For several months in 1996, I worked as an insurance agent for Combined Insurance Company of America. I sold supplemental accident and health insurance policies door to door in rural Iowa. My boss' name was Karl. He had an expensive haircut and a winning smile, and I always felt a little oily after having been in his presence.
Karl started every day with a sales meeting, during which we would perform "fire-ups" -- ritual chants and songs intended to put us in the mood for knocking on lots of doors and convincing people of the merits of Combined supplemental insurance products. You may recall that I
recently wrote of another terrible job I held, this one at a collection agency, where the boss also worked mightily to fire us up. I have concluded that the awfulness of a job is directly proportional to the amount of firing-up it requires.
After getting pumped full of piss and vinegar, I would drive from farmhouse to farmhouse in my huge Plymouth sedan. I loved that car. It had a steering wheel the size of a hula hoop and giant plushy seats and a big mushy suspension and a great big hood that extended for miles. Unfortunately, it didn't have air conditioning, a real liability during the ferocious Iowa summer. So I drove on country gravel roads with the windows down, and by the end of the day my hair would be gray with dust and my face would be caked with dirt and sweat.
Those of you who have been reading this blog for longer than a week will not be surprised to learn that I was a dreadful insurance salesman. This is because sales involves talking to people. I was rarely able to persuade anyone to listen to my pitch, let alone buy a policy. Twice I had the police called on me by frightened housewives who wouldn't let me into their homes. I couldn't blame them. Imagine hearing a knock at your door and finding a sweaty young man in a grimy white shirt and a red tie grinning nervously and asking to come inside so he can "show you something." The amazing thing isn't that I sold so few policies -- it's that I never suffered a gunshot wound.
Things got worse when people agreed to see the something I had to show. I delivered my memorized sales talk with all the warmth and nuance of a 12-year-old reciting the 23rd Psalm at a confirmation ceremony. I was easily stumped by prospects' objections. I took "no" for an answer. I had no knack for small talk. I reeked of eagerness and desperation. I couldn't close.
Occasionally, for training purposes, Karl would send me out with successful salesmen, all of whom could talk a light bulb out of its socket. These men would ask to enter a prospect's home and then simply walk through the door. They would lounge on the couch, chat and gossip for half an hour, and drink a cold beverage. At some point they would give their sales talk as though it was a mere afterthought. They handled objections with the casual agility of a magician turning a bunch of handkerchiefs into a bunny rabbit. They closed early and often until the close stuck and the prospect went to find the checkbook.
"Did you see how I did that?" they would say as we left the house. Yes, I saw. But I could no more duplicate the feat than I could fly an F-14 after watching
Top Gun. All of these super salesmen suffered from some flavor of malajustment or misanthropy. They were alcoholics and wife-beaters and bar brawlers. Most of them hated the people they sold insurance to. "That stupid fucker," they would laugh as we drove to the next farmhouse.
Combined paid its agents entirely on commission, so I went broke quickly and had to move in with my parents. Why didn't I quit sooner? Founded by self-help guru
W. Clement Stone, Combined Insurance Company of America taught that its sales system was foolproof and could be learned and applied successfully by anyone. Just memorize the sales pitch, learn the canned responses to objections, add a heaping helping of hard work and a generous dollop of Positive Mental Attitude, and watch the commission checks roll in. When I failed, it wasn't because I had zero talent for sales or because of Combined's crappy product. It was because I wasn't working hard enough or applying the guaranteed sales system rigorously enough.
The guilt trips came thick and fast: "How many doors did you knock on today?" "Did you answer five objections at every house?" "Did you deliver the pitch
exactly?" "Did you show the health policy
on every call?" Failure and its accompanying stress do strange things to a man. I finally decided to quit when I started puking in the parking lot before morning sales meetings.
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