"Salesmen! I hate Salesmen!" - Pee Wee Herman, among billions of people
Disregard the fact that this is the year 2007, that the Internet rules, and that you can buy anything with the click of a button and make any shopping mall look like a cheap Dollar Store stocked with cheap Chinese goods by comparison. Some of us still remember the fast-talking, slick door-to-door salesman selling you everything from vacuum cleaners that double as Zambonis to bubble-gum flavored shampoo. Most of us still know that telemarketer who will call you up during dinner with the mortgage insurance for your house in case of your cousin's dog's death. Whereas salesmanship will be with us as long as death and taxes, the salesman at the door will positively be death itself these days if he ventures out of his cave to sell you something you don't want to look at, let alone buy.
I guess somebody forgot to tell that to people in Jordan.
All right, I get it. There are plenty of folks here who need to, shall we be charitable here, quicken their clocks. They didn't get the memo about this being the 21st century. Forget the clocks, how about fast forwarding with a time machine? Michael Jackson and Elton John? In the States now reduced to tabloid fodder, here adored as if they were the second coming of Amadeus. Add any other performer like Celine Dion or anybody with enough schmaltz smeared on them until you're convinced these people were born to be deep-fried, and you might just have yourself a perfect VH1 throwback show, even throwback year.
The VW Golf, boxy Volvo and the Datsun? Ancient history in the West, but positively ancient treasures here. This would be a great place for nostalgists, minus the acid and water bong. If you truly want to go retro, this might be the place for you. You can always expect the unexpected here. I am usually prepared for any twists and turns here, idiosyncrasies, or abnormal marketing practices. Ever heard 'Maxwell House' sung to the tune of 'Our House' in Arabic?
I was not prepared for my first salesman here.
The doorbell rings. Our nanny hesitates. This is nobody she knows. Two guys in suits, she claims. I take a look through the peephole. Damn, I'm thinking. These guys are dressed to kill. My gut instinct tells me missionaries, Jehovah's witnesses, Citizens for Martian Scientology, whatever. Then I remember that I am here in Jordan and that preaching anything else than Islam in these parts would be equal to the immediate import of Gitmo employees wishing to babysit your family. They look harmless. So I open the door.
There is a tall guy, meticulously shaved with a mustache that would make any porn star in 1980's Mexico green with envy. His black hair is slicked back over a solid brown face revealing a beaming smile that suggests electric toothbrush salesman. Next to him is his sidekick, a shorter guy who is snickering nervously. This will be the guy will nod a lot and learn the ropes, especially those that morph into lassos and squeeze the courage out of him with every negative reply they receive.
The tall guy is old school, a fast talker that would make any machine gunner in the Army look like he's shooting a water pistol. Without much ado, he presses a card into my hand. Clever, I think. The man already knows that a product in the customer's hand is already half sold. The card has the letters VIP written in bold.
But these aren't the reps from the local Ferrari dealership or the Marriot Spa and Resort. I look at the card, incredulously spot the familiar smiling star and gag, as if I had just tried to cram it down my throat. I couldn't be more shocked if they had taken a rosary, painted a smiley face on it and tried to sell it to me as firewood.
These guys are salesmen for, get this, Hardee's.
I am already wondering who is running their PR Department. Enron? The Bush Administration? More than likely, it's some jackass who's never been to the States and has never checked out the fast-food chain. Hardee's? VIP? Does that mean I get pickles for my thickburger? Free Lipitor? Wow. What happened here? Was the salesman for RC Coke or Pabst Blue Ribbon on vacation? Do these guys have the Arabic Doublemint twins locked away in their trunk, kicking and screaming? Did the Doral cigarettes salesman drop dead of emphysema? I politely hand the card back, tell him no thanks, I don't need this.
When I close the door, I just scratch my head and wonder what the world is coming to. I think I am beginning to miss Jehova's Witnesses.
Disregard the fact that this is the year 2007, that the Internet rules, and that you can buy anything with the click of a button and make any shopping mall look like a cheap Dollar Store stocked with cheap Chinese goods by comparison. Some of us still remember the fast-talking, slick door-to-door salesman selling you everything from vacuum cleaners that double as Zambonis to bubble-gum flavored shampoo. Most of us still know that telemarketer who will call you up during dinner with the mortgage insurance for your house in case of your cousin's dog's death. Whereas salesmanship will be with us as long as death and taxes, the salesman at the door will positively be death itself these days if he ventures out of his cave to sell you something you don't want to look at, let alone buy.
I guess somebody forgot to tell that to people in Jordan.
All right, I get it. There are plenty of folks here who need to, shall we be charitable here, quicken their clocks. They didn't get the memo about this being the 21st century. Forget the clocks, how about fast forwarding with a time machine? Michael Jackson and Elton John? In the States now reduced to tabloid fodder, here adored as if they were the second coming of Amadeus. Add any other performer like Celine Dion or anybody with enough schmaltz smeared on them until you're convinced these people were born to be deep-fried, and you might just have yourself a perfect VH1 throwback show, even throwback year.
The VW Golf, boxy Volvo and the Datsun? Ancient history in the West, but positively ancient treasures here. This would be a great place for nostalgists, minus the acid and water bong. If you truly want to go retro, this might be the place for you. You can always expect the unexpected here. I am usually prepared for any twists and turns here, idiosyncrasies, or abnormal marketing practices. Ever heard 'Maxwell House' sung to the tune of 'Our House' in Arabic?
I was not prepared for my first salesman here.
The doorbell rings. Our nanny hesitates. This is nobody she knows. Two guys in suits, she claims. I take a look through the peephole. Damn, I'm thinking. These guys are dressed to kill. My gut instinct tells me missionaries, Jehovah's witnesses, Citizens for Martian Scientology, whatever. Then I remember that I am here in Jordan and that preaching anything else than Islam in these parts would be equal to the immediate import of Gitmo employees wishing to babysit your family. They look harmless. So I open the door.
There is a tall guy, meticulously shaved with a mustache that would make any porn star in 1980's Mexico green with envy. His black hair is slicked back over a solid brown face revealing a beaming smile that suggests electric toothbrush salesman. Next to him is his sidekick, a shorter guy who is snickering nervously. This will be the guy will nod a lot and learn the ropes, especially those that morph into lassos and squeeze the courage out of him with every negative reply they receive.
The tall guy is old school, a fast talker that would make any machine gunner in the Army look like he's shooting a water pistol. Without much ado, he presses a card into my hand. Clever, I think. The man already knows that a product in the customer's hand is already half sold. The card has the letters VIP written in bold.
But these aren't the reps from the local Ferrari dealership or the Marriot Spa and Resort. I look at the card, incredulously spot the familiar smiling star and gag, as if I had just tried to cram it down my throat. I couldn't be more shocked if they had taken a rosary, painted a smiley face on it and tried to sell it to me as firewood.
These guys are salesmen for, get this, Hardee's.
I am already wondering who is running their PR Department. Enron? The Bush Administration? More than likely, it's some jackass who's never been to the States and has never checked out the fast-food chain. Hardee's? VIP? Does that mean I get pickles for my thickburger? Free Lipitor? Wow. What happened here? Was the salesman for RC Coke or Pabst Blue Ribbon on vacation? Do these guys have the Arabic Doublemint twins locked away in their trunk, kicking and screaming? Did the Doral cigarettes salesman drop dead of emphysema? I politely hand the card back, tell him no thanks, I don't need this.
When I close the door, I just scratch my head and wonder what the world is coming to. I think I am beginning to miss Jehova's Witnesses.
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