SALES SMACK

"NATURAL BORN" SALESMAN, I THINK NOT

This smack is dedicated to my beloved mother, the best sales person I know; well, maybe the second best.

The expression "natural born ___" gets tossed around a lot these days, too much.  It's become a cliche among Americans, a pop culture compliment handed out on the cheap.  Terms like "gifted", "blessed", and "raw talent" aren't par anymore.  Today the public, and media especially, make a habit of exaggerating pedestrian praise into something prenatal.  Divine adulation previously reserved for names like Mozart, Picasso, Shakespeare, and Milan is suddenly mainstream, a catch-phrase offered to just about anyone in any profession.  If you need proof, just make a quick trip to Google.  There are six million search results for the term, "natural born".  They include (but aren't limited to):  n.b. - clickers (internet addicts), communists, yo-ers (yo-yo's), hippies, aeronautical engineers, tool-makers, grillers (born to barbecue), birders, and yes- natural born hookers.  The truth is that none of us, not even supernatural talents like Wolfgang, Pablo, Cesar, or that other Bill, are birthed with a predetermined purpose or guaranteed outcome.  Understand that everyone requires some guidance, encouragement, or foundation to ultimately discover his/her destiny.  So, where the hell does sales fit into this discussion?  Read on.         

My first two years in sales paralleled most novices; it was blurred by stress and energy drinks.  I possessed neither the time nor the self-awareness to reflect past the basics of what I was doing.  Even as I acquired the taste for sales (yrs 3-5), and developed my reputation as a "producer" with Virgin Yellow Pages, I rarely questioned the "Why?" or "How?" of it all.  My success seemed to come naturally, so why analyze it?  It would have been like Ruth asking, "Why baseball?"  Besides, there were no salespeople in my family.  I never took "cold calling" lessons as a child or spent summers "role playing" in sales camp.  I never read sales books, enrolled in sales courses, worked as a sales-intern, or attended a sales seminar.  No sir, not me.  My ability to sell color-processed, quarter pages was genetic, a gift from the Yellow-Page deity.  Love it, or hate it: I was born to sell. 

It's hard to admit now, but like six million others, I at least half-believed in the "natural born" theory for several years.  Then a jar of apple butter and an old friend changed my mind forever. 

Three Decembers ago, I was enjoying a continental breakfast at my parents house with Custer, my now "ski-phobic" buddy from New York.  My mother had kindly whipped up a few eggs, some crisp bacon, and two sides of dry toast to help soothe the traditional, "Manlo Christmas Party Hangover".  Custer had barely finished his first bite when:

"How 'bout some apple butter with your toast, Custer?" she asked.

"No thanks, Mrs. Manlo, I'm fine."

"Have you ever had apple butter on your toast?"

Custer glanced over at me, but I ignored him, trying to hold in some morning gas.

"No.  I don't guess I have.  Don't worry about it, though.  I'm gonna pass this time.  Thanks."

"Are you sure?  If you've never had it, you can't know how good it is.  I have it right here, it's no trouble at all."

Custer's belly couldn't hold his laughter.  He'd been pressured by a Manlo before.

"Really, Mrs. Manlo.  I'm fine."

Still undiscouraged, never doubting her product, my mother seamlessly improvised the call like great salespeople always do.

"Tell you what," she said.  "How 'bout I put some on the side for you?  That way, you can at least sample it before you decide that you really don't want any." 

At that point, Custer and I were both laughing.  You couldn't help but appreciate her persistence.  He blurted out, "Okay, okay.  You win!  I'll try some apple butter."- SOLD!!!

As my mother prepared Custer's purchase, he shook his head at me smiling.  "Now I know where you get it", he said.  In that simple, but perfect, observation Custer had reminded me what my self-inflated image had allowed me to forget: Nobody becomes who they are without some help.  As my mother dropped off an outmatched Custer his side of apple butter, I realized that I had been her customer for years.  We looked at each other and our eyes said, "I love you."

Thanks Mom.

Bill Manlo

 

SMACK BULLETIN

Salessmack is making its return this week!  I apologize for the long delay, but moving to another country is no picnic.  Today I finally got hooked up to the internet, and I'm ready to get back in the saddle.  Hasta pronto mi amigos!

Bill Manlo

SELLING SECOND BEST

Now that I have committed to writing a book about sales, I am investing a lot more of my time (relatively speaking, of course) reading about sales.  I want and need to know what the pundits are saying, how are they saying it, and what is their rationale?  As you might expect, many of the books that I skimmed through are recycling the same ideas, the same rhetoric, and the same purpose (how to be a producer).  As a result, my quests for competitive, if not original, perspectives on sales devolved sharply into a sophomoric exercise of how to identify common themes by different authors.  One recurring idea among sales writers, is that a sales person should not support a product or a concept that he or she does not entirely embrace.  They say that salespeople can't realize success selling something that we, as customers, would not buy ourselves.  In other words, "YOU GOTTA BELIEVE!".  You know what I say?  Bullshit.  Although I agree that a salesperson's own belief in his or her product is helpful, I can hardly agree that it's essential.  My reasoning is simple: the overwhelming majority of America's sales force is selling "second best" everyday, know they are, and are doing extremely well by it.

Call it a cold reality if you'd like, but not everyone can sell Coca-Cola, BMW's, Sub Zero appliances, or Aveda skin care.  In fact, most of us can't, don't, and never will.  Instead, we push Pepsi, Ford, GE, and Mary K.  We sell equipment that we'd never use, cars that we'd never drive, and brands that we'd never wear.  When I worked at Virgin Yellow Pages, half the markets I canvassed used our directory for a doorstop or a booster chair.  Did it bother me?  Not in the least.   Now (for one more week anyway) I sell drugs (the legal kind), and like many pharm reps, I promote second, even third-line pills.  I tell a hundred and fifty doctors every two weeks, twenty six times a year, "When you can't control patient "A" with drug "X", drug "Y", or drug "X" plus drug "Y", will you write drug "Z" (my product)?  Corporate says we're "painting a clear patient type", but I know better; we all do.  So, the question begs to be asked: why doesn't selling lesser alternatives detract from my performance, depress my passion, or dull my confidence as a sales person?  Why doesn't it effect tens of thousands more salespeople, just like me?  The experts say it should, so why doesn't it?   Three reasons:  self-respect, money, and the middle-class.

Self-respect comes from within; not every sale rep has it, but more do than don't.  Just because the goods or services that we sell are second-rate, doesn't mean we have to be.  You do the best you can with what you've got; it's the only way to sleep at night.  The second reason is the green reason.  If salespeople are getting paid, belief in our product is merely an after thought.  Show us the money, and we'll show you the numbers.  Finally, it's because of economics.  Most Americans can't afford their first choice.  We have to settle for things - cloth instead of leather, domestic instead of import, projection instead of plasma, carpet instead of tile.  That's life.  However, affording average is nothing to be ashamed of, and neither should selling it be. 

Bill Manlo

QOW:  What do you think?  Can you be successful selling something that you wouldn't buy?

sales smack bulletin

As many of you are now aware, I am preparing to write my first book about sales.  Scarlet and I are leaving our beloved Tara for life overseas.  We harvested enough cotton to survive for at least a year, maybe longer.  I'll be writing, she'll be painting, and the stars will decide the rest.  April will be our last full month in the States.  I'm sharing this with you for a few reasons:  First, I want to thank everyone for reading my stuff.  The traffic has been great lately, and it consistently improves each week.  Second, I want to give my readers something to anticipate.  I know my book isn't the second Star Wars trilogy, but I hope you'll keep it in mind for next year.  Lastly, Sales Smack, the blog, will become monthly beginning in May.

Bill Manlo

PS My next post, "Selling Second Best", will be published Sunday morning, April 20th.  Sorry for the delay...

THANK GOD FOR CHUCK (The Conclusion)

When we got outside, Tattoo walked us to his vehicle, a beat up 1990, two door, Honda Prelude, painted cinnamon red.  His roof was polka-dotted marshmallow white by a platoon of park-fattened pigeons, his passenger door had to be opened from the inside, and the rear bumper was attached by athletic tape. 

"So okay guys, it's gonna be a little tight, but I've piled three in the back before, and it was totally awesm.  So I'm guess in' Targon should ride up front with me; Will, Buck and Mitch, you guys can squeeze into the back." 

Everyone stared at each other in disbelief.  Tarzan went about 6' 3'', 220.  Mick and I weren't far behind, each six feet; Chuck was the shortest, at 5' 10''.

"This is bullshit, man.  Can't we take someone else's car?" fired Chuck. 

"Awesm suggestion, Buck.  What do you drive?  We'll take yours." 

"Sorry, Tofu, I came here on a motorcycle.  What about you guys? (pointing to Mick and me.)  You got room for five?" 

"Four, tops.  I got the small jeep, over there." replied Mick.

Simultaneously, all of us turned to Tarzan.  He frightened everybody (even Chuck) as he began unbuttoning his dress shirt.  Then he pointed to the text on his undershirt, and we all sighed with relief, it read: USE VINES, NOT OIL.  I offered the obvious alternative. 

"Why don't Mick and I just follow you guys?"  "So another awesm idea, Gil. . ."

"It's Bi. ,. ."

"But unfortunately, Paul says we have to stay together on this deal to communicate.  So we'll take my car and just make the best of it , okay?  Okay."

The impromptu discussion about our vehicles, or lack thereof, effectively helped Tattoo evade the two, much more relevant, questions that everyone wanted answered: Where the hell were we going? and What the hell are we doing when we get there?

