Pulp Sales Calls
By Mercury Montclair (mm@cdpubs.com)
Handheld Systems 6.6, Nov/Dec 1998,
Copyright 1998 by Creative Digital Publishing Inc.

Broken glass is hovering in the air all around me, spiraling away like the spray from a late breaking wave... I'm strangely at peace with myself. The rush of the wind passes through my hair and across my face and down below me the parking lot comes into focus approaching rapidly and inevitably.

Picture the scene. It's 5 am and you're half awake in the back of a shuttle van, driving to the airport. You've only slept about 3 hours a night for the last month because you've been working on an emergency deadline for a project which has run late because you are surrounded by fools and charlatans. Your body is having trouble adjusting to the 4 am rise on top of the months of sleep abuse. Your brain is quietly awaiting the panic signal from your bowels which will read "Premature caffeine and bran muffin arrival.  Stomach systems still coming online.  Emergency procedure initiated.  Stomach contents have been given green for go and passed through usual digestion clearance. Prepare for ejection."

The deranged driver talks incessantly about politics and how the NRA should be running the country, while simultaneously turning round to smile at you knowingly, entering drop-off details into his on-board computer and shouting meaningless CB gibberish into the radio handset. This is all accompanied by the drone of worn-out wheel bearings and a failing transmission infused with Wagner and "The Ride of the Valkyries" playing at about 200 decibels on his non-company issue boom box.

Every now and then he leers and winks at the attractive female executive sitting beside him in the mistaken impression that she finds this somehow charming or attractive. You are of course traveling at speeds somewhere near the sound barrier and dodging in and out of the few other road users mental enough to venture out at this time of the morning. If at all possible I would avoid the tail end of morning altogether and only do the bit that follows immediately after midnight, so I'm not exactly at my best. The added bonus of having to deal with van-wielding psychopaths is merely the garnish on the whole nightmare experience. If I could wake up enough, I'd probably be scared or angry or both. This of course is not possible as I have spent most of the previous evening trying to arrange the flight which I am hurtling to make as I dictate this.

I got a call last night in the middle of dinner (the optimum time for telephone calls in any household), from the new sales guy, aka SalesHound. "Hey Merc, sorry to get you at home but I've got a hot lead (MM: and this affects me and my microwave pizza how exactly?), get on the first plane to Shagnasty, Arkansas, tomorrow (MM: I'm weeping on the inside). Allied Imbeciles want to check out our product for integration in their DEBS systems (Dumphuque Enterprise Backend Server). The guy sounded really interested when I talked to him tonight."

My bullshit detector circuit (it's amazing what you can get from Radio Shack nowadays) is of course in "turbo translate" mode revealing the following: The "potential client" hates us but can't take the persistent hounding the sales guy is giving him. So he phones at 7 pm (thinking no one will be there) to leave a message saying he can squeeze us in at 9 am tomorrow, knowing that by the time we get the message it will be too late and he'll have covered his ass, just in case we have something he might actually want. He has been forced to resort to this, as not returning phone calls and "Fuck off and die" have clearly failed to make the SalesHound disappear. It's a valiant effort, but he was not prepared for the unstoppable force of SalesHound, the somewhat naive ball of enthusiasm that has led us all to this predicament.

So anyway, back to the present.  I, and around 300 pounds of presentation equipment wrapped in the terrifying confines of the PsychoShuttle, powerslide to a screaming halt outside the "Arkansas Triple K Airlines" table. Have you ever tried to fly to Arkansas? ATKA, cannot afford space inside the actual terminal, so they have a table outside on the sidewalk, but it's covered with a nice plastic sheet and has their logo stapled on the front, so that's alright then! I can't wait to see the plane!

My equipment is carefully thrown 10 feet onto the unforgiving concrete of the sidewalk and PsychoDriver takes my money. In doing so, he of course makes extremely lewd references regarding what he'd like to do to the "Hot little bitch" in the front seat. His demeanor is such that it's entirely possible he was actually referring to an overheated female terrier that he keeps up there. Whichever the case, I smile and nod (always the safest tactic), making a mental note to alert the SPCA, Social Services, the FBI and the Vatican (I feel the Pope should be made aware of all developments of consequence in modern society) as soon as he is out of earshot.

