Making The Sale

It was a curious thing to happen to anybody, really.

Milton Warhead got up from his desk at the south-west corner of the Baker Carpet Store where he worked and made his way north-east. He weaved around the polyester berbers and the half-price plush. He stepped over the area rug display and past a pair of customers he should have been working with. He made his way to the north-east corner of the store, where the bathroom was located. It was a little bathroom with one toilet and a pedestal sink. It was a cold, impersonal place. It was a place that Milton Warhead rarely liked to be. Still, Milton Warhead made it all the way to that bathroom, locked the door, and proceeded to jerk off.
It didn’t take long, even though he was tired and frustrated and lonely. There was a mirror on each wall surrounding the toilet, so Milton could see his sagging face and his weak chin and his bony shoulders and his laughable comb-over. He could see the stains in the armpits of his powder blue oxford shirt. He could see the outline of his undershirt and swore he could see the armpit stains there as well. He saw his hairy ears and his sagging, jello breasts. He smelled his cheap aftershave in the small space and the foul, cigarette-polluted odor of his own spit as he hocked into the palm of his hand. He felt all of these sensations. Still, it only took a minute. Two, at best. Milton Warhead was a determined man. It took longer to wash his hands. He pulled his trousers up and lifted his suspenders over his shoulders. His pubic hair, wrinkled and shiny, got caught in his zipper and Milton swore. He regarded himself in the mirror then, unhappy but satisfied. His cheeks, wrinkled and shiny, were flushed with color, and Milton was glad to see that.
Milton Warhead walked back to his desk and filed some papers, watching the blank expressions of his fellow workers. What their thoughts said, the carpet salesman couldn’t guess. But he knew it had nothing to do with Milton Warhead jerking off in the bathroom. This secret made him happy, and Milton sat down in front of his computer. As he did, a drop of jism dropped lazily from his prick and landed on the left side of Milton’s right calf. Milton noticed this and rubbed his pant leg against the spot, attempting to dry himself off. The jism stuck, though, and would itch Milton throughout the day. His secret intact, Milton went back to work.
This all happened on the same day that Jessica Baker came to oversee the store. The Baker clan owned no less than 27 carpet stores spread like flies throughout western Pennsylvania and eastern Ohio. Jessica visited a store every day, so this roughly equated to her visiting Milton’s store once a month. Milton’s store was located right on the Pennsylvania/Ohio border, and the Bakers paid little attention to it. If your name was Baker, you did not sell carpet, even if it was something your father or his father was reputed to do. Bakers studied the market and instructed the lower-levels on what to do. Jessica’s biggest job was to pretend she was like the salesmen, and knew exactly how the store flowed. The fact that she knew nothing about how the store worked meant little. She read the right books and studied with the experts- so called “masters of the sales pitch”. She reported what she had learned back to Milton and his co-workers, and if they did not use these methods, they were punished. The salesmen did what they were told, and sales would fluctuate randomly, no new method really being any better than the last.
When Jessica Baker arrived it was the morning, and a white layer of frost had covered the earth surrounding the Baker’s Carpet Store parking lot. Jessica Baker watched Milton Warhead work with a customer, and the salesman said nothing, occasionally looking over his shoulder at her, trying to smile and look conspiratorial- like the two were equals and Milton was just playing along with the whole “boss/salesman” template. Milton smiled- his teeth were brushed- and eventually the customer wrote a check for a high-quality, yet affordable frieze. Milton and Jessica watched the customer leave, and when the door closed, Jessica treaded past Milton, saying “Meet me in the conference room,” as she passed.
The conference room was warm and inviting, but Milton Warhead really would rather have not been there. A large wooden table centered the room, a rectangular oak planet orbited by leather moons that looked very much like chairs. At the head of the table sat Jessica Baker, already seated and flipping through notes, as if she had been waiting for him for hours. She was dressed expensively, but in the overhead lights, Milton silently wished Jessica would wear less makeup. Her blouse was buttoned almost all the way up, and Milton could see the top of her breasts and how brown they were- freckled and weathered with age. Little blonde hairs that stood on end like an insect’s antennae. Milton Warhead wanted very much to be any place else but here in the conference room.
He was unsure of where to sit and Jessica did not offer him a chair, so Milton Warhead sat at the foot of the table, a solid ten feet away from his boss.
“The sales report for last February was very disappointing,” Jessica Baker said.
Milton had not known this, so kept silent, waiting for additional information.
“Does this not concern you, Milton?”
Jessica Baker had insisted in June that she call everyone by their first names, and that everyone should follow suit when addressing her. This would keep things informal, and allow for a better flow of ideas. The salesmen continued to address Jessica Baker as “Ms. Baker”, and she did not correct them.