Things got hairy early.  What Tattoo said would be "about ten minutes South" had already turned into twenty minutes, then into thirty.  Fortunately for him, Mick and I had inadvertently distracted Chuck's situational awareness, as we took turns being his backseat shrink.  Primarily, he talked about his second ex-wife, Easie.  Apparently, she was a tad promiscuous.  After Chuck caught her in bed with his own stepsister, he asked her to wear a house bracelet for six months.  She told him what he could do with the bracelet, and that was that.  Chuck was explaining the difference between assault and battery when he saw the road sign:  SELMA 22 miles.

"SELMA?! WHERE THE FUCK ARE WE?! STOP THE CAR!!! STOP THE CAR!!!"

"Hey, hey, let's tone it down with the f-bombs back there, okay?  Okay.  So two more exits, and we're there, guys."

"Where?!" erupted, Chuck.  "What the hell are we doing out here?!"

"So I'm about to show you guys; I promise.  It's gonna be totally awesm."

Chuck stretched forward, directly behind Tattoo's right ear, his voice suddenly dead calm, Eastwood-esque.

"You got five minutes, little man.  Five minutes."  Then, he slid back beside Mick, and began counting out loud.  Chuck's "Dirty Harry" routine worked; Tattoo chose life over dismemberment, and took the next exit.

I couldn't tell you the town's name, only that it was like most small towns in South Texas: poor, hot, and leery of outsiders.  Chuck was at four minutes, thirty-two seconds when we pulled into the parking lot of a run down strip center.  Tattoo ignored the signpost directly in front of him, which read: PARKING FOR CLIFF'S BARBER SHOP ONLY.

"Hey, hey, hey!  So okay, who's ready to see what I got in the back?" he asked.

"If it's not a case-a-beer, I could care less".

Tattoo snorted into a ridiculous laugh, sucking up to his potential executioner.  "Great stuff, Buck, that was a good one!  Humor is always funny.  So actually, it's something even better; it's totally awesm!  So come on let's check it out!"

Mick, Chuck, and I did our best Cirque du Soleil impression getting out of the backseat.  After everyone had stretched themselves back to normal, Tattoo gathered us around his trunk like we were pirates about to sword open a treasure chest.  When I saw what was inside, I remember wondering what Tattoo's eulogy would sound like after Chuck punched his nose through his brain. 

Inside Tattoo's trunk were giant, plastic calculators and six-inch toy radios (AM stations, only).  Mick and I discreetly turned our eyes toward Chuck.  His rage was so extreme that it temporarily muted him, allowing Tattoo to give us the sales pitch. 

"So whadaya think?!  Totally awesm, right?!  So the calculators go for three bucks a pop, and the radios are just two bucks!  A lot of the older folks can't see so good, but they don't have to worry with these babies.  So check it out, the buttons are enormous!  And hey, hey, hey, get a load of these mini boom boxes.  The kid's love 'em!  So check out the sound (faint Tejano music mixed with static); it's totally awesm." 

Chuck was still speechless, as all of us were.

"Okay, so here's the plan.  Paul wants us to sell everything in these boxes, then, when we're done, we'll run back to headquarters and reload for the afternoon.  So we should be finished before sunset.  Okay?  Okay."

The entire time that Tattoo was talking, Mick and I never stopped watching Chuck.  His prolonged silence led me to one of two conclusions.  Either he was having an internal debate whether or not he should actually kill Tattoo, or he was simply brainstorming how to kill Tattoo.  Finally, Chuck, spoke.  Again, it was the Dirty Harry voice.

"I'm only gonna say this one time, midget, so I recommend you listen real good.  Your gonna take me back right now, or I'm gonna bury your little ass right next to Jimmy Hoffa.  Do we understand each other?" 

Tattoo looked up at Tarzan for help, then to us.  For a split second I thought about doing something, but when I glanced over at Chuck and noticed the long scars peppered across his knuckles, I reconsidered.  Tattoo was shit out of luck, and he knew it.  We pretzled our way back into the Prelude, and drove home.

I can only imagine how the rest of that day would have unfolded.  Of course the truth is that I'm glad I never had to find out.  Thank God for Chuck...

Bill Manlo

PS If you're wondering what G & S Enterprises stands for, it's: Gotcha Sucka

THANK GOD FOR CHUCK

ARE YOU SPORTS MINDED?  DO YOU WANT TO MAKE 4-6K/MONTH WORKING PART-TIME?  WE ARE LOOKING FOR HARD WORKING, MONEY MOTIVATED SELF-STARTERS.  APPLY TODAY.  College degree is preferred but not required.

That's how it all began, a simple ad in the classifieds.  I was a despondent 19 year old, sleeping in a roach infested duplex, trying to pay off my part of a $400 electric bill when it hooked me. 

I had two roommates then, McFly and Fudge.  We met during summer school at the University, a year earlier.  I meshed with McFly (named for his laugh) immediately. The guy was naturally affable.  He was like having a real-life imaginary friend; whatever you felt like doing, he felt like doing.  Mick lives with his fiancee now, in New York, a few blocks from Custer.  I lost touch with Fudge (I'll let you speculate on his name) a few years ago.  By all accounts, he hasn't changed either, still an introverted Oscar, toting a soft-side.  I was the bandleader of the house, not much happened without my hand in it.  I organized the parties, chose the bars, and corralled the women. 

The three of us moved in together haphazardly, all tracking on a different life-compass.  The one constant in our triad was capital deficiency.  On the morning that I "borrowed" our neighbor's newspaper, none of us had jobs and our student loans were drying up fast; we needed a miracle just to keep the lights on.

"Hey, Mick, check this one out.  It says 4-6 K working part-time.  Self-starters, sports-minded, it's perfect."

"They all say that" muttered Fudge.  He sat slouched on the sofa corner, a sweat-stained 'Stros hat masking his eyes.

"He's right, B.  Besides, you know we'd never get a job like that anyway."

"Yeah, y'all are right, my bad.  We should run over to Chuy's and see if they have any openings for busboys.  That way we'll have money and status."

"Funny guy" countered Mick.

"I'm serious, man.  If you're too much of a baby to try and get a good . . . "

"Whoooa!  Easy, little nuts.  If it means that much to ya, I'll go."

"Fudge?"

"Not this time" he snickered.

Not anytime, I wanted to say.   

We got lost on the way over.  Paul, the guy that I had spoken with on the phone, suggested that we arrive around ten; Mick and I rolled up at half past.  He warned me that their office would be hard to find, and it was.  The building was offspring to some new construction on the south side where several streets were still nameless.  It looked quasi-industrial:  single-storied, windows tinted near black, side-doors only.  The letterhead on Suite 228 read G & S ENTERPRISES, nothing more. 

"B, you sure this is right?  It seems a little shady."

"That's what the dude said, Suite 228" I said defensively.  In truth, my instincts agreed with Mick's, but as I saw it, we had no choice. 

We were greeted by Tattoo from Fantasy Island, minus the tux.  He gave us the Fat Albert welcome, but on helium.

"Hey, hey, hey!  So what's happenin' guys?!"

"Not mu. . ."

"So you must be Gil (pointing to Mick) and so I betch yur Mike (pointing to me)."

"Actual. . ."

"Awesm.  Awesm.  So my name is Tat.  So I'm one of the reps here.  So unfortunately, Paul had a family emergency this morning, so he couldn't make it.  So he asked me to have you guys fill out a couple applications, so he can look them over this afternoon.  So here ya go"

"So okay" I said unintentionally.  Mick waited until Tat left the room to unleash his signature laugh.  "Holy shit, dude.  Is that guy for real?!  Where's the rest of the circus?"

"Yeah, he seemed pretty odd" I replied, trying to downplay the situation.  "Come, on, let's hurry up and fill this crap out so we can get home." 

"Pretty odd?!  Are you kidding me, man?!  You seriously want to work here, Bill?!" 

"Of course I don't want to work here, Mick!  But last time I checked we didn't have many options.  It's either retail, picking up dirty diapers at a restaurant, or whatever the shit this is.  Rent's right aro. . ." 

"All right, all right.  I get the point; give it here."  We knocked out the paperwork, thanked Tat for nothing, and strolled out.

Around four-thirty, Paul called and got our machine; he sounded like Guy Smiley from Sesame Street.  "Hey Bill, it's Paul with G & S Enterprises, sorry I missed you and Mick this morning.  I hope Tat didn't startle you; he's a live one.  Anyhow, I reviewed your applications, and we'd like to schedule both of you for a second interview tomorrow at nine o'clock.  Call me when you get a chance, ciao."  It took some prodding, but eventually Mick caved and agreed to go one more round with me.

When we arrived at Paul's office the next morning, there were already two other applicants sitting inside, Chuck and Tarzan.  While the four of us waited on Paul, Chuck decided to share a few things with us about himself.  "I can break a cinder block with my fuckin' pinky, man.  It's true.  I'm a triple degree black belt in five different kinds of martial arts.  I could fuck up Mike Tyson real bad if I wanted to.  Just ask that UPS maggot I caught banging my wife, son of a bitch needed plastic surgery when I got through with him."  Tarzan wasn't as open.  He had been transported to Texas from the Jurassic period a couple of years prior; Mick and I had read about it in the Enquirer.  His eyebrows still looked frozen.  Just as everyone was about to exchange numbers, Tat bounced into the room.

"Hey, hey, hey!  So how's everybuddy doing?!"

"Pret. . ."

"Awesm, awesm!  So I have some bad news on Paul.  So he got into a a little car accident on his way over here, so he can't make it.  So he asked me to go ahead and take you guys with me today, so you can see what the job's like.  Any questions?"

"Is Paul gonna be all right?" I asked.

"Totally awesm question.  Paul's gonna be awesm.  So any other questions?" 

