Chump Change (11 page)

S
USAN
B
OLKE’S PERFUME WAS AS SEXY AS HER VOICE.
S
HE HAD
a clipboard and protruding nipples and a frizzy hair style like the girl in the vaginal spray ad on TV. Everybody who worked at DMI dressed as if they were applying for a job. The men had double-breasted suits, and the women all wore panty hose and lots of jewelry.

Susan and I sat down on matching white leather love seats in the Dream Mate International lobby, and she explained the commission plan and the $250 per week guarantee that the company provided for the first two weeks.

She smiled approvingly when I put out my cigarette, and told me about the 3-day training to fully learn the DMI presentation. Everything was based on my interview with Mr. Berkhardt. Berkhardt made the hiring decisions. She gave me compatibility statistics on the science of video dat
ing and used the word demographics five or six times. I liked the $250 guarantee.

We chatted for a few more minutes, with Susan making occasional notes and checking off little boxes on her clipboard form. I noticed that my hands were shaking too much, and that I had yellow stains on my fingers from nicotine. She could see that I was self-conscious about the hands, but she kept smiling to put me at ease. Finally, I was given my own clipboard with a job application and a cheap pen. Then Susan left.

As I filled out the form, I watched a big TV mounted into the wall above the reception desk. It was playing dating interview videos of available single adults talking about their careers and their likes and dislikes. The volume was up too high. The people in the videos were normal and sincere sounding. DMI was in pursuit of the affluent, upper middle-income customer.

On most of the questions, I lied, or got impatient, or skipped the question all together. Filling it out was hard, because of my rattling fingers.

By the end of the form, my mind had convinced itself that I was a chump for driving all the way from Hollywood to compete in a wardrobe contest. I was out of my league and my form looked like it had been completed by a six-year-old. My father’s dog was imprisoned in the car in the parking lot with the windows up, and I was having a vision of him eating the seat covers in a display of meanness for being left alone too long.

I decided to leave and call some of the telemarketing ads in the
L.A. Times.
Before I could return the clipboard to Susan, Morgan Berkhardt had come out of his office and was on his way toward me.

He looked like the boss. His suit was double-breasted and he had a big football player neck, and white teeth and a redstone college graduation ring. He introduced himself and we shook hands. He took my completed job application and began going over my answers.

While he studied the questionnaire, I was distracted by a new client movie starting on the lobby TV. This one was different, not a dating video. It was of a marriage. I was close enough to the set to hear the announcer’s voice-over. “Every day, three-hundred and sixty five days a year, another Dream Mate International client is making a lifelong commitment of love. You could be too. Join DMI today.”

Morgan Berkhardt finished reading my application and saw me watching the video. “Impressive marketing concept, isn’t it, Mr. Dante?”

“Right! Imaginative too,” I heard my ass-kissing mouth reply.

“Please come with me.” I followed him across a floral carpet, to a fancy oak door with a brass handle that lead into his office. We went in and sat down. He, on the other side of a big oak desk, and I, in a small, thin-legged armchair.

On the shelves behind Berkhardt’s leather chair were books and packaged motivational tape programs. I’d read sales and self-help stuff at my first visit to St. Joseph of Cupertino’s recovery ward, because there’d been nothing else to do after ten o’clock when they shut off the TV. For weeks, I’d been unable to sleep, so I’d stay up reading all night. Tommy Hopkins. Og Mandino. Charles Roth.

I could see that Berkhardt was a big Brian Tracy fan. Several of Brian’s tape programs were in Berkhardt’s collection on the
shelf. Tracy stresses boldness as a success key, so I decided to be assumptive in my interview with Morgan Berkhardt.

“Bruno,” he said looking up from my application, “Can I call you Bruno?”

“Sure. Can I call you Morgan?”

“If you’d like.”

“I see you’re a Brian Tracy fan, Morgan?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I thought
The Psychology of Success
was an important work. I like his systematic approach to personal growth.”

“I’m impressed, Bruno. Very few of the people that interview in this office know Brian Tracy’s material.”

“I’m not surprised, Morgan. It’s been my observation that the majority, the run of the mill, the average, the sheep on the street and the piss-poor are too lazy to get off their fat uncommitted asses and do what it takes to be successful. Personal growth requires a commitment, we both know that. One must grasp life by the vitals and yank. Personally, I’ve made inspired decisions based on the information in some of those books. I want to be a winner.”

“Glad to hear it, Bruno.”

“Darn right. Absolutely.”

“By the way, you must have filled in some incorrect dates here in the employment history section. There are some inconsistencies in your information.”

“I apologize for that oversight, Morgan.”

“I’m a little confused. You were in telemarketing with the same company for twelve years, correct?”

“Correct, Morgan. Same job. They went tits-up so I
relocated here to Los Angeles. New city, new opportunities. Fresh start. Taking the decisive approach.”

