All Kinds Of Levels Of Badass

Ed October 13th, 2009

Preface:

Ok, I’m putting this online but am not sure if I’m all that happy about it. Partly because it was hashed together in about half a day while on holiday so needs a lot of work, partly because of the subject. But whatever, this is the internet. It was built for this sort of crap.

You should note the events in this account are fictional. They are however not glorified and do represent everyday encounters I may have at any given time, as a door-to-door, gas and electric salesman in the UK. I have been doing the job for several different companies for the last 6 or 7 months so when you speak with 40 to 50 people a day, you get both ends of the spectrum. Frequently. I have excluded the names of my colleagues but their behaviours are accurate.

A morning at the door

It’s too early for this shit I can’t help thinking as we drive on the A40 to some small Oxfordshire town I haven’t bothered to learn the name of. A small group of eccentric and boisterous men accompany me on the way to our area of work for the day and despite my best efforts I am unable to zone out from the baffling talk that bounces around the vehicle.

Our morning conversation typically involves the exchange of work tips, ideas and sales scripts, but more often than not degrades to legitimate absurdity and/or ruthless peer to peer abuse. The driver and ‘Hungarian’ are in a heated discussion over the merits of the Hungarians unique sales script. To my left, my colleague (a 10 year veteran of the trade – a truly rare individual), is explaining in great detail the noise a piglet makes when you pick it up and rub it in a very certain way, (nothing dodgy, but it requires some particular hand movements). It sounds more like a dolphin I think to myself, but in order to prevent the topics continuation I keep quiet. Unfortunately, every time we see a field, he’s likely to reintroduce the explanation of the piglet rubbing technique, and being Oxfordshire, there are a lot fields.

This may or may not sound like the fairly typical banter of a group of mostly young  men on their way to work, but it does serve a utilitarian purpose. In our line of work it is crucial that you have a positive mindset, particularly in the morning. It also helps to get your argumentative and conversational skills warmed up. Its not a conscious exercise but it all helps. Genuine friendliness is transmitted just like forced friendliness. As we all know, the majority of human communication is voiceless.

This particular morning however, my colleagues efforts have had little positive effect in rousing my lively ‘work personality’. I step out of the van at my ‘patch’ for the day wishing I had managed to squeeze in a third, and preferably a fourth cup of coffee. My colleagues wish me luck as I gather my tools of the trade: black pleather presenter with product documents I have never read, contracts, a pen and my tobacco.

“Good luck Ed, remember it’s all about meeting some lovely people,” my piglet rubbing friend tells me. “Thanks dude, take it easy.”

“Hey Ed?” the Hungarian calls through the van window.

“Yeah…” I respond. Shit, too late. I should have seen this coming.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Wow, thanks man. You have a lovely day too. You‘re awesome.” He grins at my honey thick sarcasm.

As the van pulls away I begin my typical pre-knock routine. Do a quick scout of the streets I have been given to knock, select the most promising, then head to a secluded spot nearby where I can have a smoke and maybe take a leak if need be.

I find a small parking lot with a pretty lame looking tree. Above me the English sky is it’s typical grey, not bad weather to work in, but not exactly heart warming. I role a cigarette and sit myself down against a brick wall.

What the fuck am I doing here? Seriously, how did I end up doing this shit? These are not new questions to be asking myself. I mean lets look at this from an abstract perspective. My job is to go and knock on strangers doors, feed them scripted lines, deceive them, mislead them if necessary. Say whatever I have to to get inside their house and make them sign a form they don’t particularly want to sign. Now don’t get me wrong, in  most cases we are saving people money on their gas and electricity costs, so whatever deception we utilise works out in their best interests anyway. Most of the time. You also need to understand that the UK has such ruthless competition in this and other industries that many of these areas are knocked by salesman on a weekly basis. These people have decades worth of experience dealing with door knockers. Deception is a necessary evil. Technically, anyone can do this job. It doesn’t require a particularly high IQ. But it is not easy. It can be brutally hard; sole destroying. Most new recruits don’t make it past their first week.

And besides, my personality type doesn’t naturally ere towards sales. I’m analytical and passive. I sometimes need to work at confidence. I could bore you with over detailed psycho-analytical reasons as to what that means but basically I’m better suited to a career as a teacher, IT consultant or whatever.

So it was these and other existential bullshit thoughts that ran through my mind this particular morning. Why? I arrived in the UK about a year ago with a two year working VISA. The intention with this VISA is that you spend those two years working and using the earnings to have fun and travel through Europe. Enjoy my youth and put off the whole 50 year career thing, just for a little longer. I have a design degree and a good two years full time experience in that industry. Unfortunately all of that didn’t count for shit when the UK’s worst recession in at least 30 years started to bite. So as it stands, I’m doing fuck all travel, I work a uniquely shit job, haven’t managed to do a great deal of social networking except for fortunately meeting some great guys through the job.