"Yeah, where the fuck are you taking us?" snapped Chuck.

"So let's watch that language a little bit, okay Buck?  Awesm, awesm.  So to answer your question, it's kinda a near here, about ten minutes south."

"So everybody ready?  Awesm."

For reasons that I still can't explain, I followed Mick who followed Chuck who followed Tarzan outside.  Our field trip with G & S Enterprises lying in wait.

The Conclusion next week....

Bill Manlo

QOW: What's the worst thing you ever sold?

LET'S GET HOLY! (The Eleven Commandments of Sales)

Today's smack is dedicated to one of the greatest non-profiteers of all time -- Moses.  Although this is a blog about sales, and I would love to embrace Moses as sales kin, to my knowledge and history's, God never slipped him a twenty on Mount Sinai for his time and efforts.  Moses acted on faith, not commission, thus excluding him from our profession's storied lineage.  However, he did promote a divine formula for human kind to live under: ten elementary rules to obey at all times.  Since then, a million variations of those commandments have been spawned and altered into fundamental guidelines of a different kind, for a different purpose.  On this day, in this smack, I am introducing the Eleven Commandments of Sales.  If you are speculating on why eleven, you should know that in sales ten simply wouldn't be good enough.

1) Thou Shalt Take It Personally-  If you took a small survey of ten salespeople, and asked how they cope with the plague of rejection, nine out of ten would answer that they "never take it personally."  Eight out of nine would be lying.  I don't care if you are Zig Ziglar or have shark skin, being turned down stings beneath the surface.  If it doesn't, you are in the wrong business.  Every sales call is a game; there is a winner and a loser.  If a rep rationalizes each loss or always exonerates himself/herself from fault, he/she has surrendered something far greater- accountability.  How can you become an all-star if you always blame the company, the product, or the customer when you get beat?  You can't.  Producers expect to close on every appointment, and when they don't, they do take it personally.  They get pissed off, replay the call for mistakes, sniff their armpits, and then re-channel that anger into a selling locomotive.  As for the one person who told the truth, he/she will be a trainer, work in corporate, or unemployed within six months.

2) Thou Shalt Self Promote-  If you intend on climbing the ladder in sales, you better listen to your Don.  There are too many salespeople with competitive numbers for a rep to practice the "I let my play do the talking" attitude.  You need a successful image (or even a nickname) at your company, a promotable repertoire that encourages management and colleagues to root for you when opportunity knocks.  That can't happen by staying quiet.  Your career is not a silent film with subtitles; you have a voice, use it.

3) Thou Shalt Ask for Referrals-  This should be a habit with every sales person.  It seems obvious, but after a toe-curling salegasm it can feel a little awkward.  Imagine having incredible sex with someone, then when it's over, immediately asking, "Do you have any friends that I can meet?"  Fortunately, most clients are cordial about referrals because they understand the importance of networking, but occasionally you run into an asshole that gets offended.  Don't let it dissuade you; keep on asking. 

4) Thou Shalt Covet Thy Neighbor's Prospect- Nobility gets you nowhere in sales.  Save your magnanimous gestures for the last junior mint on a movie date.  In this business, you need a piranha's voracity to secure longevity.  If an account does not have valid notes, a pending contract, or is being worked by a former/future groomsman or bridesmaid, all bets are off.   

5) Thou Shalt React, Not Think- Last time I checked, there weren't many Ivy Leaguer's or PHD's populating corporate America's sales force.  Our intelligence exists within our advanced social IQs which enable us to read body language, anticipate dialogue, and flash quick wit.  In most cases, the more academic and systematic that a sales call sounds, the less likely a customer is to buy. Don't memorize, improvise. 

6) Thou Shalt Bend Thy Truth- Honesty is most pliable in sales.  To get from point A to point B, we have to occasionally get creative with the truth (I just did).  The best salespeople treat truth like silly putty; they reshape it, play with it, stretch it, but always keep it intact. 

7) Thou Shalt Always Ask For The Business- Duh.     

8) Thou Shalt Be Greedy-  Saying that you don't need greed in sales is like saying you don't need height to play in the NBA. I recognize that greed is an ugly word, but it cuts to the core of what drives salespeople.  You can possess all the tools of a top producer, but if your appetite for signatures is satiated too easily, expect a short career.

9) Thou Shalt Cold Call-  I included this one as a matter of principle.  Although I detest cold calling and being cold called, every sales person should don a headset at some point in his/her career.  Consider it sales spinach, it may not taste very good, but it will make you stronger.

10) Thou Shalt Be Self-Confident- I think I have written enough about self-confidence, but I will say it one more time, if you don't believe in yourself, how can you ever expect it of the customer?

11) Thou Shalt Vent-  A career in sales is a career in stress.  The only way to manage the angst, pressure, and strain in our profession is to periodically decompress, to vent.  Just make an effort to do it legally...

Bill Manlo

QOW:  Anything I left out?

EXPERIENCE vs. YOUTH

Throughout Sales Smack I have made an effort to reveal the intangible, thus invaluable, qualities that enable good salespeople to be great.  Specifically, I have smacked on the selling benefits of great story-telling, improvisation, supreme self-confidence, and greed.  However, there is a different kind of asset in sales, a more perceptible asset, which always takes precedence in the appraisal of a sales person's worth -- experience.  You might be campfire royalty, improvise dialog like a corrupt politician, own MJ's self-confidence, and have Jacob Marley's greed, yet none of it would matter without sufficient experience.  Head-hunters, corporate recruiters, and sales management want to see skins on the wall not college transcripts and shallow resumes.  Accordingly, the more coveted that a sales job is, the more experience that it will demand.  Makes sense, right?  Wrong.  Although I realize and appreciate the value of working experience and occupational knowledge, in sales the combined virtues of youth and talent produce an even greater premium.

The advantages that experience has over youth in any job are pretty easy to identify.  An aged candidate or employee is expected to have more vocational wisdom, greater business acumen, and a superior sense of responsibility than a person who is still in the cocoon of his or her career.  For salespeople, in particular, more time in the field improves our anticipation, reaction, and structure on a sales call.  Simply put, our bullshit stops sounding like bullshit.  However, the hidden pitfalls of employing butterflies instead of caterpillars lies in their motivational complacency, ebbing stamina, and presumptive attitudes.  When salespeople approach their late thirties and early forties, their zeal to fly from one appointment to the next begins to decay.  They stop sprinting after the proverbial carrot, and start jogging after it.  They look for ways to work smarter, not harder.  What used to be a curious George is now a gray-bearded gorilla.  So why then, beyond the aforementioned explanations, do employers consistently favor tenure over talent?  One word -- entrapment.

Corporate management prefers to buy, not lease, their sales force.  The younger that a sales candidate is, the less he or she has at risk.  Managers want sales reps that are fettered by fiscal responsibilities and family ties.  From their perspective, if you don't have children, a mortgage, or a spouse, what do you have to lose?  It's a valid argument.  However, the other side to that argument is that kids, marriages, and houses are essentially a second career.  The same possessions that companies hope secure their sales force can in fact distract, fatigue, and cause added stress.  Although younger, less experienced salespeople are more nomadic and therefore potentially less dependable, they are ripe with ambition, energy, and enthusiasm.  They believe anything is possible, and in that naive creed breathes youth's most redeeming quality as salespeople -- ignorance.

Sales reps that are in their youth (25 to 30) have not been exposed to the dark side of sales long enough to be affected by it.  They don't have any scars.  They haven't been in a two year slump, raped by a pay plan, or passed over for a promotion.  Corporate politics and self-promotion are enjoyable to budding sales reps; it's their chance to shine.  They want to dazzle and impress, learn and earn.  The gray-beard's experience still has substantial value in sales, especially with a more elite customer base, but for the everyday sales job I'll take the young hare over the aging tortoise every time.

Bill Manlo 

QOW:  Who would you take in a quarterly sales contest, a 40 year old sales veteran, or a 27 year old hot shot?

SELLING 24/7 (The Conclusion)

One of the more aggravating realities of sales, is that verbal agreements are useless.  Essentially, a customer's words are counterfeit currency in our profession, without a signed contract they are worthless.  However, when salespeople are pitching an idea outside of work, there is no dotted-line at the end of the call, only action.  Still, the same concept applies.  Our trip to Keystone is the perfect example.  Despite the long drive, investment in rental equipment, or the hour we spent creeping out little kids practicing snow plow beside them, none of it would matter if Scarlet and Custer didn't get on the ski lift.  I checked the time; it was quarter after seven.  At 9 o'clock our skis would turn back into tennis shoes.  It was time to bibbidi bobbidi boo.

"You guys ready to roll?" I asked.  Scarlet looked juiced; Custer looked like he was about to go skydiving without a parachute. 

"Man, I've got some serious butterflies in my stomach right now.  Can we just chill five more minutes?"

Custer's plea for a stay of execution was the same as a real world client asking for the weekend to think it over.  In such circumstances, there is only one way for a sales person to react - you bring the hammer down.

"Look, bro, I know you're scared but . . ."

"I'm not scared!  I just . . ."

"You are scared, and that's understandable, but you're thinking about it way too much!  I'm not gonna sit here and bullshit you, Custer.  You will fall, probably more than once, but it's snow, not concrete.  Just keep in mind that these are beginner slopes meant for people like you.  Everyone has to start somewhere.  We both know that nothing's gonna change in the next five minutes (except his mind), so are you in, or are you out?"

"You're such a salesman sometimes, it makes me sick."

"I love you, too.  Now let's do this!" 

Custer agreed, and the sale to go night skiing was officially in the books.  Roll action!