“A good work history is important. What did you sell at Omni Incorporated?”

“Computer products. Diskettes. Mag Tape. Data processing supplies.”

“Twelve years at one position is a major commitment.”

“Thanks, Morgan. I pride myself on my loyalty, dependability and job execution. I feel I’m a go-getter. Is that what you’re looking for at DIM?”

“DMI. You’re a writer, too?”

“Yes, Morgan.” My fucking hands were beginning to shake uncontrollably, so I anchored one under my thigh and clamped the other one under an arm pit.

“Interesting. What type of things do you write?”

“Poems, Morgan. But I gave it up when I decided to channel all my career energy into sales and marketing.”

“Books of poems?”

“No. Excessive, self indulgent odds and ends, mostly.”

“Were any of your poems published?”

“Yes. In magazines and periodicals. But it’s been a long time since I’ve had anything in print.”

“Not a lot of millionaire poets, are there?”

“That’s why I’m here, Morgan.”

“Although you have a good telephone sales record, you really have no work background for the type of position DMI is offering.”

“I see it differently, Morgan. I’m here to lock on to a career where I can distinguish myself and become financially
independent. My background shows I’m highly motivated and I bust my ass. I take no prisoners when I’m working on the phone, and I can slam a mooch with the best of ‘em. Frankly speaking, I’m sure that I’m the type of person you’re looking for to join the DMI team.”

“According to the dates on your application you were a writer for fifteen years. A poet.”

“Okay. Correct.”

“That shows a total of twenty-seven years of employment. Do you see why I’m confused.”

“I made a mistake, for chrissake. I get impatient sometimes when I’m completing complicated forms. I don’t lie on job applications. Am I being execrated here? Are you implying that I falsify information?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“You seem nervous? Aggressiveness is a good quality, but I need to do my job, Bruno. I have several more questions.”

I was suddenly on my feet, unable to stop myself. “I want to get to the point here, Morgan, because I’m anxious not to lose time in my job search en route to my success. Bottom line, I could sell this deal with my eyes shut and whistle ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ out my asshole at the same time. I’m an A-1 candidate.”

“Please sit down!”

“Let’s cut to the chase. Yes or no? When can I start?”

“Will you sit down and follow direction!”

“What about today?”

He got to his feet. “Look, I’m losing my patience.”

I sat down. My shirt was wet with sweat and my stomach
was in a knot. “I’m trying to make an impression here,” I said. “I want this job.”

Before I left Berkhardt’s office, he told me that he would make a decision about who he was hiring later that day, and that Susan Bolke would call me back at the number listed on my job application if I had been accepted.

It was past dark when I got back to my room at the Starburst Motel. I had over medicated my nerves with two pints of Jack on the way back, after stopping at a used bookstore on Venice Boulevard.

I could tell that Amy had been in the room. Rocco knew it too. He sniffed and snorted and wouldn’t sit down.

Opening the closet door, I looked on the floor for her plastic bag of clothes. It was gone.

In the bathroom, there was a note stuck to the mirror with a glob of lipstick. The words appeared to be lyrics from a song from somewhere.

Bruno…

You can drag your laundry down First Avenue

Then spend some time in your drugstore mind

It’s not what you think, it’s what you do

I’ve got a pair of socks I like better than you.

Thanks, but no thanks,

Amy

The light on my phone was blinking, so I went up to the office to find out who had called.

The night manager handed me the pink message slip. It was from Susan Bolke. I read the words and let my mind
re-smell her perfume and see her fat nipples against her sheer blouse.

I was to report at Dream Mates International the next morning at 8:00 a.m. for a two-day training. I had the job. I went back to my room and watched TV.

I
T
WAS W
EDNESDAY MORNING, TWO WEEKS BEFORE
Christmas. The conference table in the DMI Training Room was full. A dozen of us. Mostly men. We were told that it would take two twelve-hour days to learn to sell the program. I was guaranteed a paycheck for the next two Fridays, and the company would be paying for lunch and dinner, which would be brought in.

Berkhardt’s job was to show us DMI’s success formula. He seemed to think that I had potential, because I was quick to grasp the material and asked a lot of questions.

Rocco stayed in the Dart. I parked it in the shade of a tree and lowered the front windows down a few inches. I’d walk him during the breaks, with my styrofoam coffee cup filled with Ralph’s plain-wrap Vodka. I’d slam gulps while he pissed on the shrubs. The first afternoon, as I was securing his leash, he surprised me with a kiss. A big,
wet lick across my nose and cheek. He was starting to like me.

On our walk, we passed outside the corner of the building where Ms. Bolke’s desk was located. She saw us through the glass wall and waved, a kind of “hiya schmuck” acknowledgement she reserved for the male trainees and lowlifes that earned less than 50 grand a year. I waved back.