A glance at my watch tells me that the potential pooch abuse will have to wait until I board my flight. Loading up like a pack mule, I strain and grunt my way over to the check-in table. I am greeted by a blond, 500-pound ex-gogo-dancer-cum-stripper with two-foot-high hair. "Ha theer an' willcum to Ay Trippuh Kay aylines, the rhaht choice fur yoo." (I'm going to die.) "Lemme see yur ticket hunny. Oh! Mr. Montclayur, is that forrin?" (Really, I'm going to die.) "No madam, that's a proud American name. My great, great, granddaddy fought the marauding communist Blue Whales in the battle of Big Crotch in olden times when it was snowing and such," I say authoritatively, feigning my best southern impersonation. She seems impressed. Which explains a lot.

As a bit of background for some of you not familiar with the quirks of the various U.S. states, Arkansas (where I'm headed) is the only state in the union which allows a stretch of highway cleaning to be sponsored by the Ku Klux Klan (those lovable guys!). I'm sure it's not all lynching and tobacco chewing down there, but it doesn't paint a particularly promising picture of a progressive society to the uninitiated.

After a terrifying tour of all the turbulence in the midwestern sky in what looked and flew suspiciously like B-51 Bomber (it had a tail gunner), I deplane and retrieve only half of my forlorn looking presentation equipment from the carousel (which strangely lacks the requisite brightly painted horses, pipe music and golden barley poles one normally associates with a carousel). The other half, including the bits which make this half work, are very fortunate, as it transpires they are going to Alaska, which is much further away and thus would have been much more expensive for the round-trip ticket. However their good fortune and increased air mile bonus, if indeed projection equipment is allowed to legally own air miles, does not help me much. I have, of course, brought backup transparencies of my presentation just in case something bizarre were to happen, like, for example, I were to end up being flown by uncaring half-wits.

A cab ride later with a fellow named Zeke (who was actually very personable for someone who was clearly the product of generations of incest), and I arrive at the Allied Imbeciles campus at five to nine, despite all the delays. Perfect!! I'm completely drained, having had only two hours sleep, but I'm here now, so the pain is half over. I grab a coffee (which tastes like bile) from the complimentary coffeepot in reception, and make myself known to the greeting and communications placement operative behind the big desk.

A message is dispatched from reception and I sit and wait patiently to be collected. Now I'm assuming that "SalesHound" is here already, but he could be running late. I wait until 9:15 and still no sign of anyone. Soooo, much to his annoyance I go and ask the desk guy to try again. Another fifteen minutes go by and I'm getting more jittery by the minute.  Something is not right and I'm really tired, so I'm running on nervous energy. Inspiration! I page SalesHound from my mobile phone. He calls back immediately, wondering where the hell I am. There then ensues a confusion of biblical proportions.

It seems (though none of us know this quite yet) that I'm in the lobby of the wrong building and they have already started the meeting. The guy I was trying to reach (Jim Brown) was in the meeting room, which has a phone, but no one knows he's there. Eventually they track him down and it now looks like I'm late and the cause of the inconvenience. Subsequent visits to the other lobby by their people and I'm not there, so they search the restrooms and the hallways. In the meantime another message goes up to the meeting room saying I'm still waiting. They are getting a little fed up as from their view it looks like I'm playing an elaborate game of hide and seek, merely to annoy them. Anyway, Brainiac on reception finally realizes that they are not looking in the reception of the right building and someone comes and shepherds me up to the right room. As I enter the room, the looks I get from the assembly (including SalesHound, dirty turncoat!) make it clear that the confusion is somehow my fault. I'm told that the address I was given was the building they only use for a mailing address and it's implied that I should have known this, presumably through telepathy or osmosis.

As I lamely explain my problems with projection equipment, Jim Brown goes through the whole process of introductions. Everyone else is of course called Chuck or Bob and has a bizarre comedy surname as is customary at these things. When they hear my name you can see the distaste at this non-conformity welling up inside them. "What kind of name is Mercury?", but the inflection is "Are you some sort of homo commie?" This is further inflamed when I ask if there is any tea, or failing that if I could have cream and sugar in my coffee. A sure sign of subversive, meeting delaying, effeminate, pinko activity. The rest of the intro's go something like this.