The three of us cross skied our way over to the lifts.  At Scarlet's request, I went to the front of the line to verify, one last time, that first timer's were allowed on the green slopes at night.

"Hey, bro, sorry to bother you, but I got a couple beginners with me that wanted to make sure it was safe for them to ski the greens here at night.  It should be cool, right?"

"Uh, seriously, dude?"  It was Spicoli from "Fast Times at Ridgmont High".

"Yeah, man.  What do you think?  I already taught them how to snow plow."

"Uh, have they gone to ski school, dude?"

"Yeah, kinda," I said impatiently.

"Uh, yeah, dude.  You guys should be cool."  Spicoli's dazed endorsement rested on a magic brownie giggle.  I was better off asking a snow man's opinion.  Even so, he gave me the answer I wanted to hear.

"Well, what'd he say?" asked Scarlet. 

"He said, we'd be fine.  Relax, baby, you're gonna do great.  Both of you are."

"I certainly hope so."

Moments later, the ski lift scooped Scarlet and me off our gelatin legs, and propelled us unfastened into the darkness.

Less than forty five seconds into the climb, Scarlet began to unravel.  "I can't believe these things don't have seat belts.  This is insane.  They're just begging for a lawsuit.  And where the hell are the goddamn lights?  I thought there were supposed to be lights!  Oh my god, Bill, oh my god, I think we're going to hit that tree!"  In ten years with Scarlet, I had never seen her genuinely afraid.  She's only five-four in stilettos, but Scarlet has always acted as if she were eight feet tall and weighed four hundred pounds.  Seeing her confidence implode was definitely a first.  I did my best to sell back her composure.

"Honey, take a deep breath.  We're totally safe.  Just hold onto me until we get to the top.  You're gonna do fine.  You're Peekaboo Street, remembe . . ."

"Fuck Peekaboo!  I'm Scarlet Manlo and I'm scared to shit!  I feel like we're dangling from dental floss up here!"  She turned around to find Custer.  "Where is he, I don't see him behind us.  I'm going to cut his balls off if he chickened out!"

"That's sweet, baby.  I'm sure he'd be glad to know that.  I know you're a little freaked out, but we're almost there.  I'll hold your hand the whole way. . ." 

As we made our approach, Scarlet grabbed my hand like she was about to deliver triplets.  As you might expect, by holding hands, we both lost our balance coming off the ski lift and fell face first into the snow.  A couple of Spicoli's buddies helped us up, and we were temporarily safe again.  Before Scarlet could dig her claws into me, Custer came crashing into the picture.  He came off the lift like the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz.  Staying with that theme, you could say that Scarlet was the Cowardly Lion who lost her courage, and I, of course, was the Scarecrow missing a brain.  After we navigated ourselves out of harm's way, the three of us laughed like drunken hyenas for a good five minutes.  It wasn't pretty, but we had made it to the top.  The trip back down was an adventure in itself (Scarlet and Custer walked half way down the mountain before a Red Cross rescue worker ended their humiliation), but we all made it in one piece. 

On the car ride home Scarlet and Custer made a vow to each other that I would never sell them on anything again. 

Come on, who are they kidding?

Bill Manlo

QOW:  All salespeople have sales they regret making, what's yours?

SELLING 24/7 (Part III of IV)

Our journey to Keystone was picturesque.  A full day of snow had fallen forty-eight hours earlier, painting the landscape a sublime white.  An irritable sun chased away the guilty storm clouds like a spoiled child in the sky, fighting for our attention.  Its jealous shine reflected fantastically off the open fields of snow like they had been brushed in glitter.  Each mountain range that we crossed seemed even more majestic, and more alive than the last. The entire drive was breathtaking, and, more importantly, it was the perfect distraction to Scarlet and Custer's anxiety of what lay ahead.  However, the shot of scenic anesthesia couldn't last forever, and it didn't.

We passed through Breckenridge first, around three o'clock.  Immediately, Custer and Scarlet both took acute notice of the ski lifts, and their apparent safety deficiencies.  Custer was too proud to openly express his apprehension, but Scarlet was happy to oblige.  "Do those things have seat belts?" she asked, appalled at the answer she had already anticipated. "No, honey, they keep the lifts open so people can ski right off them onto the slopes."  Scarlet looked at me, speechless.  I could see that it was time to start selling again. 

"I know they look scary, but they're totally safe, you guys.  The ride up the mountain is actually one of the best parts.  You get an incredible view of the slopes and can watch the skiers right underneath you.  It's no big deal, really."

Custer strategically reiterated the one stipulation to the trip that he and my wife had issued prior to our departure.  "As long as we get enough time on the kiddie (practice) slope, I'm down for whatever."

"Thanks for the reminder, Knievel."

"Quit being an asshole, Bill, he's serious and so am I.  You better be patient with us when we get there.  I don't want to end up like Sonny Bono."

The remark seemed absurd at the time, and made me chuckle.  "I get the point, baby.  Everything's gonna be fine."

We arrived in Keystone twenty minutes later.  Unfortunately, none of us matched up with the ski apparel at my aunt's place (I was too tall, Scarlet too short, and Custer too stout), so we stopped by a rental shop to get squared away.  By the time we got to the parking lot it was a quarter 'til four, and their nerves were beginning to resurface.   

"How the hell do you put all this shit on, man?" asked Custer impatiently.

"I don't know, it's been 20 years since I've done this.  Just do the best . . ."

"Bill!  My zipper's stuck and I can't get this boot to clip."

"Hold still, baby, I got it.  How does that . . ."

"Dude, does the lining go inside the boot or outside?"

"Inside. It's a lining, dumbass."

"Should I bring the camera, honey?"

"Sure, I'll . . ."

"Yo, Tomba, which poles were mine again?"

The Abbott and Costello routine cost us another fifteen minutes, but we persevered and space-walked awkwardly to the ticket counter.  I could see the Keystone practice slope from where I was standing, but the adjacent lift was dormant.  I checked to see if Custer had noticed the minor set back also.  Fortunately, he was too busy having a panic attack watching some guy do cartwheels down one of the black slopes, and Scarlet was preoccupied guarding the rental skis.  I leaned forward to the ticket clerk, "Excuse me, ma'am, they still run the lifts for the bunny slope at night, don't they?"

"Nope.  Just the greens and blues."

"Right.  Uh, is there anywhere else to loosen the legs up a little?  It's been a while for my wife, and she wanted to get a little practice in."

The clerk looked at me like I had just escaped from a state mental hospital.  "Well, I guess you can take her to the toddler hills yonder."

I huddled with Custer and Scarlet to break the news, bracing for one, or both of them, to re-enact Dustin Hoffman's airport outburst in the movie "Rain Man".  Astonishingly, neither of them complied.  I wasn't sure if it was their adrenaline, the excitement, or the three year old girl that had just skied past us, but suddenly they were amped up for the challenge. 

"Fuck it.  What did we drive down here for anyways, let's do this." said Custer.  It wasn't Winston Churchill, but it was enough.  We locked into our skis and polled ourselves, unabashed, towards the scattered litter of giggling four year olds just ahead.  Scarlet adapted quickly, gliding effortlessly across the snow while I spoon fed her with exaggerated encouragement.  I knew what lay in wait, so now was the time to bolster her confidence.

"You're doing great, honey! . . .Somebody cue Randy Newman, you're a freaking natural! . . . Peekaboo who? . . . Are you part Eskimo, or something, you're amazing!"

Meanwhile, Custer was having a rougher go at it.  He was less than five yards from where he had delivered his Gen. Patton speech ten minutes earlier.  Predictably, Custer's ego had inhibited his better judgment to call for help.  When Scarlet and I skied back to grab him, a great-grandmother and her four great-grandchildren were attached to Custer in a train formation, trying to will him forward.  He looked like an angry buffalo on skis being pushed by prairie dogs.  It was one of the funniest images I have ever seen.  Scarlet and I looked like we had both been shot in the gut we were laughing so hard.  After I snapped off a few dozen pictures, we tagged out the exhausted prairie dogs, and set Custer free. 

"You okay, dawg?" I said, wiping the tears from my face.

"Never been better.  In fact, this is exactly how I pictured it.  I'll be at the bar if you need me, jackass."

"Whoa!  Come on, man.  You can't give up already.  I know you're pissed, but if you just let me teach you a few things it will make it a whole lot easier.  I didn't mean to leave you behind like that, I just got caught up with Scarlet.  Come on.  It'll be fun, bro.  Like you said, we didn't drive all the way down here for nothing."  This was a tough sale.  It felt like I was trying to persuade Eeyore to do wind sprints.  Finally, Custer cried "Uncle", and we resumed practicing with the pre-schoolers.  Half an hour later, we took a breather to soak up some hot chocolate and a slice of pizza with the final leg of our adventure only minutes away...

Bill Manlo

QOW:  What's the toughest sale that you've ever made outside of work?

SELLING 24/7 (Part II)

Selling your family members and intimate friends on a new idea, personal perspective, or, in this case, an altered agenda is both harder and easier for sales professionals.  It's more challenging, of course, because they've played customer to our sales call more than anyone else, spouses especially.  My wife sniffs out a Manlo sales pitch like a US Customs dog working the Mexican border.  She knows within seconds when I am manipulating a point, employing reverse psychology, or trying to back door her (no pun intended) on an issue.  However, closing Scarlet, or a close friend like Custer, is also less difficult because I already own their trust, the most coveted jewel in all of sales.  In the end the outcome of these negotiations is usually determined by pure will and tireless persistence, the book ends to every successful sales rep-advantage us.

