyhose. Those plastic boots were warm. I know leather’s supposed to be better, it breaths and all, but plastic keeps the heat in. Remember that. It may come in handy some day.
***************************************************************
“I’m going to take a minute and drive by the Yankee Peddler and see if it’s still there, it that’s Ok with you.” I said a little too tentatively for an aunt. I drove down Main Street and saw it was still there. But now it was the Vermont Peddler. It looked like a cute store. The whole street was cuter than it was when I lived there. The sidewalks were wider, and shoveled. There were fancy streetlights, and a few wrought iron benches placed along the street. We found a place to park and walked down the wider, fully shoveled sidewalks to what used to be the Yankee Peddler. The counter looked like the original; the wood so worn and shiny and slippery I wouldn’t have been able to lean my sample cases against them.
**************************************************************************************************
Finally the owner showed up, “Good Morning! Good Morning! It sure is cold, yes so, so cold.”
I tumbled in the store dragging my two black cases. “Can I set up here?”
I leaned my two sample cases against the smooth wood counters, and while they slowly slid to the floor, and started my pitch. I was lasering now. I could snap those gift boxes together with a flourish and talk smoothly at the same time. I know now that’s because of motor memory. My company had small minimums on gift boxes so the little shops liked us, but you had to pay a lot per box. I made a pretty good sale on gift boxes that day. I’m sure I calculated my commission right away, and I’m sure I worried about details of the sale. Did I price it right? Would he pass credit check? Would the company deliver on time? In sales there’s always a hitch on the way to the commission. When I got out on to the sidewalk I was dizzy with the release of adrenalin.
****************************************************************************************
“Why were you so worked up?”
“Well, I’d made some money and I’d done it on my own, and it felt good. “
While leaving the Vermont Peddler, walking back to the SUV, and looking at all the old store fronts and street signs, the memory of the entire day dropped on me and I couldn’t stop telling now.
.*****************************************************************
While I was still on my adrenaline high, I headed to the next store on Center Street. I looked further down the street, and saw Bob’s Toyota, obviously free of the stump, outside the best men’s store in town. That stopped me short. Bob’s Toyota in Rutland? I knew it was Bob’s Toyota, I couldn’t see the plates, but I knew the dents and the faded red color and the blue ski cap in the back window. I dropped my sample cases, stood still and stared till my eyes watered. Then I stuck a case under each arm, tucked my chin in my scarf and walk toward the next store on the block.
I just worked my way down the street, door to door, counter to counter, out in the cold, into the heat. Hello! Hello! Good morning! I was on auto pilot. As I left one store and headed to the next, I refused to look back at the Toyota. When I‘d worked my way to the corner of the street, I started around the block. I told myself, when I ‘m done working this block, the Toyota will be gone and I’ll never be sure it was Roy’s car in the first place. But after a square block of stores, about two hours of calls, it was still there, in front of the men’s store, but now there was movement around it. The passenger door was opening .I watched as Roy helped a tiny, pretty blonde girl get out of the Toyota. My two sample cases dropped to the sidewalk, in the dirty snow. The girl looked dainty. She was laughing. She had on spike heeled boots, no hat, no scarf, and looked attractively chilly, but not cold.
Just keep moving, I mumbled to myself, just sell something, laser your attention, phrases I mumbled to myself for years to come, but never with as much concentration as that morning.
But that didn’t work. After a couple of minutes, I dragged, hiked, and hitched myself and my cases down the sidewalk to the car, blasted the heater, and drove around Rutland for an hour. I probably thought about going to a dollar movie. I did that a lot back then, just to escape and be warm. I might have gone to one, but I’m not sure I could have sat through it. Probably around two o’clock, maybe later, I headed to the flat. When I passed the library I saw the Toyota. That at least, was part of the routine and was strangely reassuring.
When I got back to the flat, I immediately peeled off the layers and got in the tub. I brought in a tumbler full of zinfandel and stayed through Password and Match Game.
Sara broke in. “So, you were upset. Mad.”
“Oh I was upset and mad and all that stuff.”
“Did you pack up? Did you leave?”
“No. I didn’t”
“Why not?”
I couldn’t tell her that, but I could tell her about the rest of the day. So I continued.
****************************************************************************************************
About three o’clock or so that day it started to storm. When Roy wasn’t home by seven, I went on alert. I wandered the flat, bumping into furniture, not sitting for more than a minute, listening to the weather report on TV. There was a storm alert. Icy conditions were reported. I was now officially on duty. If he was in trouble and could get to a phone, I would go on the rescue mission, regardless of the circumstances of the day.
