IT WAS WEDNESDAY MORNING, TWO WEEKS BEFORE Christmas. The conference table in the DMI Training Room was full. A dozen of us. Mostly men. We were told that it would take two twelve-hour days to learn to sell the program. I was guaranteed a paycheck for the next two Fridays, and the company would be paying for lunch and dinner, which would be brought in.
Berkhardt’s job was to show us DMI’s success formula. He seemed to think that I had potential, because I was quick to grasp the material and asked a lot of questions.
Rocco stayed in the Dart. I parked it in the shade of a tree and lowered the front windows down a few inches. I’d walk him during the breaks, with my styrofoam coffee cup filled with Ralph’s plain-wrap Vodka. I’d slam gulps while he pissed on the shrubs. The first afternoon, as I was securing his leash, he surprised me with a kiss. A big, wet lick across my nose and cheek. He was starting to like me.
On our walk, we passed outside the corner of the building where Ms. Bolke’s desk was located. She saw us through the glass wall and waved, a kind of “hiya schmuck” acknowledgement she reserved for the male trainees and lowlifes that earned less than 50 grand a year. I waved back.
On the second day, Berkhardt brought Mitch Glickman into the conference room so he could show the trainees photocopies of Mitch’s last few paychecks. Five and six and seven thousand for two weeks work. $175K per year. Mitch was the top guy at the Westchester office, with his own personal sales team of six men. He’d been with the company three years. He had a big grin and contempt for everybody.
That night, at the end of the course, at Berkhardt’s instructions, Mitch invited some of the male trainees to a live nude bar on Century Boulevard to celebrate. I locked Rocco in the Dart and rode with Mitch in his black Porsche. During my probationary period, I’d be assigned to Mitch’s sales team.
He paid for everything—admission and liquor. After a few drinks, the others had gone and Mitch was drunk. He confided to me how he had been offered the position as Franchise Manager—first, before Berkhardt—and had turned it down, and how Susan Bolke had given him a handjob in the supplies closet at the DMI Thanksgiving party. It was important to Mitch to let me know that he owned four condos and a shopping center, and that his girlfriend was once a centerfold.
While we talked, he was getting up every few minutes to horn cocaine in the men’s room. He’d come back to sit down and sniff and wipe his nose, then say something cool to the dancer at our end of the bar, and proceed to tell me more about himself. On our way out, he tipped the girl bringing drinks a hundred dollar bill. I noted to myself that Mitch was a chump and good for a couple hundred anytime I needed it.
DMI contacted all its sales leads during the day, over the telephone; and each counselor would have two sales demos per evening.
In the afternoon, all the counselors would attend a sales meeting at 4:30, then pick up their leads. Berkhardt gave an extended pep talk rap about haves and have-nots and had each counselor declare which category he belonged in. When he came to me, I put my hand up. I was in all the way.
That night, my first assignment was a cook at Denny’s Restaurant. He turned out to be a no-show. I called the DMI office from a phone stand at the restaurant, and Berkhardt instructed me to report early for the second lead.
That was Ms. Tara Kerns of Redondo Beach. She lived in a five-year-old condominium complex with a Burger King on the corner and a Nissan dealer across the street. I remembered the old Datsun slogan, “WE ARE DRIVEN” and felt inspired.
After I parked the car, I hammered a few gulps of my Ralph’s Vodka, then splashed on some cologne to cover the smell of the booze. Leaving Rocco a few broken Oreos in his bowl, I locked the car and got my DMI demo kit out of the trunk. It consisted of a portable VCR and a case of videos featuring prospective male clients. I left the player behind, because on the lead form the box, “HAS OWN VCR” had been checked “YES.”
Ms. Kerns’ lead form said she fell into the $60/$75K a year income area, which easily put her into the “A” category. She owned her own uniform shop and had been divorced for 11 years. According to another checked box on the lead form, Tara liked sports and had all three major credit cards. It was just sundown when I knocked on the door to condo number one-twenty-eight.
The woman that opened the door was 6′3″ in her heels and weighed at least 225. She had bright red hair and red lipstick and feet as big as a man’s. My head came to just below her chin as we stood facing each other.
Coming early was lucky. As it turned out, Tara was five fingers down a fifth of Walker’s Black label. She had a glass in her hand and, in the background, I could see the open bottle and a dish full of ice on the wet bar. The booze gave the big woman a kind of sweetness and ease that some people get with drinks. I knew the stage. From where she was, you usually get drunk and quiet, or drunk-and-don’t-give-a-shit. After I told her who I was and said I was early, she invited me in.
We sat down, I on her couch and Tara across in a chair. I noticed that she had a five-gallon, old-fashioned glass water-jug half-filled with change. All silver. No pennies. She had been paying bills because her checkbook was on the table with several stamped envelopes. A good sign.
I put my demo kit on the floor by the coffee table. Through the glass top I could see a sexy lingerie catalog under the table. A Wheel of Fortune program was blasting on the TV. The noise was intrusive. A fat, asshole lady was winning and screaming.
