Leads

Leads

They had been lost within the estate for hours. Martin, with
highlighted hair and sunbed tan, was an experienced 'man-on-the-road'
in the vacuum-cleaner sales business. This was his 'profession', as he
liked to describe it ('not just a job'), and he seemed to take an
intense pride in every aspect of his calling. The younger salesman,
Paul, a quiet, surly twenty-one year-old, was in only his second week.
He was working through the summer to cover his university costs. Martin
seemed oblivious to the fact that Paul would be gone at the end of
summer, preferring to see him as his prot?g?, his apprentice sales
assistant. Martin, sweat dripping onto his bright yellow 'Burton's'
jacket (which he refused to remove despite one of the hottest days that
summer - 'unprofessional, you see'), was delivering one of his lectures
on the art of 'getting a lead'.
Paul listened patiently.
'You have to get the leads. The key is in the leads. It's no good
chatting to 'em about the weather all day if they haven't signed on the
dotted line by the end of the call. Once you've got your lead, of
course, then you can relax, leave 'em feeling happy, then move on...
.'
He half-glanced at his young trainee, then not waiting for a response,
continued.
'Look for a sign they're interested. If they're not, and this will take
a while for you to notice, I mean, you won't get this overnight, it's
instinct...', he paused for a second, re-adjusting his position in the
driver's seat, then continued:
' you'll know in a couple of seconds if they're not interested, these
ones, these ones've probably made their mind up before they open the
door. They know they don't want anything.'
Martin sneered slightly at this point.
'Them ones you can forget, move on to the next potential lead. It's the
ones who don't know what they want you've gotta work on - the
non-decisive type - maybe they're bored, they wanna break from their
routine, maybe they've had a bad day; yer know, husband's staying out
late again, money's tight, they're on the rag... and this might be yer
way in - cheer 'em up, butter 'em up, if you like.'
He threw another glance Paul's way - this time looking for a answer:
none was forthcoming. Paul was looking back at Martin, nodding in a
half-interested manner. Martin carried on:
'Give 'em a smile, look past 'em into their house, take an interest. 'I
see you've recently re-decorated, madam, very nice, very tasteful, if
you don't mind me saying- .'
He turned to his younger partner as he mimicked the housewife's reply,
his eyes displaying a warped zeal, as if enacting some grotesque
drama:' Oh, I don't think it's anything special'.
'Oh, no madam, I can tell you, I see a lot of hallways in my job , he
winked, and added as an aside, 'not so many bedrooms mind you.'
Paul didn't know whether to feign a laugh, or merely keep nodding every
five seconds. Martin noticed his confusion.
'OK, I might leave that out'. He was then back to his
impersonation.
' And your carpet, it really is impressive, it stands out!' 'Oooh, do
you really think so?'
'Oh yes, madam, stylish, even -
'Ooooh!'
' Now, I can show you something to keep it looking that good for
another 10 years'
'Really?, oooh'.
He suddenly became impassive, serious.
' See what I mean? You see that glint in their eye, and...
bingo!'
Paul nodded vacantly. He had failed to see any such glint in his
dealings with suburban housewives.
Martin took a large bite out of his Ham and Cheese Pastie, flakes
falling over his Burton's trousers.

Paul stared ahead at the road. He had long since lost interest
in the opportunistic voyeurism that this job had allowed him. Front
gardens with gnomes, gnomes with fishing rods, gnomes dressed as Santa,
gnomes pissing a pathetic fountain of water, otters, herons (by far the
most numerous animal ornament, Paul had noted early in his first week),
rabbits, turtles, ponds, pebble and tarmac front drives to fit the
second car on, paved paths winding their way pointlessly ten feet to
the front door. Then there was the occasional glimpse inside -
three-piece- suites arranged at varying angles in an arc around the TV.
Frilly, pastel and double-glazed, these were places Paul was attempting
to escape from himself - every stolen look inside a front room was like
being sucked into another world, a sub-culture of endless banality, of
catalogues for the young, middle-aged and mature woman, daytime TV and
101 ways to refurbish your living room. He pretended not to care,
attempting to act out this role, reminding himself it would all be over
soon, and he would be back at uni., but this world was omnipresent,
invading his dreams, sapping his individuality.
He looked at Martin. He sensed his colleague's total belief in his job,
and it depressed him, but also, strangely, made him envy the older man.
There was nothing beyond the walls of the estate for Martin, it seemed,
a void which had no bearing on his life. He had noticed Martin never
read a newspaper, not even a tabloid, and never listened to the radio -
only his limited selection of bland M.O.R music, and this only after a
particularly successful tally of leads. Martin was focused,
totally.
After lunch, they moved on to another part of the estate for the
afternoon 'session'. Each 'session' would last around two hours, after
which point they'd meet back at the car to assess progress.
' Right, 'ere we go. See you at four.' announced Martin.
' Yeah, good luck.' replied Paul.
Martin turned round, 'Luck's for amateurs, Paul, Mate. We're
pro-fes-sion-als.' Martin poked Paul's shoulder a couple of times for
effect, followed by an encouraging back-slap.
' Right.' Paul managed to mumble this despite his desire to run down
the road screaming.
Martin got out of the car, straightened the lapels of his suit, and
strode off as if, Paul thought, he was about to appear on stage at
Wembley in front of 100 000 people. Paul felt as he had done with his
old games teacher - that striving for success, for perfection, in
surroundings that inspired anything but. The strained grin of
encouragement struggling to block out any admission of failure, however
slight.
This also depressed Paul: he didn't want any expectations. Now,
though, part of him was becoming determined to prove to Martin that he
could get some leads, more than Martin even. It couldn't be that
difficult. It was becoming a matter of pride. Paul was in danger of
turning into a salesman.
Two hours later, Paul was already back at the car. Martin appeared
about ten minutes later over the brow of 'Linden Road leading to
Chestnut Close'. He looked drained, jacket over his shoulder (by now
the sun was hotter than at midday). Paul could identify with that
feeling - he was exhausted despite his lack of effort in the whole
procedure. Martin revealed a deeper malaise, though. His eyes seemed to
search the road for meaning. Martin caught Paul looking at him and
immediately snapped back into his 'Salesman' mode.
' How many?,' he was mouthing to Paul, still thirty yards away.
'Oh shit,' thought Paul, again he had not been able to persuade a
single person to have a 'free trial'; six days and a paltry four leads.
Martin came up to the student salesman.
' How many, then?'
No answer.
'Cat got the tongue?'
' Well, I-'
' I got ten.' ( ten was considered a good day's, let alone a session's
work)
Martin was beaming, though his eyes did not display much joy.
' Pretty good,' Paul replied blandly.
' So, how many for you, pardner?'
' Well, there were four-'
' Four, bloody hell, my son,' then as if remembering a mentor's sales
seminar, his tone altered:
' Well done, good work.'
Paul decided to be honest, however.
' When I say four, I mean four were interested, but they all said come
back tomorrow after they'd talked to their husbands.'
Martin scowled, pain seemingly spreading through his facial muscles,
threatening to crack his tan.
' NEVER let them say that! Never let them go without signing, How many
times? NO SIGNATURE, NO LEAD!.. .'
He glared at Paul, then, looking down at his immaculately polished
shoes, as if remembering another sales seminar:
' OK...look...I lost my temper there because I want you to succeed,
mate. Don't worry, one per day is good progress at this stage.' His
voice seemed to half break then, as if confiding the darkest
secret:
'Took me three weeks to reach my first twenty leads.'
Paul suddenly had a mental image of a younger version of Martin
practising sales pitches in his bathroom mirror, like De Niro except
with a bouffant to replace the mohican.
'Twenty', Paul thought, 'Three weeks!' He didn't know if he could
survive another day of this mind-numbing slog.
' Let's get back to the office,' Martin said, with a renewed air of
optimism.
' Tomorrow we'll start you on the Swad. estates. Now you've seen how it
works, seen the ropes as it were, you can start moving up a gear.
Remember, after your first ten, you really start making some
dough.'
Paul was not convinced.

