In the '60s, the want-ads never listed jobs. It was always 'positions'. “Manager-trainee wanted for position of responsibility...blah...blah...blah...” This was probably an ad for a ditch-digger or janitor but 'manager-trainee' sounded so much better. So, in 1960 I was...er, between...uh...positions. In other words I was..uh...looking for a "position" and almost broke.
I answered an ad for the 'position' of salesman at a Chevy dealer in Dallas. This was a commission-only job--meaning, of course, you didn't sell, you didn't eat. It was at a dealership that had been going down hill for a while, so the owner had hired these 2 fast-talking wheeler-dealers to train salesmen in the 'formula' method of selling. Any salesman worth his “loss leader” knows what this is but suffice it to say it was a very high pressure way to get the prospect to sign an order—ANYTHING--didn't matter the price, then turn the “sales manager” loose on him. Of course, he wasn't REALLY the sales manager, just another salesman. The REAL sales manager was in his office, listening on his intercom to the prospects telling each other how much they could spend on a car. During this game the “appraiser” might lose the guy's “trade-in” so the guy couldn't leave until he bought SOMEthing.
Every morning, these 2 slick-talking con men would hold a 'sales' meeting and rant and rave about how wonderful we were gonna be and how much money we were all gonna make. One of their fave promises was that we were gonna be so rich that our wives could afford silk panties with '$5 pootin' pockets', whatever those were. None of us dummies knew what it was but it always got a laugh when they said it. About 20 of us had answered the ad and I later learned they hired ALL of us—no rejects at THAT dealership, boy!
One morning there was a big roll of brown wrapping paper on the table at the front of the sales-meeting room. During the meeting, we were told to each get 3-4 feet of this paper and we were gonna go out to some place and put notices on cars. We were supposed to tear off 4”-5” square pieces, wrinkle it up a little and write something to the effect, “I have a buyer for your car. Please call me at....”, put our name and a card under the windshield wiper of the car. You didn't do this to EVERY car, you'd skip 2 or 3, then put out another one. Off we went, 4-5 station wagon loads of us, just itching to get rich, as we'd been promised. We went to a big shopping center and began putting out these little notices like a bunch of rats after cheese. After about an hour of this, we piled back into the station wagons and sped ourselves back to the dealership to await the zillions of people who just HAD to let us buy their car.
As we were unloading ourselves, one of the bosses came running out yelling, “Who's John Wipff?” I held up my hand. “Well, someone is here waiting for you to sell them a car. They got your notice on their windshield and want to buy.” I was flabbergasted. I hadn't really expected our little ploy to work, certainly not so soon, but I rushed into the store—frantically, looking for my prospect. He and his wife was seated in one of the 'closing rooms' looking at a brochure.
I put on my best “assume the sale” face and said something like “Hi folks, I'm John, which car did you want to buy?”
“Oh, we didn't want to BUY one...We just want to talk to the guy who wants to buy OUR car. Our payments are so high we can't afford 'em any more.”
“Really? How much are they?”
“Seventy-one dollars a month.”
Hmmmm, this wasn't going as planned. “Well, lemme talk to the sales manager and see what we can do.” I frantically went looking for one of the wheeler-dealers but they were not to be found. They had melted away like ice in a heat wave. Now what?
I raced down the hall, looking for SOMEone to help me...but there were only the dummies like me. Now what? I went into the shop and button-holed the service manager, explained the situation. “Now what do I do?”, I asked feverishly. If there was the SLIMMEST possibility of a sale, I sure didn't want to blow it.
“Why're you asking me? I'm just the Service Manager. What do I know?” I began to get a knot in my stomach. I went back into the hall, still looking for one of the bosses. NOWHERE! Well, why worry? After all this time, maybe the 'prospects' had left. So I went back to the closing room. Nope, they were still there. They wanted out of that $71 a month albatross about as much as I wanted to sell them a car.
“Well, the guy I need to talk with just stepped out for a few minutes.” (I learned later, these 2 jerks had actually gone to lunch as soon as we got back from our wrapping-paper fun.) “But while we're waiting, may I show you some of the new Chevies?”
To make a very long and boring story short, after a half hour of delaying the inevitable, my prospects decided they'd look elsewhere for a buyer and, as it turned out, they was the only people who EVER came in because of our morning at the mall escapade. Within a week, the wheeler-dealers were booted out by the owner, I had not earned ANY money and my wife NEVER got her silk panties with $5 pootin' pockets. All in all, it was one of the least profitable 2 weeks I ever spent.