"You guys crack me up.  Last night ya'll were all about it, and now you're ready to pack it in because of some artificial light?  You got nothin' to worry about.  If anything, the experience will be even more memorable.  You should check out the pictures on the website; it looks killer.  All you have to remember is how to "snow plow", and the rest is gravy.  Keep your knees bent, use the poles for additional brakes and steering.  You'll be golden."

"That's easy for you to say, Tomba.  You've done this before.  I don't even know what the hell "snow plow" is"!

Custer and I have been like brothers since meeting each other in college.  He was, and by some standards still is, a heavy drinker, quick witted, and an incorrigible smart ass.  Unfortunately for Custer's sake, he's also a relatively easy sale.  Several years ago Mr. Yeagermister and I persuaded him that his performance at a Karaoke bar merited professional consideration.  Later that night I cajoled him into singing Chris De Burg's "Lady in Red" A capella on my miniature voice recorder.  Tragically, Custer's intoxicating rendition of this musical masterpiece was mysteriously misplaced soon after I began promoting it at a few house parties.  If only "American Idol" was around back then. 

"Just point your skis together like the tip of a triangle and push your legs out.  I'll show you when we get there, it's a cake walk, bro."

Custer rolled his eyes in feigned disgust.  It was obvious that he was still undecided so I attacked his manhood. 

"Come on, dawg.  We'll stop by Walgreen's so you can pick up an extra pair of diapers, you'll be fine."

"Fuck you."

"Is that a yes?"

"Dude, how do we even know if they'll allow first timers to night ski?"

"We don't, but if they do ask, which they won't, we'll just tell 'em it's been a while," I replied with melodramatic frustration.

Suddenly, Scarlet interrupted the call with her own question, or call it a request.  "Bill, you promise you'll help me practice before we go down any slopes?"

The moment that Scarlet finished her thought Custer knew the trip was on, and the debate was over.  Together, she and I are a sales juggernaut; a less violent but equally effective Bonnie and Clyde.  Scarlet also had a career in yellow pages, albeit, a much shorter one than I (fourteen months).  During her tour she was always a couple of cold calls away from wearing a straight jacket and living in a padded room, but still, she was a natural.  Scarlet was a tenacious closer, ferocious competitor, and sold with her heart.  She doesn't sell for a living anymore but she easily could if she wanted to. 

"Of course, honey, I promise.  You know I'll take good care of you.  It's gonna be a blast!"

She smiled, Custer groaned, and I grabbed the car keys. 

(Part III of IV Monday....)

Bill Manlow

QOW: Is it harder, or easier to sell an idea to your own friend or family member?

SELLING 24/7

A few weeks ago my wife and I met up with one of my best friends from college for a week long sabbatical in Woodland Park, Colorado. We stayed at my aunt's place, a beautiful summer home with a postcard view of Pikes Peak.  Its cozy decor, towering white-stoned fireplace, and scenic balconies symbiotically sedate the stress-burdened mind.  Although ski resorts at Breckenridge and Keystone are only ninety minutes away, most of her vacationers spend their days and nights reading books, attempting fantastic recipes, playing familiar board games, soaking in the jacuzzi, and losing themselves in a late night buzz by the fire (it's hard work being her nephew).  However, on this excursion, we decided to shed the warmth and comfort of our Rocky Mountain lair for a one day skiing adventure.  My last trip down a mountain was twenty two years ago; for my precious bride and courageous compadre, it was "viaje numero uno".  Before the snow at Keystone settled that night, I would arrive at an undeniable career truth.  I recognized completely for the first time, what I had self-consciously refuted in years past, that professional salespeople never stop selling; we're always at it, 24/7.

Not surprisingly, we got off to a late start that day.  The night before Scarlet (my wife), Custer, and I drank back the clock ten years on our liver. We made merry on white Russians; recounted favorite anecdotes; and played five abnormally competitive games of Yahtzee. The evening ended enthusiastically on a slurred promise to leave no later than 9 am the next morning.  Custer was the early riser at a quarter 'til noon.  By the time all three of us were ready, it was half past one.  Our hopes for slopes were melting away like a sun-struck icicle.  The ski lifts at Breckenridge closed at 4pm; we'd never make it on the mountain in time.  Keystone was even further.  Tomorrow would be Friday, and Custer's flight back to New York was Saturday.  Maybe next year we'd go.  Then, for no reason than dejected boredom, I googled Keystone's website.  Two minutes and two clicks later, we were back on schedule- night skiing!  The lifts stopped running at 9pm.  We had plenty of time.  I broke the exciting news to both of them.

"Night skiing? ....Are you serious, bro? ...Will they even allow first timer's to do that?"

"Yeah, baby, I don't know if that's such a good idea either. We agreed I'd do ski school first, remember?"

In other words "thanks, but no thanks".  In some friendships and relationships that would have been the end of it, but not when you are dealing with a salesman, and certainly not with Bill Manlo.  I was just opening the call on this sale. 

Part II on Monday....

Bill Manlo

QOW:  Do salespeople ever turn it off?  Can we turn it off?  Or, is it simply who we are?

THE SALESMAN THAT CRIED "HONESTLY"

SMACK NOTE:  A special shout out to Marci Alboher of the New York Times and all her readers.  Quick FYI- Sales Smack is a weekly blog with new posts available every Monday morning.  Hope to see you back next week!

Inside the caverns of every profession exists a sacred scroll of rules within the rules, the unprinted do's and don'ts, always and nevers of an industry.  Collectively, they serve as a vocational compass that guides us across the formidable waters of inexperience and uncertainty.  However, access to the unpublished edicts of a profession are not a worker's entitlement.  They are earned and learned through personal experience, happy hours, and a healthy dose of common sense.  In sales, the scroll's length is infinite because our success is primarily based on human understanding.  Each new customer, each new encounter presents a unique need and solution.  Therefore, salespeople are always discovering unopened treasures of professional wisdom.  This being said, there are a few unwritten gems of advice, as in most industries, that take priority in our business.  First, and foremost, salespeople must always acquire the customer's trust.  A sales rep that can't establish trust is like a stud race horse with ED; your value is dramatically diminished.  So how do we capture a customer's confidence?  What are the do's and don'ts to gaining a buyer's faith?  It all starts with the word honestly.

The word "honestly", the phrase "to tell you the truth", or the expression "if it were me" are practically taboo in the world of sales.  The reason, of course, is that salespeople have built a well deserved reputation among the public as being disingenuous.  Consequently, we're consistently forced to use different diction and alternative strategies for earning a client's trust.  Some of these techniques include: sharing independent research, leveraging competitors against each other, name dropping, incessant flattery, alcohol, and showing pictures of our family.  When a rep learns to manipulate these angles, he/or she has graduated to another level of sales.  Ultimately, the goal is to become a verbal pickpocket; to sell your customers without their ever knowing.  The rule not to use "honestly" on a sales call may appear obvious, but to tell you the truth, most reps don't even hear themselves say it.  My first few months in sales, I was one of them.  I was the salesman that cried "honestly."

During my inaugural trimester on Planet Entry Sales I didn't learn much about how to direct a sales call.  Trainers were perpetually unmotivated and the "supervanagers" typically didn't know more than the average rep did.  Instead of experienced instruction, I relied exclusively on straight, unfiltered Manlo bullshit.  That meant using "honestly", "to tell you the truth", and "if it were me" virtually every other sentence.  Here's an example of how those calls usually sounded:

Bill: Hey, Mr. Nevabuy.  How ya doing this afternoon?  It's Bill Manlo with Virgin Yellow Pages.  I'm calling about your current listing in the local phone book.  I was curious if you had a couple of minutes.

Mr. Nevabuy:  You said the local Virgin Yellow Pages, right?  There's so many phone books now a days, I don't know who to trust anymore.

Bill:  (Fake laugh) I hear ya.  Hey, if it were me, I'd be just as careful, but you can trust me.  Honestly.

Mr. Nevabuy:  Fine.  So what's this about?   

Bill:  Well, to tell you the truth, I'm calling to confirm the accuracy of your listing in our upcoming directory.

Mr. Nevabuy: Sure. Go ahead.

Bill: Are you still located at 12345 W Noshot Dr., phone number 555-5555?

Mr. Nevabuy: Yep.  Thank you. (starts to hang up)

Bill:  Wait!  Mr. Nevabuy? 

Mr. Nevabuy: Yes?

Bill:  I also needed to verify that you still wanted your business listing under "Plumbing Contractors" in the yellow pages.

Mr. Nevabuy:  That's fine.  It's free, right?

Bill:  Sure it is, but honestly, right now, your listing is just a needle in a haystack.  You could generate a lot more business with just a little bit more information.

Mr. Nevabuy:  What the hell are you talking about?

Bill:  Well, if it were me, I would consider adding a little color to my name.  Maybe, include your website, hours, and emergency service.

Mr. Nevabuy:  How much will that cost?

Bill:  Honestly, the question isn't how much will it cost Mr. Nevabuy.  It's how much will you make?

Mr. Nevabuy:  Is this a sales call?!  Are you a god damn salesman?!

Bill:  Actually, I'm a yellow page consultant Mr. Nevabuy.  And if you give me a couple more minutes, I can help you improve your exposure in the phone directory and, at the same time, tighten the gap between you and your competitors. 

Mr. Nevabuy:  (dead silence)

Bill:  Honestly.

Mr. Nevabuy:  Nah, not this year.  Maybe next-

Bill:  Mr. Nevabuy, I know you're skeptical about advertising.  Hell, if it were me, I would be, too.  But the truth is, that yellow page advertising works.  Think of all the different yellow page users (I regurgitated NEDICT from my training manual) - Newcomers, Emergency buyers, Dissatisfied customers, Infrequent shoppers, Comparison shoppers, and Transient buyers from out of town.  We connect buyers with sellers.  The people calling you have cash in one hand and the phone in the other.  Yellow pages is direct to consumer advertising.  It's not a guessing game like radio, TV, and the newspaper.  This medium guarantees results.  Honestly.

