The Sale

He walked up the driveway carefully, wheeling The Kit with him and hoping she didn’t look out of the window long enough to notice the condition of his car. He scuffed his shoe on the first step and almost cursed aloud, then rang the doorbell, and checked his secondhand suit jacket for lunch marks while waiting for her to come.

                The inner door swung open shortly, and he could see her through the screen, hunched towards him, her head reaching not higher than his ribcage.

                “Hello?” she said with a cracked voice, and he wondered if she’d already forgotten.

                “I’m… we had an… appointment?”  It sounded like a question and they’d told him never to ask questions when you ought to be making statements. “I’m Andrew… Dillinger?”

                She only nodded, and said “come in,” and disappeared into the darkness beyond the door.  By the time he and his rolling portfolio reached the living room, she seemed to have grown accustomed to his being there.

                “Well, Mr. Dillinger, where do you want us?”

                “The kitchen table is fine, if that’s okay.”

                “Can we sit here?” she gestured a shaking brown hand at the living room couch.

                “Sure—of course,” he said genially, although he wished she had not suggested it. It was so hard for him to maneuver, without the kitchen table between himself and the client. “This” he grunted as he settled himself carefully on the couch, “looks great.”

                She had enthroned in a large red armchair opposite the couch, and had taken up a remote control, which she was using to turn the television down. Her hair was nearly white altogether, and it formed a sharp contrast to the shadows of her dark face; her skin had ashy white patches on it, mostly her elbows and a few spots on her bare feet. Her dressing gown was the quilted, blue, marshmallowey type that all of the women in her age group seemed to go out for.

                The TV was tuned to the home shopping network and he wondered why; usually black women her age had nothing to spare. He glanced around the room again and realized she must have some legitimate source of income—the walls were clean and fairly stylish, the furniture had been replaced within the last five years and the trinkets were tasteful. This evidence heartened him and gave him a fresh wind; the appointment might go well.

                “Well, Mrs. Smithers—“ he said with a wide smile. “How long have you lived here?”

                “I been in this house for twenty-six years,” she said with a little sigh. He almost burst out and said ‘that’s how long I’ve been alive!’ but old folks didn’t always like to be reminded of their age, and he didn’t really want to let her know his. He felt his illegitimacy again, to be giving her advice. But he pushed on, through the list of Small Talk Questions.

                “Oh!” he said. “Goodness; it’s a beautiful house. And how long have you lived in Memphis?”

                “All my life,” she said. Again, short but pleasant.

                “Me too,” he said, smiling at her like they shared a secret. “And do you have children in the area?”

                “I have two girls; one of ‘em live down in Biloxi, and the other one here in this neighborhood. I have seven grandchirren.”

                “Seven!”

                “Yes, the youngest ‘bout to start his first year college; he’s a real smart boy. The oldest is married; she have two girls.”

                “Two great-grandchildren!”

                “—My husband was a retired policeman; he passed away two years back…”

                “I’m sorry to hear that. And did you work?”

                “I worked down in the high school, in the office.”

                “Oh, goodness; you were that lady in the office with ten arms—every school office needs one of those…”

                “Don’t I know it,” she laughed with him. A small dog came up then, and he was able to pet the dog and talk to him, and he was glad for that, because the ladies always love for you to coo over their dog.

                As he pushed dog hair around in his hands and asked her grasping questions about the mutt, went through the list in his mind again. He seemed to have gotten through everything important. He knew the basic things he needed to know about her, and she was smiling and filling answers in without his asking, which meant that some level of Rapport had been established. He pictured Boss Bill Manning, standing in front of his sales school: It’s different with every person; he would say. Stay in Rapport as long as it takes. You’ll know, when it’s done; when they’re ready…

                “Well, Mrs. Smithers—“ he used the voice you use to tell them that it’s time for business and you must be more than just friends now. “Is it all right if I tell you a little bit about myself and the company I work for?”

                The line was straight out of the book, and she nodded politely, as everyone must nod when asked such a question.

                “I grew up in Memphis as well—actually, just a few blocks from here; you know Brunswick?”

                “Yes, I know Brunswick; my grandson had a little business over there—”

                “Oh, cool. Well, I grew up and went to college for finance, you know, I wanted to take over Wall Street” he laughed here, a scheduled, self-deprecating laugh. She responded correctly; a smile. “—but when I started working in the finance world, I started to realize early on just what a shallow and unpredictable world that is.” He never mentioned that his work in finance had been accountancy, and that he had never left Memphis, per se.

                “The reason I do what I do now is because of people like my grandmother. My grandmother was 67 years old when she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. My parents were working and there was no one who could stay at home with her and take care of her. She had never bought Long Term Care insurance, because she thought that Medicare would cover it. In the end, she was right—Medicaid did take care of it—but it was only after they had taken her home and her savings, down to one thousand dollars.

