The Art of Failing Gracefully
A black-tie charity gig was just what I needed to get the phone ringing again
by Seymour Cash
My cash flow sucked. And like a nightingale sipping from a swish barrel, I knew I’d have to sing pretty to make up for my latest impulse binge. Tigger, my affectionate, ear-nibbling Ashera cat had set me back 22 grand. Me-Owww! Still, my lap leopard made a fine companion and loved to be hand-fed her seared ahi tuna. But kitty’s menu – and mine – would soon be kibbles ’n’ bits unless this alpha dog got off his duff.
The Male Menopause Research Foundation had sent me a gilt-edged invite to play “celebrity car salesman” at its annual fundraiser. Apparently the public still remembered me from my glory days in TV wrestling promotions. Charity galas weren’t my thing, but I reasoned a flashy media-saturated mingle might drum up new clients.
I cinched my indigo cummerbund before heading over to Prussian Motors. As a sales consultant who’s dabbled in everything from gold futures to aeronautics, I found it mildly distasteful to have to sell cars again, even for a good cause. But once in the chrome castle where pricey Bavarian tin rode elevators to chandeliered showrooms, I reminded myself: “Before you can reel in the whales, Seymour, you’ve got to wrestle with the minnows.”
“You must be Mr. Cash.” A Scarlett Johansson knockoff in Manolos and blessed little else welcomed me to the tony dealership. I breathed her Tahitian vanilla scent as she reached around my neck to clip on a wireless microphone.
“We’ve got a TV news crew filming the day’s events,” she said. “The winning sales duo will be seated at the head table.” I glanced at the roster of potential tablemates – energy-sector CEOs, titans of commerce – all A-list prospects. I whistled; if I broke bread with this crew, I’d be rolling in green in no time. But what’s with the “duo”? Last I checked, sales wasn’t a team sport. My worst fears were realized when “Scarlett” confirmed I’d be toiling with the king of swagger, Mayor Gabby Stark.
The lot was crawling with strokers who had no intention of buying. “Your Worship,” I said, “we’ve got to weed out the tire-kickers and find some players with juice.” But the Mayor filibustered on. So I broke ranks and strode off to the roadsters. I kept my mouth shut. I let a few middle-aged playboys “experience” the cars first-hand, rather than give a spiel, and sold three. Just like that. Can o’ corn.
My star was rising. Swarmed by TV cameras, with one minute left, I was one deal shy of victory. As I handed the pen to Milton Schrock (who’d made millions in hand-churned butter) to ink the contract for a Gumpert Apollo – base price $318,000 – the mayor barged in: “You’ll like this. It has a space-saver spare!”
My buyer hiked an eyebrow: “What? Not a full-sized spare?” I reassured Schrock, slipped the pen back in his fingers, when – “You’ll love the sound system; it plays MP3, WMA, ATRAC, AAC, AIFF and FLAC formats!” The mayor, apparently a specs junkie, just had to show off for the cameras.
Schrock, a born Luddite, put down the pen: “What’s all that jazz?”
I glared at his Worship and re-soothed Schrock. Finally, the pen touched paper, when – “Don’t forget to dial in your zone for the compass and drive three complete circles to calibrate it.”
Schrock sighed, tore the parchment in half.
Inconceivably, I had lost. I wanted to rip the mayor a new one, but I kept my cool, inclenched my fist and shook his hand. If
only I had taken a moment to teach his Worship the perils of “premature gesticulation” – blathering on too much before the sale – a rookie mistake and one of the surest ways to kill a deal.
While I didn’t make head table, the incident made the 11 o’clock news. Now the whole metro area knew I was a loser. I buried my face in my hands; this was not the media splash I’d had in mind. Tigger, bless her, licked my ear.
Then something odd happened; my phone rang. Off the hook. Brass from the head table and beyond congratulated me on my grace under pressure; his Worship had clearly cost me the win. “You’ve got the jam,” enthused one Sales VP. “The deportment we’re looking for.” Dazed and amazed, I made my way to the kitchen and popped a spoon of garlic butter into the saucepan to sear some tuna. Tigger purred. So did I.
Seymour Cash is a pseudonym for an Alberta writer and humourist with sales and ad-agency experience. If you have a tale of life in the sales trenches you think would inspire Seymour to fictionalize it — he promises to alter all names to cover up the truth — please email it.
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