Sales Fodder

Tonight we got a visit from Maggie. Maggie is a student from the University of Iowa who apparently spends her summers going from door to door in far-flung parts of the country (like our own), trying to get gullible parents to buy 18 children's quasi-educational books at once, for a total of $180.

It's a neat trick. You get Momma at home while Poppa's at work, and you try to convince her that the children will learn a vast amount from these relatively thin books, "with an actual picture of the subject" on each page. Meanwhile, since you're already in the home, you've got the kids jumping up and down, screaming "We want it! We want it!" And you make it clear that you'll only sell books in sets - starting at $70 per half-set - and this is the last chance you'll ever get to buy these books. No, you can't call us back. Yes, you can order half the set, but if you decide that you want the other half, it will be too late once I leave this house. No time to think it over; no chance to try just one and see how it goes. And Junior is already hopping up and down in anticipation.

I wanted to buy these books, to make Maggie happy, to make Amy happy, and to make Ian happy. But they were $70 for seven books, with no option to buy any less than that number. Meanwhile, Maggie used the bathroom, she went out to her car to "take stats" from the other students who were calling in their daily numbers, and then she was really, really sorry, but she couldn't stay any longer, so if we wanted to buy the books, we had to get them now. And what was our address again? So we want to go for the "Reptile" set? Super! (Everything was super-something.) She also reminded us that at Barnes and Noble we would pay $30 for books like this, but this offer was really incredible.

To make matters worse, Maggie was a manikin. She could have been Mitt Romney's she-clone; there was no indication of vital organs sustaining this better-than-perfect all-American girl who was super-positive about everything that you could possibly think of. Mechanical smiles, fake laughter, outbursts of enthusiasm.

And all the while, Ian was hopping up and down, right on queue. I want that book! Is she going to get it from her car, or do we have to wait until she comes back? Whispers into my ear to that effect, as Maggie continues to try to take paperwork data from us as if we had already made up our mind...

I really wanted time alone with Amy Beth, who was sitting on the couch in nothing but her "Aunt Amy" t-shirt and probably some undies (did I mention that Maggie came by and knocked on the door when we were all in bed, because she saw my car in the driveway, and Amy had told her that she had to talk to me before buying the books?) So I had to talk to Amy about spending $70 on seven books in front of a daffy college student, with Ian lobbying in the foreground - all as if Amy and I were the only people in the room. (I wasn't going to edit my commentary just because the Sales Team refused to leave the room.)

I still wasn't decided either way, but I was in the process of weighing out the "con's" - something along the lines of "When I buy a book, I agonize about it for hours at Barnes and Noble, and then I spend about $20 for one book, but here we have only the option of buying seven books or none, with no choice but to buy them right here and now or decline the deal. This isn't the kind of market I'm used to...."

At that point, Maggie, who had lots and lots of other families to visit in the near future and a drive back to Nashua right now, really, really had to "scoot" - she was really sorry. Even though I would have bought the books if Amy made it clear she really thought they were a worthwhile investment, I wasn't going to chase the salespitch down the driveway just to close the elusive deal.

But that was not all. A couple of minutes later, the familiar knock came on the door again. It was Maggie - friendly as always. This time, she was missing her cell. phone. I let her dig into the wretched couch cushions, with their residue of dozens of children's meals, snacks and drinks, while I called her cell. phone form our real phone. Sure enough, some tooty-fruity ringtone started blaring from the side of the hill between our house and Maggie's car, and the pixie-in-denim started prancing down the hill after the Verizon-wireless mating call.

Yet even this was not the end of it. As I went back to putting the boys back to bed (yes, the whole house got up for Maggie's nocturnal rendez-vous), Ian asked me if I had something he could write with - maybe a crayon - and he grabbed a piece of paper.

I asked him what it was for. He explained, very logically; he wanted "that girl's phone number."

Why?

"I want to be able to remember it so we can call her when we want to get the books."

(June 16, 2009)