The answer to the question of why, is of course money. Currently I earn £50 for every deal I sign that does not get cancelled. If I sign 15 deals in a week I earn £60 for those deals. If you do the work and are competent at your job, it is not difficult to sign 3 deals per day. It is not unreasonable to earn £1000 in one week. It’s not easy but it is achievable. This is most likely one of the highest paying jobs you will find that requires no qualifications to do. I can earn more per week knocking doors than I could designing and building websites.

Just three deals dude. I ditch my exhausted cigarette at my feet and attempt to work myself up to knock the first door. Instead I role a second cigarette. The first door is always the hardest and this morning it feels more difficult than usual. As I smoke my lungs to a soppy black mess, I begin to mentally prepare. Just chill dude, its the same old shit. Knock enough doors and you’ll get your deals. It’s a numbers game after all. I tell myself this but subconsciously suspect its a lie as well. Time ticks by and the sky doesn’t get any less grey.

“Ok, fuck it” I say to no one except my own subconscious. I stride towards the first door with a purposeful gait and turn on my charming but businesslike alter-ego. I have purposely chosen a street that appears somewhat poorer than others nearby. Personally I find the lower income demographics to be more inclined to listen and probably more gullible also.

This house is a good example. The low brick wall surrounding the front garden, typical of English properties, is on a slight lean with several crumbled sections. The garden plants are alive but hardly manicured. The curtains in the window are a white lace that with age have become a light grey.

I knock the door and intentionally take a large step back, turning my body to the side. Every conceivable element of my presentation is intentional and thought out. The spaced, side-on stance reduces a defensive reaction from the occupant when they open the door. I thumb through my pages of notes as I wait for the occupant. When they answer, I briefly continue thumbing the pages, pretending I haven’t noticed them immediately, or that the information on those notes is more important than their time. All business, not kiss-arse salesman. Then I look up at the mid 40’s woman who opens the door. Her interior is dated but not untidy. She has the usual array of ugly porcelain statuettes that the English are infatuated with. Perhaps they believe they will become antiques one day. Realistically about 100 years beyond their time.

Holding up my badge I say, “Yeah hi, I’m just from the gas and electric,” there’s no such thing as the gas and electric, but she doesn‘t know that. A look of suspicion immediately crosses her face. “We’re just dealing with a few concerns and actually quite a few complaints we’ve had from some of the residents in this post code,” which also isn’t true but it leads her away from that fact that I’m selling. I say this sentence with carefully orchestrated hand gestures and punctuation.

“Oh, what complaints?” she responds. I begin running through a script/process/questions designed to lead her to believe there may be an error with her billing and to obtain a copy of the bills themselves.

Before I make much progress she holds up her hand, “Thank you but I’m happy with my bills.” I’ve heard this objection a thousand times before and respond with scripted lines I‘ve used almost as many times. “No honestly, we’re happy with our supplier, but thank you for your time.” It’s obvious she’s not having a bar of it. She was polite enough though so I respond with a genuine smile and wish her a good day.

The next two doors I knock I receive no answer from. I enter the gate to the third and take note of the heavily rundown exterior and wildly overgrown, if not dead garden. The paint has peeled from the window sills and there are old newspapers degrading to mush next to the door. I knock and take my stance away from the door.

The door opens and a faint smell of wet dog wafts from the interior though there is no sign of a dog living at the property. The interior looks as if it was installed in the 60’s and not cleaned since. Probably not far from the truth.

“What do you want?” a grizzled, elderly man barks at me from the door. I look up at the look of pure irritation marring his already heavily marred face. A surge of matching irritation builds within myself, but unlike him I expertly mask it with a smile, a polite greeting and the first line of my script.

“Yeah well, I haven’t complained and I don’t have to talk to you.” With just these few lines I have a pretty good understanding of the gentleman’s personality and likelihood of signing anything, which is to say slim to nonexistent. It’s irrelevant how much you can save him, he will never change. This becomes a crucial skill you pick after you knock enough doors.

I’ve met a hundred obnoxious old farts like him before. You get the vague sense that his passion for life waned long ago, along with his ability to strive for a better tomorrow. Its not necessarily that life has been unkind and he has become disillusioned. Perhaps some combination of unimaginative parenting and a bland utilitarian schooling have created a being destined to merely exist and not to take ownership over his life. Shit, I don’t know. Maybe he’s just an arsehole. People like this give England a bad name.

I feed him some bullshit about just needing to ask a few questions, mostly intended to prevent him from slamming the door in my face. It works and he continues listening, if reluctantly. I ask him several key questions: “Do you know the scale of tariff you’re currently on?” They never do. “Do you pay both your bills in the same way for gas and electric?” His irritation is growing at a visible rate until he says, “Look, I don‘t want anything to do with this. Now go away, I’m busy.”

I allow myself a brief moment to toy with the fantasy of swinging my presenter in a wide arch that would connect soundly with the side of his face. You degenerate swine. You’d never see it coming. Whoa! Dark vibrations I know but I’m only human. That’s a normal response anyway, right?

Instead I take a more rational course. One that still allows for a small degree of satisfaction but doesn’t result in immediate imprisonment. I choose to ignore his responses and answer with an endless string of meaningless questions. It serves no purpose other than to waste as much of his time as possible.