Mr. Nevabuy:  Okay.  Okay.  Fax me a proposal to the same phone number, and I'll take a look at it over the weekend.

Bill:  Honestly?

Mr. Nevabuy:  Yes.  Goodbye Bill.

Bill:  Yes sir, take ca-

Mr. Nevabuy: (Click)

As it usually went, Mr. Nevabuy never bought.  I used the word "honestly" so many times that I'm not sure my mother would have trusted me.  Fortunately, a short time later, I learned through a drunken colleague at Bennigan's what I was doing wrong.  I made the necessary adjustments, and nine months later I was on my way to outside sales.  I still use the word from time to time, but it's on Gandhi rations.  Honestly...

Bill Manlo

QOW: What do you consider is the most valuable pearl of wisdom in sales?  

PROM NIGHT WITH BILL MANLO (Part III of III)

SMACK NOTE:  I apologize for the delay between part II and part III of this story.  I took a Holiday break but I'm back now.  I would recommend re-reading the last smack or two so things make sense.  Enjoy!

Mr. Clampett's ring of a thousand brass keys jingled his presence like a loose dog collar.  He sported a rusty-gray, Colonel Sanders mustache that was flanked on each side by lamb chop side burns.  The remainder of Mr. Clampett's bottom face was masked in pastures of burnt orange stubble.  His eyes were colored all-American: bloodshot red, white, and blue.  His reading glasses were thinly roped around his pig skin neck; and he wore dark blue Wranglers with a short sleeve khaki button up that was stained in barbecue sauce.  "Jed Clampett" was sewn unevenly in navy over a rectangular white patch on the shirt's front pocket.  If I had to guess his age, I'd say Mr. Clampett was somewhere between 35 and 55.  When he came down the stairs, he stopped short on the last step, holding a spit cup in one hand and our phone book in the other.

"God damn," he said.  "Ya'll mus be gettin pretty desprit to haul two suits down here to see me."  I stood paralyzed; still trying to swallow from my encounter with the gatekeeper.  Norm picked me up for a second time.  "You have no idea," he countered.  "Actually, I'm the kid's manager and thought he might like some company for the drive down.  Hope you don't mind."  Mr. Clampett snorted, spat defiantly, and snapped back, "Hell, it wouldn't matter if I did.  Would it?"  I felt myself subtly back pedaling towards the front door when he abruptly looked right at me.  "You the one I talkt to on the horn?"  I heard myself say "yes sir," but Bill Manlo was no longer in the room.  I was now Linus from Peanuts disguised in a middle class suit.  "Well, I guess ya didn't get dressed up for nothin, did you boy.  Com'on," he said and stomped back upstairs.  I wanted to call my Mom to tell her that I loved her but it was too late.

The room was an 8 X 8 sauna decorated in taxidermy.  The only circulation came from a metal, four inch oscillating desk fan.  The floor was littered with expired work orders, collection bills, empty cans of Keystone, and unfinished fast food.  Norm tucked himself in the corner on a greasy lazy boy, I got the rolling stool, and Mr. Clampett took the self made rocking chair.  It was game time.

"Well, Mr. Clampett." I began, "First of all, I just want you to thank you for your time this afternoon and the loyalty you've shown Virgin Yellow Pages over the years."  Mr. Clampett scoffed arrogantly at the staged flattery, refusing any sort of acknowledgment.  "So, did you shoot all these animals yourself Mr. Clampett?"  Again, he was silent.  He poured himself a glass of two thirds Jack one third Coke.

I could feel Norm's stupid country grin widening over my right shoulder.  "So, how's business treating you this year?  It's been a real hot summer but I'm sure you're not complaining, huh?"  Mr. Clampett rocked forward to a stop, then barked "Son, you sounded a hell of a lot better on the phone than you do in person.  Now are we gonna talk yellow pages, or we gonna talk about the god damn weather?"

"Of course, I'm sorry Mr. Clampett.  Let's take a look at what you got."  I shuffled frantically through the dossier of media studies, Internet print outs, and blown up ad specs that I had prepared the night before.  I could hear the theme from Jeopardy playing in my head while I searched.  One hundred twenty three painful seconds later, I found it.  "Here it is!" I exclaimed.  "That's great boy.  You want a cookie?" jabbed Mr. Clampett.  Shaken but not stirred, I kicked the insults from my cleats and dug back in.

"Jed, I have your program here, but, if you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions about your business first."  "Shoot," he replied tersely, still leaning forward and clearly disgusted that I had called him by his first name.

"Okay," I said, "Roughly, how many a/c jobs do you do each month?"

"None of your fucking business."

"'Kay. Fair enough.  What about the percentage of your repair business versus new installations?"

"Doh know."

"Mmm. That's interesting.  Okay.  Well, how much would you estimate your average job is worth?"

"Depenz."

"On what?"

Suddenly, Mr. Clampett exploded.  "On what they want. Shit!  What kinda dumb ass questions are these?!  Last year my contract was faxed to me.  This year I get you two clowns.  I don't want a bigger ad, I don't want more books, I don't want a damn web site, or any of the other bull crap ya'll are push'in.  Just tell me how much the damn thang went up this year before I kick both your asses outta here!"

At that point, my ass cheeks were practically conjoined.  I casually turned to Norm, out of Jed's sight line, bugged my eyes out, and mouthed the word "MAYDAY! MAYDAY!" Norm just smiled.  I would have to rescue myself this time.

"Sorry, Mr. Clampett.  I have your renewal rates right here."

The day before I had screen printed his advertising program off my computer along with the renewal rate.  Unfortunately, I was unaware at that time, that screen prints did not reveal or apply grandfathered discounts (discontinued discounts that customers are entitled to keep for loyalty purposes) to the listed renewal price.  Typically, the cost of yellow page advertising increases 4% to 6% each year.  Backwoods H&A was billing around $575/month. 

"If you want to keep everything the same for next year, the rate will be $1,238/month."

Jed knew it was a mistake before I did.  He burst into laughter.  It took two or three minutes, but finally, after catching his breath long enough to speak, he shouted "Boy.  You must have a bigger one than I do to say someth'in like that!"  Now I could hear Norm cracking up.  Then, with tears in his eyes, chortling between every other word, Jed asked, "Son, how in thee Sam hell did it go up that much?"  I had no clue, and all three of us knew it.  Therefore, I instinctively recited the only explanation that I was trained to use back on Planet Entry Sales.

"Distribution, cost of paper, and standard inflation." I said flaccidly.

The she-male downstairs must have thought I was the next Jeff Foxworthy from Mr. Clampett's reaction.  The guy was in stitches.  Eventually, his laughter sobered up, and Norm grabbed hold of the reigns.  Fortunately, Norm spoke red-neck fluently.  He educated both of us on grandfathered discounts, the reasons why Jed needed a larger ad, and the types of food that give him gas.  Norm bumped him a couple hundred bucks, and I wrote up the contract.

While I knocked out the paperwork, Norm spilled the beans to Mr. Clampett that he was my very first outside sales call.  Somehow, he didn't seem surprised.  As we made our exit, Jed slapped my back as if I was choking on a piece of steak, and said "Boy, I guess your cherry's officially been popped!"

"I certainly hope so" I replied in relief.  Norm and I got in the car and headed home.  At last, my prom night was over.

Bill Manlo

PS For the record, Michael Jordan only scored 16 points in his debut and Ted Williams struck out his first at bat in the Majors.

QOW:  For those in sales, how long did it take you to feel comfortable in outside sales?  A day, a month, six months, a year?  Be honest with yourself...

PROM NIGHT WITH BILL MANLO (Part II)

My manager's "big fucking deal" reaction was only mildly irritating.  It was obvious from our interview that I wouldn't be working for Richard Simmons.  He was limping into retirement, and didn't pretend to care.  Despite his indifference I was still juiced.  From my perspective tomorrow's appointment was like Ted Williams first at bat in the bigs or MJ's first jumper in the league- it was history.  This in mind I walked with a purpose back to my cubi-cell to prepare for the big day ahead.

Part of what separated me from the other freshmen back on Planet entry Sales was my advertising proposals.  They were concise, highly organized, multi-optioned; even colorful.  Supervanagers (smack def.- supervisors that call themselves managers) would marvel at their depth and ambition like school teachers at a science fair.  What they never detected was that my proposals were a product of my aversion to cold calling, not professional dedication.  I squandered the same efforts on copysheets, faxes, emails, and anything else that kept me off the phone.  However, this proposal was different.  Tomorrow was my outside sales debut which meant that it had to be perfect. 

Jed Clampett, the owner of BACKWOOODS HEATING & AIR, was a moderately aggressive yellow page advertiser.  His ad (dollar bill size) positioned him eighth in the San Angelo phone book under A/C CONTRACTORS.  He also advertised his business listing in bold print beneath various related headings (a/c equip. & supplies, heating contractors, water heaters, etc.).  In the neighboring directories Mr. Clampett only had one or two paid listings.  The account screamed opportunity.  My "A" proposal recommended the following: 

THE BACK COVER / FULL PAGE under A/C CONTRACTORS / LEADER ADS in all related headings / WHITE PAGE CORNER BILLBOARD / 15 PAGE WEBSITE with PREMIUM PLACEMENT / and QUARTER PAGE ADS in all the adjacent directories.

If Mr. Clampett went for it, the sale would be a $36,000 annual increase.  Seems reasonable, right?  After all you have to spend money to make money.  Surely he understood that.