“How about a drink?” Tara asked.
“Thanks. Yes, I don’t mind,” I said back, knowing it was a violation of DMI conduct requirements to use alcohol with a client. “By the way, do you think it’d be okay if we turned down the TV? I think your dating future will be more interesting.”
She clicked the sound down with the remote control and made an accommodating face. “Better?” she asked.
I said, “Thanks.”
While Tara went to the kitchen to get my drink, I opened my kit with the videos of the ten most affluent male clients. I’d watched them all in the training. In my mind, I had already picked two that featured big ex-jocks, knowing they would be perfect for Tara Kerns.
She came back and set my drink down. Scotch with ice, not too much ice.
Maintaining professionalism is a big deal with DMI, and I wanted to do a good job. Pulling the Compatibility Questionnaire from my case, I attached it to a clipboard. While I was filling in her name and address on the form, Tara switched the TV channel to a sitcom and jacked-up the sound.
“No mama’s boys,” she said, half snatching the board with the paper. Then she clicked the sound down again.
“Okay,” I said.
“I’ve been burned and I know what I want. What about male clients that are wimps or pansies? How would a prospective female customer discover that from watching a video?”
I took a hit from my drink. “I don’t know,” I said.
“No mama’s boys or pansies, okay?”
“We don’t label them like that,” I said. Then I heard my mouth announce, “Why not try a biker bar? You can find all the parolees and scumbags you want. My company specializes in compatible single adults.”
“You don’t have to be rude. You guys charge up the behind. I just want to get my money’s worth. What if I start dating someone and discover that we’re incompatible? What then?”
“Marry ‘em. That’s what I did.”
She set her drink down and looked me in the eye for several seconds. “How long have you been a dating service salesman,” she asked.
“You mean how long have I been a counselor for Dream Mates International?”
“Yes. Doing this. How long?”
“Twenty minutes.”
We both laughed.
I understood some things about Tara. I have sorted self-made women into two kinds: the first is the kind that feels she has to beat and defeat all comers, especially men, and prove how capable she is. It’s always a survival match. Kind number two is the type that has achieved some success because of being a good person and busting her ass like everybody else, and getting lucky the way we do sometimes. Tara, I was sure, was the second kind. Big and self-conscious and affectionate, like a red-lipped Irish Setter. Her toughness was air.
Drinking loosened her up, so I decided to deal with her in an up-front, straight-forward way and get right down to business. But our questionnaire bored her, and I could tell that she’d had too much whiskey. She now appeared to be leering at me and checking me out.
As a kid, I remember peeling the paper off a stick of Juicy Fruit gum and not chewing it, but running the surface against the wetness of my tongue until all the sugar was dissipated, then turning it over and doing the same thing on the other side. Knowing the sweetness was there, but delaying the pleasure as long as possible. I was a stick of gum to Tara Kerns.
I needed the job. I had a guaranteed check coming on Friday. I had a sick dog to feed, and keeping a place to sleep other than my Dart was a good idea. Tara’s checkbook was still open on the table. I was afraid if I fucked her I would lose the sale. I tried to pull the presentation together.
We finished the questionnaire, but I could tell by her answers that my client control had turned to shit. Her interest level wasn’t high at all now, and I’d allowed the deal to get off track with so many drinks. “Let’s watch a video,” I said.
“In a minute,” she said, getting up, smiling, showing her big white teeth with lipstick stains, slurring her words. “I’ll top up our glasses first.”
I had a movie of Philip Kessler plugged in on the TV when she came back. On the label of the video box, they tell you the client’s name and a few outstanding characteristics. Phil was 6′7″ and weighed three hundred pounds. A dentist and a divorcee.
Tara handed me a half-full glass of whiskey and ice and sat down next to me on the couch, instead of on her chair.
“You’re sloshed,” I said.
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m trying to do my job. This is my first presentation. Either we do business, or I leave.”
“Okay. I do business all day. Business is fine.”
“I want you to see someone who’s your physical type, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, still leering.
The video started with Philip describing himself. I’d forgotten that Phil was arrogant and bald. “My name is Philip Kessler. Doctor Philip Kessler. I’m thirty-eight years old and I like movies and dancing and I was an avid tennis player until my knee injury…ha, ha…I own my own boat docked in Marina del Rey, and I spend my spare time sailing…I have a condo and a ski-lodge at Mammoth…”
I stopped the video with the remote. Tara looked disgusted. “What do you think?” I asked.
Her slurring was heavier. “Mama’s boy…Rich mama’s boy.”
Suddenly I hated the masquerade of the whole deal. I knew I’d blown it and I didn’t care. The stupidity of trying to hustle this woman into a dating membership had become too much trouble.
Her best sexual features were her tits, big and sloppy. Ten pounds each. At least I’d get fucked. I talked to her, but I was looking at her tits. “Do you want to put your membership fee on your credit card or do you want to pay by check?”
“Credit card,” she slurped back.
When we began fucking, she called me angel-dick but was snoring thirty seconds after I put it in.