Bob finally got in about eight thirty. I probably tried to act cool and unconcerned because that’s how we were with each other. We thought we were giving each other a break being that way, or at least, I did.
Bob wasn’t home a half hour when the phone rang. He had to deliver a case of glasses to the Killington Ski Resort about 18 miles away. The case of glasses cost about $19. The commission would be about $2.50. It isn’t a lot of money now and it wasn’t a lot of money then. That hasn’t changed. I told Bob so, and I begged him not to go. But he was going. Killington was potentially a big account and it was the general manager himself who called. I told him I was going with him. I put on a few layers and hoped the car wasn’t hooked on the stump.
"Guts" Chapters 1 and 2
I pulled into the center parking lot at Miss Porter’s School to pick up my fourteen year old niece Sara for the annual family ski weekend at Killington, Vermont. I’d heard of Miss Porter’s School, and read about it. Jackie O. went there. It was supposed to be a wonderful place. But I‘d lost touch with Sara over the years, so I wasn’t expecting an outpouring of insight from her.
I saw well kept Victorians built close to tree lined streets, and natural stone buildings surrounding clay tennis courts, a hockey field and an outdoor amphitheater. There were plenty of other girls being picked up for the weekend, throwing themselves into the backseat of foreign SUVs, looking very sleek and polished. They were miniatures version of their mama’s upfront. Everyone looked healthy, robust, and so, so confident.
I‘d moved around the country with my first and second husbands for most of Sara’s life, and when I’d moved to Connecticut a few years ago I’d hoped Sara and I would somehow drift together, and I’d have a built in part time daughter. So far, it hadn’t happened.
After a few attempts at conversation on my part, we fell into silence. I didn’t know if Sara was sad, mad, depressed, or if this is just the way teenage girls are. When we crossed into Vermont, and still hadn’t exchanged more than a few words, I acted on an impulse and dove off the first exit into Rutland that led to the fast food row, just outside of town.
Sara asked, “Why are we stopping? Are you hungry?”
“No, I used to live here around here. I wanted to check it out. See how it’s changed.”
I was surprised I remembered the way to the gut off the highway. The highway was slightly built up, a few more signs, a few more businesses, mostly chain stores, but not as built up as you’d expect after 30 years. I followed my nose over the tracks, behind a new strip mall, and pulled up in front of what I thought was my old three flat.
“They called this part of town the gut. They called it the gut because it was hidden back off Main Street in the belly of the town and there were all these two and three flats for the quarry workers, and workers from the ski resorts.” I pointed to the corner. “That was my building.”
*******************************************************
“Don’t get caught on the tree stump!” I shouted out the bathroom window from the tub to Roy.
“You have to be at the Old Mill Inn by nine! The roads to Middlebury won’t be plowed yet!” I listened to the Toyota’s gears grind. “I don’t have time to push you off. I have a 9:30 at the Yankee Peddler in town. It’s a gift box deal!”
It was Valentine’s Day, 1978, the coldest winter in Vermont on record since 1912. Roy and I were twenty three, and married about a year. We’d lived in the gut, for about 6 months. Next to our building, in the middle of our parking area, there was a two foot wide, eighteen inch tall tree stump. In the winter, after a fresh snow, one of us would always get the undercarriage of our car hung up in it. That morning it was Roy’s 1968 red Toyota Wagon. Sometimes it was my pea green AMC Hornet. Whenever fresh snow fell, the stump was a torment, and fresh snow fell almost every day.
We’d come to Vermont to stake out a future together. Neither of us had a college degree. I had 2 years of college credits in this and that from various community colleges and undergrad programs in the Northeast. Roy had almost completed and paid for a Bell and Howell correspondence school program in something that had to do with restaurant management. We‘d dated for two years before we got married.
**********************************************************************
Why did you get married if you were still so young?" Sara asked. "Why didn’t you just live together?"
I could see Sara felt she had to interrupt me at that point at ask what to her were probably very obvious questions. I could also see she was staring at the flat, noticing the lack of step, stoop or sidewalk.
“People got married earlier back then. We were both bright and ambitious, had good senses of humor and so it seemed the right thing to do.”
Sara gave me a solid glance, and waited for more.
“We teamed up, I guess, like when a bunch of strangers are in danger and a couple of them see each other as survivors and team up? The world was getting real tough for people starting out without a degree or much family backing.”