But every once in a while, I'll get a raggedy piece of wrapping paper on my windshield with a message that SOMEONE wants to buy my car. And I'll know that SOMEWHERE, SOME wheeler-dealer has struck again!
John
I answered an ad for the 'position' of salesman at a Chevy dealer in Dallas. This was a commission-only job--meaning, of course, you didn't sell, you didn't eat. It was at a dealership that had been going down hill for a while, so the owner had hired these 2 fast-talking wheeler-dealers to train salesmen in the 'formula' method of selling. Any salesman worth his “loss leader” knows what this is but suffice it to say it was a very high pressure way to get the prospect to sign an order—ANYTHING--didn't matter the price, then turn the “sales manager” loose on him. Of course, he wasn't REALLY the sales manager, just another salesman. The REAL sales manager was in his office, listening on his intercom to the prospects telling each other how much they could spend on a car. During this game the “appraiser” might lose the guy's “trade-in” so the guy couldn't leave until he bought SOMEthing.
Every morning, these 2 slick-talking con men would hold a 'sales' meeting and rant and rave about how wonderful we were gonna be and how much money we were all gonna make. One of their fave promises was that we were gonna be so rich that our wives could afford silk panties with '$5 pootin' pockets', whatever those were. None of us dummies knew what it was but it always got a laugh when they said it. About 20 of us had answered the ad and I later learned they hired ALL of us—no rejects at THAT dealership, boy!
One morning there was a big roll of brown wrapping paper on the table at the front of the sales-meeting room. During the meeting, we were told to each get 3-4 feet of this paper and we were gonna go out to some place and put notices on cars. We were supposed to tear off 4”-5” square pieces, wrinkle it up a little and write something to the effect, “I have a buyer for your car. Please call me at....”, put our name and a card under the windshield wiper of the car. You didn't do this to EVERY car, you'd skip 2 or 3, then put out another one. Off we went, 4-5 station wagon loads of us, just itching to get rich, as we'd been promised. We went to a big shopping center and began putting out these little notices like a bunch of rats after cheese. After about an hour of this, we piled back into the station wagons and sped ourselves back to the dealership to await the zillions of people who just HAD to let us buy their car.
As we were unloading ourselves, one of the bosses came running out yelling, “Who's John Wipff?” I held up my hand. “Well, someone is here waiting for you to sell them a car. They got your notice on their windshield and want to buy.” I was flabbergasted. I hadn't really expected our little ploy to work, certainly not so soon, but I rushed into the store—frantically, looking for my prospect. He and his wife was seated in one of the 'closing rooms' looking at a brochure.
I put on my best “assume the sale” face and said something like “Hi folks, I'm John, which car did you want to buy?”
“Oh, we didn't want to BUY one...We just want to talk to the guy who wants to buy OUR car. Our payments are so high we can't afford 'em any more.”
“Really? How much are they?”
“Seventy-one dollars a month.”
Hmmmm, this wasn't going as planned. “Well, lemme talk to the sales manager and see what we can do.” I frantically went looking for one of the wheeler-dealers but they were not to be found. They had melted away like ice in a heat wave. Now what?
I raced down the hall, looking for SOMEone to help me...but there were only the dummies like me. Now what? I went into the shop and button-holed the service manager, explained the situation. “Now what do I do?”, I asked feverishly. If there was the SLIMMEST possibility of a sale, I sure didn't want to blow it.
“Why're you asking me? I'm just the Service Manager. What do I know?” I began to get a knot in my stomach. I went back into the hall, still looking for one of the bosses. NOWHERE! Well, why worry? After all this time, maybe the 'prospects' had left. So I went back to the closing room. Nope, they were still there. They wanted out of that $71 a month albatross about as much as I wanted to sell them a car.
“Well, the guy I need to talk with just stepped out for a few minutes.” (I learned later, these 2 jerks had actually gone to lunch as soon as we got back from our wrapping-paper fun.) “But while we're waiting, may I show you some of the new Chevies?”
To make a very long and boring story short, after a half hour of delaying the inevitable, my prospects decided they'd look elsewhere for a buyer and, as it turned out, they was the only people who EVER came in because of our morning at the mall escapade. Within a week, the wheeler-dealers were booted out by the owner, I had not earned ANY money and my wife NEVER got her silk panties with $5 pootin' pockets. All in all, it was one of the least profitable 2 weeks I ever spent.
But every once in a while, I'll get a raggedy piece of wrapping paper on my windshield with a message that SOMEONE wants to buy my car. And I'll know that SOMEWHERE, SOME wheeler-dealer has struck again!
John
We've got to quit saying, 
'63 Avanti R-1384. sold 12/10.
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