Back at the office, Martin was going through the same paperwork he'd
shown Paul every day for the past week and a half. Paul was staring out
of the window. There were a few branches overhanging a red brick wall
to the rear of the office building. Paul felt oddly at home here,
although anywhere was preferable to the estates. He was also enjoying
the fact that he had decided to leave at the end of the week; he was
not a salesman. He would get a warehouse job, factory work, anything.
He was enjoying even more the fact that Martin was oblivious to this
fact. His interest now was purely in the man in front of him: He was an
enigma. What drove him on?
Martin got up, sighed, and took some more documents out of a
battered-looking filing cabinet.
' Fancy a cuppa before we start on these?' Martin said over his
shoulder.
Paul, surprised at the offer, looked at his watch before
replying.
' Yeah, thanks.'
Martin looked over from the small kitchenette as the water started to
boil.
' I dunno,' he said, to himself or the wall, Paul wasn't sure.
Paul looked over, finally realising this might be the start of a
conversation not involving leads.
' What's that, mate?'
Martin looked over sheepishly.
' I dunno if it's all worth it mate.'
Martin dangled the PG Tips tea-bags in the mugs one at a time, threw
them in the bin, and walked back over to the table.
' You work hard,...' he sat down opposite Paul.
Martin placed the SFS Services mug down on the table.
' Cheers.'
' ...You work hard, you're good, very good at what you do, you're a
success... .' He was looking down at his hands now, fiddling with one
of his rings.
Paul felt obliged to speak.
'What's wrong, Martin?'
Another pause.
' Me wife's left me.'
Paul tried to smile and thought of something sympathetic to say, but
instead he said:
' Oh...'
' It's all right, I'm fine, really. She left last week, huh huh, same
day you started, mate, maybe you're a bad omen fer me, eh? Only
jokin'.'
Paul managed a laugh, then a concerned sucking through his teeth. He
still had no idea what to say.
' Said she was bored. Said I didn't do anything for her, didn't take
her out enough. Lost interest, Lost interest? Bollocks!'
' I was working! For her!' He looked at Paul angrily.
'She wants the house, n'all.' Martin turned away and Paul was sure he
could here 'bitch' being spat out under his breath.
Now Paul looked down at his own hands.
' I go home every night now, ring fer a pizza or Chinese, and down a
bottle of wine, or two.' This last part sounded like a confession of
some criminal activity.
' Can't seem to...the house, she wants the bloody 'ouse!'
Martin started sobbing,
' I'm sorry,' Paul said.
It was now Paul's turn to comfort his colleague.
' I love her,' Martin whispered through the staccatto sobs.
He was crying softly, and didn't seem to mind Paul sitting there. Then,
Martin looked up, red-eyed.
' Ah fuckin' 'ell, I'm alright, just go home and top meself, wunn I
?'
Martin laughed but it wasn't a relief for Paul when he did so.
The soon to be ex-trainee salesman would never see Martin again after
Friday. Paul didn't care. He didn't want to see him tomorrow, let alone
for two more days 'on the estates'. Paul felt guilty, but only about
his ambivalence. Martin didn't care about much now either.
They sat in silence for a while. Martin still fiddling with his rings,
Paul staring at a triangle of sunlight on the red-brick wall
outside.
' I'll be off, then.' Paul lifted himself from the table, tea
untouched.
The other man, head in hands, didn't even move as Paul got up, walked
to the door and opened it to let in the late afternoon sun.