The people living in my old flat were coming home from work. I knew they’d notice a fancy SUV with a ski rack parked out front, so I put the car in gear and pulled off the side of the road and headed toward Center Street where all the shops used to be.
****************************************************************************
After we moved to Rutland, we found the apartment in the gut. The landlord wanted 2 weeks rent for security and had to be paid every 2 weeks, in advance. We were both able to find jobs in sales, on straight commission. I found a job selling gift boxes, custom designed bags and wrapping paper to independent retail stores: Mom and Pop apparel and jewelry stores and gift shops. There were hundreds of independent gift shops in Vermont in 1978; they all gave away gift boxes with any purchase. Sometimes you could get the owners to buy fancy printed custom bags if you convinced them the bags were walking billboards and the expense should come out of their newspaper ad budget. But the real money was in gift boxes because the stores needed so many sizes and the minimums were high.
Roy found a job selling restaurant supplies to all the independent restaurant owners and innkeepers that went in and out of business in Vermont, in a predictable rhythm in the 60’s and 70’s. He liked to settle in for mornings or afternoons at the library and do “research” with local municipal and state business directories, looking for insight into his potential customers. He’d read Restaurant News front to back every week, along with every other local or national business publication the library had. He even researched the history of restaurant “tabletop” through the ages. Did you know the choice of plates and stemware is the one decision never left up to the restaurant manager? The owner is always involved. Therefore, a tabletop call is an important call.
Because it was so hard to make a living on straight commission; we worked out an unspoken agreement to give each other a break on some things. For example, we lied to each other about how hard, and how long, and how consistently we worked. When one of us stalled in the morning, shuffling papers or making lists (it was harder to stall in ‘78 with no computers, email, or blackberries), instead of heading out in to the cold, we never had the heart to call each other on it.
We developed a routine. Roy’s routine was to work long and consistently, but I suspected, especially when he began doing so much library research that winter, not very hard.
My routine was to work hard and consistently, day after day, but not for very long at one time. That morning was typical for me. I had an early morning appointment right in Rutland and planned to work hard the rest of the morning making cold calls. I remember thinking I must LASER my energy for today’s calls. Lasers were the big new thing then. I had to narrow my focus and energy to a point, to pursue the task at hand. Then, I’d sneak home around 2 o’clock and slip into the bath tub to watch TV. Since our apartment was basically a square with 3 smaller squares hanging off it, I could lie in the tub, drink pink zinfandel, read, and watch the TV in the living room all at the same time.
*****************************************************
“That’s different.” Sara said.
“Yeah, I guess it was. But I knew it meant where we lived was pretty funky. And I was sort of embarrassed about it in front of myself. You know?”
“Go on; tell me about your appointment at the Yankee Peddler.”
I saw well kept Victorians built close to tree lined streets, and natural stone buildings surrounding clay tennis courts, a hockey field and an outdoor amphitheater. There were plenty of other girls being picked up for the weekend, throwing themselves into the backseat of foreign SUVs, looking very sleek and polished. They were miniatures version of their mama’s upfront. Everyone looked healthy, robust, and so, so confident.
I‘d moved around the country with my first and second husbands for most of Sara’s life, and when I’d moved to Connecticut a few years ago I’d hoped Sara and I would somehow drift together, and I’d have a built in part time daughter. So far, it hadn’t happened.
After a few attempts at conversation on my part, we fell into silence. I didn’t know if Sara was sad, mad, depressed, or if this is just the way teenage girls are. When we crossed into Vermont, and still hadn’t exchanged more than a few words, I acted on an impulse and dove off the first exit into Rutland that led to the fast food row, just outside of town.
Sara asked, “Why are we stopping? Are you hungry?”
“No, I used to live here around here. I wanted to check it out. See how it’s changed.”
I was surprised I remembered the way to the gut off the highway. The highway was slightly built up, a few more signs, a few more businesses, mostly chain stores, but not as built up as you’d expect after 30 years. I followed my nose over the tracks, behind a new strip mall, and pulled up in front of what I thought was my old three flat.
“They called this part of town the gut. They called it the gut because it was hidden back off Main Street in the belly of the town and there were all these two and three flats for the quarry workers, and workers from the ski resorts.” I pointed to the corner. “That was my building.”
*******************************************************
“Don’t get caught on the tree stump!” I shouted out the bathroom window from the tub to Roy.