The next morning I was up at 5:45.  San Angelo was a five hour drive from the office, so I needed to get an early start.  I shaved my beard down to its pre-pubescent state, brushed and flossed the grill twice, slicked my hair back into a flammable helmet of "extra hold" styling gel, and put on my dark navy, three piece Wall Street wanna-be suit.  I left the apartment about 7:15 am, but I had to run by the office to grab a few more directories.  When I arrived, my disgruntled manager was waiting for me.  "Thought I might tag along," he drawled.  "Can't wait," I replied.  He smirked and said, "Don't worry, I brought my Metamucil."  I piled up the phone books that I came for, cursed myself for being so stupid, and off we went. 

I fully expected that the trip down to San Angelo would be a beating, but it wasn't.  Although my boss didn't seem to give a shit about anything or anybody, he was a hell of a storyteller.  His anecdotes came to life in a way that I had never heard before.  I was hanging on every word, and, after five hours in the car with him, I was completely humbled.  The timing for self doubt couldn't have been worse.  We were sixty seconds from my first outside sales call, and I was experiencing sales impotence.  My manager and I arrived in the gravel parking lot of BACKWOODS H & A just past 2 o'clock.  Mr. Clampett's store front looked like the whorehouse from the TV mini-series Lonesome Dove.  It was two stories of rotted wood, peeled paint, and loose shutters.  "You ready?" asked my boss.  "I guess we're about to find out," I answered anxiously.

We were greeted by one of the casting extras from the movie Deliverance (if you haven't seen it, go rent it.  Great date movie.).  I made the first move.  "Hi there mam, my nam- "JAAAY-YEEED," she yelled.  I about pissed on myself.  "Therz sum kit in a suit down here.  I thank heh wanz tuh seh yuh."  "What the hell does he want?  Is he from the bank?" the voice shouted back.  She stared at me for an answer, and I stared back.  I was numb.  Mercifully, my boss intervened, "This is Bill Manlo, and I'm his manager, Norm Clavin, we're with Virgin Yellow Pages; here to see Mr. Clampett about his advertising in the San Angelo phone directory."  She relayed the message back upstairs and my prom date made his way down.

The conclusion (Part III) on Monday....

Bill Manlo

QOW:  When you lose control on a sales call during a manager ride along, do you want his/or her help, or want the manager to just keep quiet?

PROM NIGHT WITH BILL MANLO

Today's smack is actually a sales story.  I've been receiving an increasing number of requests from various readers to share a few of my experiences in the field.  In response, I decided to write about my very first outside sales call.  Most salespeople will tell you that they vaguely recall their sales debut.  Unfortunately, for me, I remember every last detail like it was yesterday.  However, before we cruise down Manlo lane, I should serve up some background to this story.

As I have alluded to in several smacks, I started my career in yellow pages.  I sold bold listings and quarter inch in-column ads with a headset and desktop for twelve months (the minimum time required for a promotion), before being jettisoned off Planet Entry Sales.  Typically, a sales rep that was promoted from an entry level position remained on the phone for another year or two.  The fundamental difference was that "T-Reps" (promoted telephone reps) earned bi weekly, and more importantly, uncapped commissions.  However, through auspicious timing, a couple of landmark sales (a gaming company and limo service), and some crafty self-promotion, I leapfrogged my way straight into outside sales.  I was the first rep in seven years to make that jump.  I sold myself as the "Kobe Bryant" of yellow pages, and managment bought it.  They gave me a company car, gas card, cell phone allowance, and a lot more money.  At that point I was doing shots with Mary Poppins in the clouds and whistling duets to Mr. Blue Bird on my shoulder.  My head swelled like Barry Bonds.  I was unstoppable, unflappable, incomparable, indefatigable- a legend in my own mind.

I was introduced to my new team in late August.  The average age in my unit was 50; I was 25, but it didn't matter.  Sales teams are about roles.  They played theirs, and I played mine.  Our division was between revenue breaks (assigned accounts, already advertising) which meant that I had two working options: cold call for new business, or waste time re-contacting canceled customers.  If you read my smack on cold calling, you know which plan I went with.  It took a few days of insults and scattered legal threats, but I finally tripped over an a/c contractor that actually wanted to reinstate his advertising.  SHOWTIME!!  I strutted like a lottery pick on draft day into my manager's cube to tell him the headline news.  "Guess what" I said.  He looked at me and burped, "What?"  With a little boy's enthusiasm, I recounted my phone conversation with the canceled advertiser, and told him that I set an appointment in San Angelo, TX for the following afternoon.  He took a swig of diet coke, cleared a pound of mucous from his throat, passed gas, muttered some lame joke about Metamusol, smiled sardonically and said, "Well, Bill.  I guess your prom night is tomorrow at 2 o'clock."

Part II on Monday....

Bill Manlo

QOW: Do you remember your first outside sales call?  If so, how did it turn out?

LAYOFF LOTTERY (Part II- The Briar Patch)

Rejection is never an easy pill to digest.  Whether it's in a relationship, on a job interview, applying for a Gap card (it still hurts to talk about), or hearing "maybe next year" on a sales call; being turned down always stings.  However, occasionally rejection can be inadvertently rewarding, like being laid off in corporate sales.

Progressivley, mega companies across the globe are paying salespeople tens of thousands of dollars to abandon their coveted cubicles for unemployment as they undergo fiscal face lifts.  In some circumstances the separation is voluntary, and in others, it is involuntary, but in both cases, sales reps are sent packing with really big checks.  The corporate vernacular for this divorce process varies from company to company; including creative names like:  de-selection, reorganization, and realignment.  It's hard to compete with such ingenuity, but I prefer the term- layoff lottery.  I know it sounds bizarre, but bear with me.  Here's how it works.

Every five to ten years, big businesses will experience the need to downsize.  It can be for a number of reasons:  profits are too low, the company stock is diving, cannibalization within the industry, or maybe a product was pulled off the market (i.e., Vioxx or Peter Pan Peanut Butter).  Regardless of the cause, when this occurs, salespeople (managers, reps & trainers) are the first to go.  It makes economic sense.  Excluding the puppeteers in corporate, we collectively make the most money.  Only now, we actually get compensation with our pink slips. 

As I've said in previous smacks, sales people are notoriously nomadic creatures.  We are professional mercenaries, tried and true.  Once our loan depleted 401(K)'s are vested, we're right back on Monster.Com updating our resumes for the next gig.  So try to imagine a sales rep's reaction, when he/or she discovers that his/or her employer is issuing mass layoffs with severance pay.  Ever read Brer Rabbit and the Briar Patch?  Only, it would go something like this:

PLEASE MR. CEO, PLEEEASE!  WHATEVA YOU DO, PLEEEEASE DON'T FORCE ME TO FIND ANOTHER SALES JOB!  PLEEEASE!!!  THE $50K IS NICE, BUT PLEEEEEEASE DON'T LET ME GO!  WHATEVA WILL I DO?!!

A couple weeks and a new ski boat later, we're selling for the competitor of the company that fired us.  I am sure these layoff lotteries benefit corporations in the long run, but it's hard to understand their logic sometimes.  Irrational or rational, you can bet your ass that I won't be questioning this trend. 

Bill Manlo

QOW:  If you were offered 6 months pay and full benefits in exchange for your current job, would you take it?

LAYOFF LOTTERY (Part I- Job Security)

In the sales industry, we ask a lot of questions.  We are like a mixed breed of detectives, attorneys, and blind dates.  We want to know who you are, what you do, and why you do it.  Then, we cross examine that information with a host of more specific inquiries to establish buying cause.  Somewhere in between, we find time to ask about your family, favorite sports team, and whether you like sushi.  The customer's answers help us identify his/or her personality type, expose buying signals, develop rapport, shape our proposal, and ultimately, close the sale.  While most of our questions reflect a clear purpose, some are derived from mere curiosity. 

As an example, when I sold yellow pages, I had the random habit of blurting out, "What is the biggest benefit to a career in _____?"  It sounded hokey, and on multiple occasions was misinterpreted as artificial interest (primarily by blue collar business men), but I needed to know.  It was like a private poll that I was taking on small business owners. 

Then, a few months ago, I was chatting in the waiting room of a neurologist's office with the librarian from Ghostbusters (at least, it looked like her); when she redirected the exact same question to me, involving sales. What is the best part about having a career in sales?  I had been surveyed about the advantages of sales before, but it had always originated from somebody born in the 20th century.  Given the circumstance, I felt respectfully compelled not to dampen her intrigue and enthusiasm with the crudely honest answer of capital gains.  Instead, I paused, smiled, and told her that job security was the biggest benefit in our profession.  Several weeks post our encounter, I think my answer bore more truth than I previously recognized.

Essentially, there are two types of job security in the modern work force: industry and company.  If you compared professional security with public stock, salespeople would be the primary shareholders of industry stock and own less than 1% of company stock.  This is because a sales rep can always find another job in sales, and, likewise, a company can always find another sales rep.  However, in corporate sales, this dynamic has evolved into something much more interesting.  Something I like to call the layoff lottery.  It is a true sales phenomenon and will be the focus of next week's smack- I promise.

Bill Manlo

QOW: What is the biggest benefit to a career in sales?   

TURNING TRICKS ON CUSTOMER BLVD.

SMACK NOTE: In my last entry, I mentioned that my next smack would be about sexual harassment.  However, after a few days rethinking that idea I decided to put it on the shelf.  Although it's a provacative topic to write about, sexual harassment isn't exclusive to sales.  My apologies...