                “She stayed in the nursing home for five years, until my mother was able to retire and bring her home. My mother never got to leave the house for three years, until Granny passed away.” Pause, eye contact. “I have dedicated my career to counseling with seniors, so they don’t have to go through what my family went through. That is where my company comes in—”

                And then he went seamlessly into explaining the insurance brokerage he worked for; their history, the fact that they worked with ALL the insurance companies, and were able to compare the best companies and policies against each other, so in the end, they worked for the client, not the company.

                 The Story was true. What no one ever knew was that it was fit into a basic structure: Interesting facts about me that make me real and approachable (nothing religious or political), basic work history (details that support credibility), and then the Motivation, wherein a senior family member is either ruined or saved by their insurance decisions, with a clear moral of the story. The Motivation always begins with “The reason I do what I do today is because of people like—“ and ends with “That’s why I have dedicated my career”… and it must be a true story.

                There are two purposes to the Story. Obviously, it is meant to remind the client of the dangers of poor retirement planning. But even more importantly, it is meant to create intimacy by virtue of Trust Offered. You make yourself vulnerable to them by offering them personal history, and you have microwaved the relationship to the next level; they are now supposed to be willing to trust you.

                Mrs. Smithers was nodding her head sympathetically. Every woman responds this way when you talk about death; even if they do not care at all they are struck into sympathy like deer in headlights, their eyes widen and they must stop everything to listen, must nod, and must cluck. Women take the job of worrying seriously.

                He pushed on to the next phase, after giving her all the shining details of his company and working for the client. “Now we don’t do everything, Mrs. Smithers—we don’t do car or homeowners insurance, but here’s what we do specialize in. He turned around the thick paper folder he was about to start filling with her personal information. Four items were printed on the cover. “We help people save money with Medicare Supplements and Drug Plans, and general Medicare consultation; We help people plan for their children with Life Insurance; protect their assets with Long Term Care; and maximize and protect their savings with Annuities and other safe investments. Now—which of these did you want to hear a little more information on today?”

                This was where he was supposed to wait. Don’t look at the customer at this point, Bill had said. It steals from them; it steals concentration to have eyes on their face. They need to be able to think.

                He waited in total silence, his eyes on the paper where she was concentrated. “I think,” she said hesitantly, “that one.” She pointed at the word Medicare, printed in white on the blue background. Blue made people feel comfortable.

                “How come?” he said, with exactly the right intonation. Listen to them when they answer you, from Bill. This is where they tell you why you are in their house.

                “Well,” she said, slowly. “Because I want to know why my drug plan has done got so expensive.”

                “Okay,” he said. “I understand. Absolutely.” And he opened the folder, then shut it again, and she was made curious about what might be inside. “There’s one thing you do need to know. Insurance is highly regulated by the state of Tennessee. Now that’s not a bad thing; it’s actually a very good thing. It’s meant to protect you. They call it compatibility—meaning that whatever we talk about today needs to fit your situation, so I don’t show you anything you don’t need. What it really means is that I have to ask you a whole bunch of questions right on the front end, which may not even seem to be relevant, but I’ll try to go through them as quickly as I can, okay?”

                This is to illicit a yes response from her, Bill had said. You tell her about the questions, but then you put a positive with the negative immediately—“I’ll go through them as quick as possible”—and give the opportunity to agree. Then she gets them together, as a package. Negative and positive. 

                She was already nodding yes, and he went straight into the easy questions. Name, address, number, age. “Doin pretty well for seventy-one,” she said, and he immediately said “Yes, ma’am! Now, who is your doctor?” And on through, he found out her medicare number, her current plan, and then asked her assumptively who she carried her life insurance with, her cancer insurance, her hospital indemnity insurance, and she had to answer “I don’t have that” to each one. He looked up in surprise at all the right times. “No life insurance? Well, we’ll need to look at that” and then on to the next question, keeping her comfortable, because he wasn’t jumping to sell her anything.

                He found out that she owned her home, that she drew $2500 from social security for herself and her husband. She was doing better than most. She had no savings, as she said, no other assets.

                “All right,” he said brightly. Thanks for that. These were all a part of compatibility requirements. Is it okay if I look over this for just a second?

                “Sure,” she said, of course. He looked over the two pages carefully, as if he did not know already what he would say to her; he’d decided the moment he knew that she had a little income and no life insurance.

                “Well,” he said, after the pause, “you know what I see here?”

                “What?” she asked.