“You have to be at the Old Mill Inn by nine! The roads to Middlebury won’t be plowed yet!” I listened to the Toyota’s gears grind. “I don’t have time to push you off. I have a 9:30 at the Yankee Peddler in town. It’s a gift box deal!”
It was Valentine’s Day, 1978, the coldest winter in Vermont on record since 1912. Roy and I were twenty three, and married about a year. We’d lived in the gut, for about 6 months. Next to our building, in the middle of our parking area, there was a two foot wide, eighteen inch tall tree stump. In the winter, after a fresh snow, one of us would always get the undercarriage of our car hung up in it. That morning it was Roy’s 1968 red Toyota Wagon. Sometimes it was my pea green AMC Hornet. Whenever fresh snow fell, the stump was a torment, and fresh snow fell almost every day.
We’d come to Vermont to stake out a future together. Neither of us had a college degree. I had 2 years of college credits in this and that from various community colleges and undergrad programs in the Northeast. Roy had almost completed and paid for a Bell and Howell correspondence school program in something that had to do with restaurant management. We‘d dated for two years before we got married.
**********************************************************************
Why did you get married if you were still so young?" Sara asked. "Why didn’t you just live together?"
I could see Sara felt she had to interrupt me at that point at ask what to her were probably very obvious questions. I could also see she was staring at the flat, noticing the lack of step, stoop or sidewalk.
“People got married earlier back then. We were both bright and ambitious, had good senses of humor and so it seemed the right thing to do.”
Sara gave me a solid glance, and waited for more.
“We teamed up, I guess, like when a bunch of strangers are in danger and a couple of them see each other as survivors and team up? The world was getting real tough for people starting out without a degree or much family backing.”
The people living in my old flat were coming home from work. I knew they’d notice a fancy SUV with a ski rack parked out front, so I put the car in gear and pulled off the side of the road and headed toward Center Street where all the shops used to be.
****************************************************************************
After we moved to Rutland, we found the apartment in the gut. The landlord wanted 2 weeks rent for security and had to be paid every 2 weeks, in advance. We were both able to find jobs in sales, on straight commission. I found a job selling gift boxes, custom designed bags and wrapping paper to independent retail stores: Mom and Pop apparel and jewelry stores and gift shops. There were hundreds of independent gift shops in Vermont in 1978; they all gave away gift boxes with any purchase. Sometimes you could get the owners to buy fancy printed custom bags if you convinced them the bags were walking billboards and the expense should come out of their newspaper ad budget. But the real money was in gift boxes because the stores needed so many sizes and the minimums were high.
Roy found a job selling restaurant supplies to all the independent restaurant owners and innkeepers that went in and out of business in Vermont, in a predictable rhythm in the 60’s and 70’s. He liked to settle in for mornings or afternoons at the library and do “research” with local municipal and state business directories, looking for insight into his potential customers. He’d read Restaurant News front to back every week, along with every other local or national business publication the library had. He even researched the history of restaurant “tabletop” through the ages. Did you know the choice of plates and stemware is the one decision never left up to the restaurant manager? The owner is always involved. Therefore, a tabletop call is an important call.
Because it was so hard to make a living on straight commission; we worked out an unspoken agreement to give each other a break on some things. For example, we lied to each other about how hard, and how long, and how consistently we worked. When one of us stalled in the morning, shuffling papers or making lists (it was harder to stall in ‘78 with no computers, email, or blackberries), instead of heading out in to the cold, we never had the heart to call each other on it.
We developed a routine. Roy’s routine was to work long and consistently, but I suspected, especially when he began doing so much library research that winter, not very hard.
My routine was to work hard and consistently, day after day, but not for very long at one time. That morning was typical for me. I had an early morning appointment right in Rutland and planned to work hard the rest of the morning making cold calls. I remember thinking I must LASER my energy for today’s calls. Lasers were the big new thing then. I had to narrow my focus and energy to a point, to pursue the task at hand. Then, I’d sneak home around 2 o’clock and slip into the bath tub to watch TV. Since our apartment was basically a square with 3 smaller squares hanging off it, I could lie in the tub, drink pink zinfandel, read, and watch the TV in the living room all at the same time.
*****************************************************
“That’s different.” Sara said.
“Yeah, I guess it was. But I knew it meant where we lived was pretty funky. And I was sort of embarrassed about it in front of myself. You know?”
“Go on; tell me about your appointment at the Yankee Peddler.”
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