“Milton?”
Though she had gotten the name right, Jessica Baker had read it from her clipboard. Ms. Baker was not a memorizer.
“I can’t say I’ve noticed any real shift in sales, Ms. Baker. We continue to do marginally well.” ‘Marginal’ was a work used frequently at Baker’s Carpet Store.
“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,” said Jessica Baker. “You’re leading the pack. Are you aware that you only sold 15,000 dollars worth of merchandise in February?”
Milton was not aware of this, but to be fair, Milton Warhead did not have notes with him.
“Our Pittsburgh location’s lowest seller sold over 55,000 dollars of carpet in February, Milton. Do you recognize the difference?”
To be honest, Milton hadn’t at first- “fifteen thousand” and “fifty-five thousand” sound very similar when you’re drowsy. But he told her he knew the difference anyway.
“What reason could you possibly have for such poor sales?” Jessica Baker asked.
“To be fair, Ms. Baker- Alabama is a rather small community.”
This was true. Alabama, Pennsylvania was a little college town that had a minute population of lower-middle class blue collar workers that usually had more important things to spend their money on. Despite the influx of students that easily doubled the actual population of the town, it remained a difficult place to sell carpet.
“Alabama, Pennsylvania. Someone should consider changing the name of the town.”
Jessica Baker said this every month.
“College students don’t really want carpet. The biggest sale we get is every few years when the college wants to install fresh commercial carpet in the dorms.”
Jessica Baker was not interested in hearing excuses.
“I’m interested in hearing excuses, Milton. We hold you to the same standards that we hold to Pittsburgh, and they’re pulling both of your weight. That’s not fair, is it?”
She continued without letting Milton finish, but that was fine with him because he wasn’t sure what he was going to say anyhow.
“Baker’s Carpet Store is a high-quality establishment. We believe it can work equally well anyplace that it is located, regardless of the population surrounding it. Our work speaks for itself.”
“But…”
“Did you have something to say, Milton?”
“I did. The people who live here in Alabama who aren’t students can’t really afford us.”
“Milton, it’s not a matter of affording- it’s a matter of quality.”
“No, ma’am- it’s a matter of affording.”
Jessica Baker said nothing, so Milton continued.
“Most of these people don’t make a heck of a lot of money, so they go for the cheapest they can.”
“And I’m sure their rugs look terrible in a year or two.”
“Maybe.”
“So they have to pay twice for a carpet that was supposedly cheaper. Our price affords them a carpet and an installation that will last a great deal longer. Remember, Milton: if you buy price, you buy twice.”
Milton scrunched his face, concentrating.
“But they won’t buy twice.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The people who buy the cheapest won’t buy their carpet again after it starts looking bad. They can’t afford to. And it doesn’t matter all that much to them, anyhow.”
The look on Jessica Baker’s face was that of one who has just been told a racist joke about her own people.
“At least- that’s what I gather- being that I live here.”
“Milton…”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Milton.”
“Yes.”
“Milton- are you sure you’ve been using our techniques correctly?”
“Techniques?”
“Yes, Milton. Overcoming objections- greeting the customer correctly- things along that nature?”
“Oh. Sure. I mean, I try my best.”
Jessica Baker frowned and stood, arranging her papers and her files.
“Milton, if you don’t use our techniques to their fullest, you can’t expect us to just wave a wand and fix all your store’s problems.”
Milton considered this an odd thing to say, because this was the only time Jessica had referred to the store as his. He stood, and as he did Jessica Baker made her way to the exit of the conference room, coming very close to him and offering her hand. Milton took it, but did not shake because she was not shaking. He was surprised at how dry her hand was.
“This comes down to more than one’s environment, Milton. Your store’s situation is not average. It is not medium. This is sub-par. And I don’t think the residents of Alabama, Pennsylvania would appreciate you blaming your poor salesmanship on them.”
She continued to hold his hand, but rotated nimbly, positioning herself directly beneath the door. Milton knew what he would have liked to say, but instead said:
“Yes ma’am.”
Jessica Baker left the store and wouldn’t be seen again until exactly 27 business days later. After she was gone, Milton returned to his desk, offering a smile to any of the other salesmen who offered him questioning looks. He didn’t want them to think it had gone badly. He sat at his desk and arranged his pens. When that was done he arranged his files. And when that was done he checked his e-mail. He regarded Jessica Baker’s now empty parking spot outside and considered how much it reminded him of the bathroom door. Much taller, much wider, but certainly some sort of entrance. Milton Warhead stood and considered the bathroom, all the way in the north-east corner of the store, and considered his master plan for revenge.