                “You’ve done a great job with spending within your income, and paying for your house, and it’s really good that you already have a will set up; that’s very good (compliments first). The drug plan you’re on is actually pretty good for you, although the Xanax is not covered, but we need to look at some other formularies to see if there’s another that might suit you better. The only thing about that is—we can’t change you over until later in the year, anyway; legally that only happens once a year—“

                “Oh yes; they told me about that—“

                “Yes, I can only come back in October to help you with that. But right now, I do see a little hole in your situation. You have no life insurance. I know that you don’t plan to leave a whole lot of money to your children—they have done well, and they don’t need it—but you will have a funeral to plan for, and it is good at your age to at least set up a burial plan. Do you know how much funerals cost?”

                “Yes, oh yes; when my husband died, honey—his funeral was twelve thousand dollars. Can you believe that? He tol me before he died, I oughta just dig a hole in the back yard and drop in him.”

                He laughed quietly with her. “Oh, yes; so you’re familiar with how outrageously expensive they can be. I want to look around at a few of these companies and see what kind of burial policy we can get you. There is one company—“ he knew which one it would be before he’d ever come, “that has the best whole life rate I’ve seen, and very few health qualifiers. Let me see do a little calculation and see what we could do—“

                And with that, he found himself drawing her through the health questions, filling out the form, and she didn’t seem to have noticed the moment that The Sale had occurred. He was pleased. She was getting a good policy; her burial would be covered now. Her kids would have one less thing to worry about, when the time came. In October, he would help her with her drugs.

                He remembered another Bill speech, as she signed the form and took out her checkbook: Here’s the thing, guys. We are helping them. We do have expertise to offer; we do have great companies. Being in this business can be very good, when the money starts coming in… but this business can also be very fulfilling. You can leave people in a much better situation than where you found them. You must be willing to pass up a sale, too—this is where you will gain loyalty, and for life. They will send their friends to you, if they see you pass up the opportunity to sell them something because you know they don’t need it.

                He sneered to himself, lightly. He would do that. He would do it because it was good for business. But he couldn’t truly care; that was the difference between Bill and himself. Bill cared, truly cared. Andrew understood that his own caring had a very decided limit; at the crossection of inconvenience, he would turn back from doing the right thing. He knew this.

                “Mr. Dillinger, do you go to church?” she said, her eyes on the check she was signing. He was surprised by the question.

                “Not… sometimes I do. I try to go. Yes.” He should have said yes, just a clean yes, without all the qualifiers, the stumbling. He became suddenly worried that she was going to be weird about it, that she would feel that her purchase had earned her an audience to evangelize him. She was seamless, though, and when she finished and handed the check to him, her eyes were bright and eager and unaffected.

                “So… you know the Lord Jesus?” she said it without embarrassment. “You have the Holy Spurit, livin in you?” She put her sagging hand up between her breasts. He marveled that she could say it so earnestly, as if the question was utterly vital, but without leading into it or preparing him at all. It was strange to watch her, so urgent and so pristinely unpretentious, together.

                “I…  I really enjoy…” he paused again, rallied. “Sure do,” he said then, smiling the same wide smile he’d worn when he came in, the same created aura of confidence and shared secrets.

                She looked at him then for a brief second, and he waited for her to get either pushy or vaguely spiritual, to show some betrayal of self-consciousness about the sale she was attempting. She paused long enough to look at him, and then smiled and began to speak glowingly, as a person speaks of their favorite park or their favorite person, as a child speaks to another child about her father or mother.

                “He sho is wonderful, idn’t he?” she finished, shaking her little head and grinning. She stopped shaking her head then, still looking at him, and frowned a little. She was silent another moment. “You oughta know ‘im, honey; you oughta obey ‘im.”

                He almost lost himself, almost became short with her. It was too provoking, too too provoking, to have her turning around on him this way. She should have known to leave well enough alone, and in a business meeting, too. It wasn’t that she was talking about it, either—hadn’t he nodded his way through a hundred appointments? But she wasn’t just talking; she was selling him.

                At the very least, she could have led in with something that made sense—she could have talked about religion, she could have asked leading questions, she could have made it smooth and polite. He would have been given a comfortable path, and would have been happy to follow her mentally, at least for a while.

                The problem, he thought wryly, was that she had never learned to sell anything. She just looked foolish; he hated to see an old woman looking foolish that way.

                He was silent for a moment, then smiled at her once, intentionally, intending to convey his security of position, and to imply a undefined agreement with her words. Then he executed a series of nods and smiles and chirpy “we’ll be seeing you very soon”s and then he was out the door onto the sidewalk.

                He drove silently to his favorite spot uptown; it was clean and had good lighting. He walked in with a sigh, and sat heavily down at the bar, glancing to his right where a perched brunette girl was re-crossing her legs (towards him—unconscious, but a good sign). He ordered a Heineken and began the evening sale.