“That’s fine, but do you pay both your bills quarterly or monthly?”

“I pay by direct debit, but I’m not interested.”

“Oh, I understand, no problem. And do you know how much you pay per fuel, per month?”

“I have no idea , but I am quite busy.”

“That’s OK, I’m with you 100%. Completely understand what you’re saying. Have you had any changes to your supply in the last two years?”

His frustration grows with every monosyllabic answer. Eventually his tone distinctively changes; he’s getting pissed. So I thank him for his time and leave before he has the opportunity to slam the door in my face.

Now, I’m not saying this behaviour is acceptable or even remotely professional. However, if I can walk away from an unpleasant knock feeling like I have come out on top, not to mention giving myself something to chuckle at for a while, then I’ll do what I must. Besides, if he had given me a polite “No” I would have politely left. Screw him.

The next hour is spent receiving similar results. Fortunately no more horrible old men, but few people demonstrating interest. I manage to take a look at the odd bill, but the customers are either ruled out of the deal because of their age or low consumption, or they simply don’t care. I break up the time with the odd smoke.

Eventually I come to a door. It looks no different to the rest. Same low income demographic, same semi-maintained exterior. I hear a small dog bark inside as I approach the door.

“Hello, what are you after then?” The woman, probably in her late 50’s, who answers appears no different to any other, but she stands in the centre of the door frame not peering from behind the door as if it could offer some form of protection. The dog, a small Jack Russel, bounds to my feet, yapping with all the excitement of a child. Behind the woman, her husband slowly wanders up, taking mild interest in the interaction.

I bend down, “Hey buddy, how you doing, aye?” I rub his head vigorously before looking up to begin my script with the woman. She listens intently without saying much. She says she has no idea what her rates or, nor what her monthly payments are but that she suspects they’re too high. I mentally tick of a list of criteria that make this a worthwhile interaction to pursue. The tiniest detail can spoil a deal. Whether the customer is in hideous debt, or I respond to slowly with a response to an objection. In this case things were lining up nicely, evident by her saying, “Hold on, I’ll just go get my bills.”

She hurries off, not wanting to delay the ‘official’ waiting upon her at the doorstep. Her husband and I start up a warm conversation about World War Two aircraft that I’ve noticed several framed prints of on the wall.

She returns moments later handing me the bills expectantly. Funnily enough I already know exactly what their rates are from the previous questions, but I peruse them intently, with a look that gets more concerned by the moment.

“Mmm, yeah look. There are a few things which concern me about this bill.” I start highlighting a list of issues with the bill, such as their rates and poor discounts. I explain to them that their rates should be closer to a figure that I make up on the spot. Despite working for this particular company for a good 3 months, I still have only the vaguest idea what our rates are. I can name exactly every other providers but our own. Why? Because I will always tell them something that is appropriately lower than what they are currently on. Unbelievably, no matter how many times I tell people they have to check the rates of a provider to know exactly what they will be charged per unit, they almost never ask to see ours. It’s happened maybe once in the last three months. And just as infrequently for the previous provider I worked for. If people trust you and you speak with conviction, they will believe anything you say. Anyway, I’m still saving them money, just not as much as I lead them to believe.

The faces of the couple grow darker as I speak. “Well, why is it they can get away with charging us so much?” the husband chimes in over his wife’s shoulder.

“Well there is a reason for this and it is all to do with the deregulation. Has anyone ever explained this to you?” my response is precisely timed and impossible not to invoke interest. My deregulation script has been hashed together from a selection of other company scripts, industry information and some of my own sheer bullshit. Whether it’s true or not makes no difference as long as it leads the customer in an understanding that they would be foolish to decline.

“No, I don’t know anything about it,” says the husband. The wife looks on vacantly.

“Well, you’re not the only ones,” I say with a merry chuckle. “I’ll give you a quick rundown and then you’ll have a better idea of why this is happening.”

“Well, you had better come in then.” Ha. No way. Hell yeah I’ll come in.

The invitation is a sudden surprise. It is uncommon to be invited so readily into a home. Usually I have to ask to enter on the pretence of needing a flat surface to write on or whatever else will work. Usually it’s a pitched battle of persuasion and subtle dominance. This is a good sign. When you enter a persons home, their perspective of you subtly shifts. Usually only friends and family are allowed within their family spaces and this ‘cognitive dissonance’ can be a powerful tool.

I also know very well that from this point, under these circumstances, there is very little this couple can say to stop this contract being signed. Once inside their house with their bills, I have roughly a 85-95% chance of signing the deal. From here it’s only a matter of building rapport, feeding further deregulation information and ensuring they don’t cancel. Maybe try for a cup of tea if I can swing it.

As I said, the people you meet exist on a spectrum. At one end is that shit-bag old man, and at the other are lovely people like this couple. I fell a slight buzz of adrenalin simmer me up to a warm, charming edge. In this job, and in life, it is kill or be killed, figuratively speaking. And as I step inside I know it’s my time to kill. Or you know, that but not sounding quite so violent.

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