"This is Bob Shitehouse, he's here representing the guy who normally runs the Quality group. (MM: Danger, Danger, Will Robinson, Quality team alert) and representing the Engineering group this is Chuck Wankley, he's here representing Bob Turdford, who was going to be representing Chuck Asclamper, (who's in another meeting), who was standing in for Bob Fukerson, who once stood next to the VP of Engineering. Chuck actually works in the canteen here as a table, but we're confident that he'll get up to speed pretty fast. Shit, all this last week he been studying and now he's counting up to twenty all by hisself." SalesHound is wilting under my accusing scrutiny as he was naively expecting VP's and senior management. Three of the departments we were expecting to be present aren't here and the key person we wanted to get in front of is thought to be on vacation, but apparently would be the wrong person for this meeting anyway. The people we are dealing with apparently represent the top of the list when it comes to layoff time or skeet shooting (as the skeet).

Good! This was really worth throwing my schedule in the crapper for. I can see this is gong to be really productive! The basic law of meetings states that your credibility is directly proportional to the importance of the people that are sent to it. The current circumstances indicate that we are so far of the bottom end of the scale that we will need at least two subsequent meetings with the President, Senior VP's and all the major shareholders just to upgrade our status to "really not very important."

Anyway, after 20 minutes of fiddling with replacement bulbs etc. they don't have an overhead projector that works, so someone is dispatched to create photocopies in glorious black and white. Oh Glorious day! (Now if I could just draw your attention to the gray portion of the chart right next to the slightly darker gray portion with the badly obscured writing which you can almost make out as being the word "semiconductor" if you use your imagination? Yes that's it, next to the black box and the other black box which represents a server, next to the gray smudge which was part of the background pattern?

After a lot of facile pap from the sales guy about how we are "leveraging our enterprise model to create a new paradigm in mobile field servicing extensions" to the blank expressions of the assembled audience, we move into my preso (presentation in Valley Speak). As I utter the first syllable, a predictable hand shoots up. Chuck has a question! "Yes Chuck?" He enthusiastically asks "What's your thoughts on Java?" "Well, it's funny you should mention that Chuck, my second slide, the one I'm about to show after this intro slide which says item one - Java - is actually all about our Java integration." Chuck smiles and nods knowingly to his colleagues. Unperturbed I start again. A second hand immediately goes up. It's Bob the "Quality team" guy and he's puffed up with what he feels will be a killer question. "Yes Bob?." "What are your thoughts on integrating ERP into SAP using TCP/IP with PPP." Aha! An acronym junkie, there's always one! "Well Bob, we're drafting an MOU and an LOI to build an ERPS written in SAP using TCPIP and PPP for a VIP VP at the FBI, investigating PCP and THC use within the FDA. He needs it ASAP, but keep in on the QT! We don't want the QC going PV on us." I made the last part up. He looks impressed? Which explains a lot.

Another two hours pass and the frustrating volley of senseless and seemingly irrelevant questions continues. My patience is waning, but I'm holding it together. Just. Only just. My photocopied presentation is still halted on the intro slide. SalesHound has received around twenty calls on his pager from a number he clearly does not recognize but does not want to interrupt the meeting as this would be rude and against SalesHound protocol. During the last hour we have talked about everything except what we came here to discuss. It has become clear that despite our efforts, the people we are talking to have no idea what we do, what products we have, what their uses are, what their own products are or what month it is. They are cretins. The Bobs and Chucks are starting to look a bit uneasy. Bob #1 finally bites the bullet and asks for clarification of what our objective for the meeting is. It transpires that we are in the wrong meeting, they were expecting someone from their consultants firm, which has name curiously similar to ours. Bob didn't want to say anything because frankly he never understands a thing that their consultants are on about anyway. "Still, no harm done eh?"

On the brink of insanity from frustration and sleep deprivation I can't take anymore and start to cry while pounding my head against the conference table until SalesHound comes over and comforts me. He finally calls the number on his pager and talks to the guy we were originally meeting, the other Bob Smith. He is now is out of time and has other commitments for the rest of the day. Excellent! So we can go home now, right? Please? Wrong! SalesHound wants to stay for another day and catch a meeting tomorrow afternoon. He won't be dissuaded, despite my begging. I snap.

Grinning and dribbling I stand up, turn and run towards the window. I jump and hold my hands up to shield my face. I hit the window and with a crash pass through the strengthened glass and the cool air hits my face?

M.M.