Nassar Supply, a lumber yard that opened after I left the god-forsaken hinterlands, needed a salesman who could drive a forklift. Moving back into my old room, I got hired and fell into the rhythm of getting up early to open the yard and staying up late to close the bars. When the founding contractor wanted to end the partnership a year or so later, the architect partner offered me a promotion to Manager. I didn’t say yes; we parleyed.
The soon-to-be-sole-owner didn’t have a business plan beyond business as usual, but his former partner had been our biggest customer. He lacked retail or logistics experience, and the small market had brands established 92, 98, or 104 years earlier, a huge advantage when selling commodities at scale (one even owned timberland and a logging operation). Trying to compete head-to-head would lead to oblivion. Upon visiting each of those lumberyards, I saw what they didn’t have, so I laid out the path I thought best.
A home center with full kitchen and bath displays would leverage the owner's design background. Focused on remodelers and/or upgraders, we created a market for high-margin lines. Rebranding as Alpine Building Supply and Design, I designed the logo and ran the jackhammer to lower the floor in the warehouse. We sold over $1M in our first year. Designing and selling 33 kitchens the following year, with one homeowner entering theirs in a Better Homes and Gardens contest. Most were delivered by Mark from the new downtown store, with installations handled by Chuck, two of the funniest guys I’ve ever sailed with. We had lots of laughs and donuts from Erspalmer’s until a wholesale distributor in Wausau poached me for adventures in B2B sales.
My territory, the central third of Wisconsin, was in the cellar when I began. Dave, who helmed the eastern third of the state, kindly showed me the ropes, but was puzzled as I was over low sales in the territory. Now selling to guys in the same role I’d just left, my empathy-based approach should have made it fun and easy, but some buyers would shut down the minute they saw my red binder. The sons of a paneling store owner in Wisconsin Rapids would clue me in on my second lap of the territory, four or five weeks later.
My predecessor had pissed in the well and built an Amway business for himself at Sequoia Supply's expense. Eureka! Sales became fun and easy again with a simple statement.
Hiya! Just one thing today. Neither Sequoia Supply nor I is in any way affiliated with the Amway Corporation of Grand Rapids, Michigan. Sales and incoming calls from my territory started to rise, but resetting expectations proved easier in some places than others. The owner of a small yard had contractors laughing at the desk on my first visit with salty language. Until my red binder put a hush on the group. The following trip, I gave him the “we ain’t Amway” spiel, and he slowly loosened up. I still tear up when I think of the day the little bell rang as I went in the door, and the next thing I heard was:
“Here comes that young cocksucker from Sequoia Supply! What’s new, kid?”
I began helping clients run ads for truckload sales on the weekends, then show up to help them sell to their customers. Beyond showing me the ropes, Dave was a genuine hippie who helped me learn the roots of blues and rock music. My briefcase full of blues is filled with mix tapes he burned for me from his collection. He also introduced me to many of his pals, including my Professional Customer.
Moving to Wausau, WI, when hired for the Sequoia gig, I went back to the god-forsaken hinterlands for the holidays and caught a life-changing ride with The Hound.
Mark (a.k.a. The Hound) and I often discussed our shared passions, such as music, cars, and [ redacted ] on rides to high school in his '64 Impala SS. From his brother's hi-fi shop, he hooked me up with the stereo for the Duster and a home system with a pair of speakers that still pisses off the neighbors. Riding shotgun on our way to a party, this time in his '74 Challenger, he shared he was now a retail video manager in Milwaukee, selling TVs, camcorders, and VCRs. He asked if I wanted to play. Boy howdy!
With four big-box stores selling electronics, furniture, and appliances, American TV of Madison was ranked 7th nationally in electronics sales. My first formal sales training, the One Minute Salesman course, was taught here by Chris, a sales coach who'd created the legendary "Ice-storm Promotion" for Lenny when he sold radio advertising. Leveling up my sales skills, I learned advertising by osmosis while working for one of America's greatest pitchmen.
Massive ad campaigns in area newspapers and on local TV featured value-added promotions and regularly resorted to stunts, like Lenny riding down a ski hill, seated in a Broyhill recliner. During Memorial and Labor Day weekends, the annual "Get a bike! Get a bike! Get a bike!" promo brought in so many folks from surrounding states that we would give away more 15-speed bikes than the top bike retailer would sell all year.
Tiered commissions rewarded those who worked the hardest. Then, a computerized inventory system was installed, where checking inventory was the only benefit to most of my peers. Transferring high-margin merchandise to my store helped me maintain top-seller status. Enjoying less work and higher pay for about nine months, I wrote fewer, bigger tickets until the spam hit the fan.
Managers at other stores complained to corporate about product transfers to our store. Our managers were clueless, but within a few weeks, they figured out it was me. Summoned upstairs to face the store leader and my department manager, they had figured out who but not how, and wanted me to explain.
Parley ensued. Fancy book-learning at DeVry allowed me to allude to a very elaborate scheme. Saying nothing until they confirmed continued employment and no charge-backs on my commissions, when they agreed, I reminded them to have managers log out after every session. That was it.
Back on the sales floor a few weeks later, a used car buyer from a local dealership came in for a console TV for his mom. While setting up delivery, he asked when my next day off would be. With that, he asked to use the house phone, so I pointed to the column down the aisle and uttered the sacred words “dial nine to get out. He stepped away for a short conversation, then stepped back.
"You ought to be selling cars, kid," Jim said, handing me a sales manager's name and "2:00 pm Thursday" scrawled across the back of his card. "Wally will get a kick out of you. Thanks for your help with the Zenith, eh?"
Wilde was Wisconsin's largest Honda dealer, advertising as aggressively as they recruited. Before hitting the floor, you had to pass the WATDA (Wisconsin Auto & Truck Dealers Association) certification, proctored by Chris. Yep, the same one. Wally's holistic approach complemented my conversational style well enough to sell over 270 cars a year. Then, like a chump, I jumped ship.
An international racing legend was opening a new Honda dealership, and my friend Dave had already landed there. Going from hired to fired took just six weeks when an old pal of my new boss wanted a job. They put him at my desk, he put my stuff in a box, and they put me out on the street. Outselling half of their staff in my first month, I learned performance offers no protection from such fuckery.
With life raining lemons, I made lemonade and went to find the guy with the rum. A skills-assessment workshop required by the state for the dole suggested selling aircraft parts or advertising. Adjourning to a nearby watering hole and ordering a longneck, I pondered the self-awareness gained in my first peep through the Johari window.