It's frequently said in sales that success is driven by relationships.  Commitment, product knowledge, experience, and a positive attitude are nice, but a sales rep that cannot cultivate and maintain meaningful relationships has roughly the same values as an anorexic cow born without nipples.  However, earning a limb to perch yourself on in the customer's trust tree has never been more difficult.  Today's sales rep tangos with more competition (internal and external), more educated buyers, more product alternatives, more consumer skepticism, and significantly less face time than in years past.  So exactly how do modern salespeople manage?  The same way that we always have, through prostitution. We sell ourselves out to get in.

We agree when we disagree.  We feign interest in the uninteresting.  We laugh at bad jokes.  We compliment photos of ugly babies.  We spoil our customers on Starbuck's.  We do whatever it takes to gain their trust.  The funny thing is that many salespeople actually enjoy the prostitution in sales, including myself (so much so, that sometimes I think I worked a London corner in a previous life).  The way I see it, if it's a role that must be played in order to secure coveted relationships and more importantly my job, why not embrace it with open arms?

During the five years that I sold yellow pages I turned tricks left and right to build relationships.  I was an elephant on one appointment, and a donkey on the next.  I supported the Yankees in one office, and the Red Sox in another.  Some days I defended global warming, and other days I stood strong with the small business owner crying political conspiracy.  I'd eat vegetarian with a client on Monday, and then swallow a bloody steak with a different client on Tuesday.  Yes, these are exaggerations, (most are exaggerations) but you get the point.  Now, more than in any other era, salespeople have to sell out for their success.  In today's market a self-righteous rep is an unemployed rep. 

Presently, I work in pharmaceuticals, and the tradition continues.  I never knew how fascinating enlarged prostates, diabetes, hypertension, and chronic asthma could be.  Recently, my pimp, a.k.a. my manager, recommended that I sit in on a D.R.E. (digital rectal exam) with a key urologist in order to improve the relationship.  Will I do it?  Of course, because that's the kind of guy I am.

Bill Manlo

SUCCESS THROUGH SIN

Since I began writing SALES SMACK a few months ago, I've periodically commented on the various qualities that make a sales person successful.  Last Sunday, I smacked about the importance of a rep's self-confidence, and prior to that, I posted entries illuminating the advantages of good story telling, improvisation, and a greedy disposition.  However, the one attribute that I have not, and never will, include among the prerequisites to a fruitful career in sales (specifically corporate sales) is self-motivation.  The possession of a self ignited, self maintained, "fire in the belly", is rapidly becoming an archaic commodity in today's sales force.  Primarily, this is because corporate America all but suffocates salespeople with motivational incentives.  Reps are drowned in daily contests, YTD (year to date) ranking reports, gratuitous "success" emails, promotional bait, and incentive trips.  Who has time to breathe self-motivation?  Presently, sales managers are better suited hiring a deadly sinner than a self starter.  Give me a rep consumed with greed, pride, and envy first; then I'll worry about whether he/or she is self motivated.  I realize that this perspective may sound a little warped but allow me to explain.

In the five years that I sold yellow pages, there was always a "show and tell" strategy for motivating the sales force.  Management would call weekly meetings to show everyone which reps were killing the numbers and subsequently prod those reps into telling the rest of us how much commission they had reeled in that pay period.  Then, our esteemed GM would spend an hour handing out trophies, plaques, gift certificates, AMEX dollars, and artificial handshakes.  It was all too inspiring.  The truth is that our biweekly awards orgy was less about recognition and more about creating sales envy.  Humility at meetings was practically taboo.  Management wanted us to brandish our awards with pride; and then surreptitiously rejoiced as we sneaked peeks at each other's W2's.  The more greed and envy- beg your pardon- the more motivation circulating through our veins the better.  So did it work?  You bet your ass it did.  Our sales division brimmed with success.  We were a well oiled machine that ran on jealousy, avarice, and vanity.  For in corporate America, real world sins are sales world virtues.

Next smack, I will give some TLC to sexual harassment...

Bill Manlo

QOW:  Compared to other sales attributes, where do you rank the importance of self motivation in corporate sales?

Legends in Our Own Minds

In every profession, there is an essential skill, asset, or mentality that is needed for a person to be successful.  If you are pursuing a career in the kitchen, you need an acute set of taste buds.  If you intend on operating in the ER, you better have hands like Jerry Rice.  If you have wet dreams about Albert Einstein or teaching quantum physics at MIT, you should be razor sharp with numbers.  If your plan is to fill mom and dad with pride as an adult film star, you need three legs.  In sales, it's all about self-confidence, you have to be a legend in your own mind.  You need the belief that you are the guy or gal that actually can sell ice to an Eskimo, or sell sand in the desert.  Supreme self-confidence enables salespeople to penetrate through customer prejudices, accept nine No's for every Yes, and sell with conviction.

As salespeople, we face discrimination everyday.  Not because of our skin's pigmentation, the God we believe in, or whether we can use a urinal but through something more intimate like trust.  We are presumed liars until proven honest.  New customers automatically assume that our bones are morally hollow, that our eyes are windows to the soulless, and that our hearts are blackened by greed.  Some days this reputation is fair (when we're not at quota), and other days it is not (when we are at quota).  Regardless, a successful sales rep must maintain an internal swagger throughout every appointment.  Unwavering confidence in yourself and your product commands the customer's respect, and ultimately his/or her trust.  Still, even when you do earn the coveted trust of a prospective client, it doesn't guarantee a sale.  In fact, the majority of sales calls end in rejection.  This is another reason that self-confidence is imperative to a sales rep's makeup.

It doesn't matter how good, how experienced, or even how lucky a sales person is.  He/or she is going to lose more battles than he/or she will win.  Therefore, to be successful, salespeople must embrace a defensive back's mentality on the football field: when you get beat, have a short memory and get ready to play the next down.  If a rep allows customer rejection and self doubt to infect his/or her mind, that individual will naturally become deselected from the industry.  In order to have a productive career in sales, you must develop a static self-confidence that absorbs "no thank yous" like they were spilled milk.  The third, and final, benefit that self-confidence yields to salespeople, is a daily sense of conviction.

It is extremely difficult to trust a person that does not trust his/or her self.  Customer's smell a lack of confidence like a shark smells blood.  Bleed just a few drops of insecurity, and you're toast.  Typically, there are three forms of a self-confident rep:  those born with steel balls, those that develop steel balls, and those who pretend to have steel balls.  Regardless of which category you belong to, each type of rep can be successful permitting that the customer believes your confidence (or steel balls) is authentic.  Belief in yourself translates into belief in your product.  You can't sell with conviction if you aren't self assured.  Hell, I play the theme from, "The Natural", in my car on the way to big appointments.  You won't find any shame in my game.

Bill Manlo

QOW: What do you think is the most important ingredient to a successful career in sales?  Comments....

Taking a Sales Sabbatical

When young adults become untied from their educational commitments (complete or incomplete) and cast off into the turbulent waters of today's work force, they are inundated with immediate change.  Student loans stop lending and start collecting; sweat pants turn into slacks; backpacks become brief cases; beer becomes coffee; and the fresh air of an afternoon stroll through campus is replaced by the thick exhaust of morning traffic.  Beyond the aforementioned changes in lifestyle, there is a change in daily dialogue.  Instead of, "What's your major?" and "How's school?", you begin hearing, "What do you do?" or "Where do you work?".  It may seem insignificant; however, the initial reaction that people have to your profession can be quite telling.  For example, eight years ago, when I answered, "I'm doing inside sales for yellow page advertising.", people would replicate the sound that football fans make when a quarterback is destroyed by a three hundred pound defensive lineman (ooh!).  This, less than subtle, reaction, quickly enlightened me to the sales industry's bubble gum reputation of chewing people up and spitting them out.  In order to survive, I would need thick skin, resilience, determination, courage, and self motivation.  For other sales reps, it just takes a cool doctor.

To my knowledge, short term disability (STD) is still a relatively unabused privilege in corporate America, excluding salespeople.  However, in the sales world, STD is rampant.  A rep sprains an ankle?  There might be ligament damage, time for STD.  A rep feels under the weather?  It's the early signs of the bird flu, quarantine and short term.  Uncontrolled flatulence?  Could be symptomatic of colon cancer, short term right away.  Had a tough day?  You're suicidal, STD to the rescue.  It all sounds ridiculous, and it is.  Essentially, salespeople have exaggerated short term disability into a sales sabbatical.  Virtually, anytime that a rep wants extended time off (in addition to his/or her vacation), STD is an option.  Even more bizarre, is that management is not given, nor are they allowed, to inquire why a rep is on short term disability.  Everything is done in strict confidence between that sales person and human resources.  All that a rep needs, is an accomdating internist, a flexible conscience, a believable story, (that's the easy part, see "The Gift of Story Telling") and presto! - 2 weeks in the Bahamas at full pay.  I'm not sure which brain trust developed STD, but they deserve a big pat on the back.  Corporate America can only hope that the abused use of short term disability doesn't infect other departments the way it has in sales. 

Bill Manlo

QOW:  Do you think short term disability is abused in the sales industry? Comments....

The Sales Axis of Evil (Part III- Pay Plans)

Today's smack is part three of the Sales Axis of Evil.

In corporate sales, there are a handful of predictable irritants that periodically antagonize a sales person.  Some days it's a paperfall of administrative queries, other days it's being held captive for eight hours in a training igloo to learn the difference between a close ended and open ended question.  Over time, the majority of salespeople grow accustomed to these sorts of interruptions and discover ways to better manage the frustrations they can cause.  I am not one of those people.  Still, I recognize that every job has its drawbacks, so I take my medicine with everyone else.  However, there is one pill at the corporate pharmacy that I refuse to swallow- PAY PLANS.  Pay plans, specifically corporate pay plans, are the most pernicious component of the sales indu