On the second day, Berkhardt brought Mitch Glickman into the conference room so he could show the trainees photocopies of Mitch’s last few paychecks. Five and six and seven thousand for two weeks work. $175K per year. Mitch was the top guy at the Westchester office, with his own personal sales team of six men. He’d been with the company three years. He had a big grin and contempt for everybody.

That night, at the end of the course, at Berkhardt’s instructions, Mitch invited some of the male trainees to a live nude bar on Century Boulevard to celebrate. I locked Rocco in the Dart and rode with Mitch in his black Porsche. During my probationary period, I’d be assigned to Mitch’s sales team.

He paid for everything—admission
and
liquor. After a few drinks, the others had gone and Mitch was drunk. He confided to me how he had been offered the position as Franchise Manager—first, before Berkhardt—and had turned it down, and how Susan Bolke had given him a handjob in the supplies closet at the DMI Thanksgiving party. It was important to Mitch to let me know that he owned four condos and a shopping center, and that his girlfriend was once a centerfold.

While we talked, he was getting up every few minutes to horn cocaine in the men’s room. He’d come back to sit down
and sniff and wipe his nose, then say something cool to the dancer at our end of the bar, and proceed to tell me more about himself. On our way out, he tipped the girl bringing drinks a hundred dollar bill. I noted to myself that Mitch was a chump and good for a couple hundred anytime I needed it.

DMI contacted all its sales leads during the day, over the telephone; and each counselor would have two sales demos per evening.

In the afternoon, all the counselors would attend a sales meeting at 4:30, then pick up their leads. Berkhardt gave an extended pep talk rap about haves and have-nots and had each counselor declare which category he belonged in. When he came to me, I put my hand up. I was in all the way.

That night, my first assignment was a cook at Denny’s Restaurant. He turned out to be a no-show. I called the DMI office from a phone stand at the restaurant, and Berkhardt instructed me to report early for the second lead.

That was Ms. Tara Kerns of Redondo Beach. She lived in a five-year-old condominium complex with a Burger King on the corner and a Nissan dealer across the street. I remembered the old Datsun slogan, “WE ARE DRIVEN” and felt inspired.

After I parked the car, I hammered a few gulps of my Ralph’s Vodka, then splashed on some cologne to cover the smell of the booze. Leaving Rocco a few broken Oreos in his bowl, I locked the car and got my DMI demo kit out of the trunk. It consisted of a portable VCR and a case of videos featuring prospective male clients. I left the player behind, because on the lead form the box, “HAS OWN VCR” had been checked “YES.”

Ms. Kerns’ lead form said she fell into the $60/$75K a year income area, which easily put her into the “A” category. She owned her own uniform shop and had been divorced for 11 years. According to another checked box on the lead form, Tara liked sports and had all three major credit cards. It was just sundown when I knocked on the door to condo number one-twenty-eight.

The woman that opened the door was 6′3″ in her heels and weighed at least 225. She had bright red hair and red lipstick and feet as big as a man’s. My head came to just below her chin as we stood facing each other.

Coming early was lucky. As it turned out, Tara was five fingers down a fifth of Walker’s Black label. She had a glass in her hand and, in the background, I could see the open bottle and a dish full of ice on the wet bar. The booze gave the big woman a kind of sweetness and ease that some people get with drinks. I knew the stage. From where she was, you usually get drunk and quiet, or drunk-and-don’t-give-a-shit. After I told her who I was and said I was early, she invited me in.

We sat down, I on her couch and Tara across in a chair. I noticed that she had a five-gallon, old-fashioned glass water-jug half-filled with change. All silver. No pennies. She had been paying bills because her checkbook was on the table with several stamped envelopes. A good sign.

I put my demo kit on the floor by the coffee table. Through the glass top I could see a sexy lingerie catalog under the table.
A Wheel of Fortune
program was blasting on the TV. The noise was intrusive. A fat, asshole lady was winning and screaming.

“How about a drink?” Tara asked.

“Thanks. Yes, I don’t mind,” I said back, knowing it was a violation of DMI conduct requirements to use alcohol with a client. “By the way, do you think it’d be okay if we turned down the TV? I think your dating future will be more interesting.”

She clicked the sound down with the remote control and made an accommodating face. “Better?” she asked.

I said, “Thanks.”

While Tara went to the kitchen to get my drink, I opened my kit with the videos of the ten most affluent male clients. I’d watched them all in the training. In my mind, I had already picked two that featured big ex-jocks, knowing they would be perfect for Tara Kerns.

She came back and set my drink down. Scotch with ice, not too much ice.

Maintaining professionalism is a big deal with DMI, and I wanted to do a good job. Pulling the Compatibility Questionnaire from my case, I attached it to a clipboard. While I was filling in her name and address on the form, Tara switched the TV channel to a sitcom and jacked-up the sound.

“No mama’s boys,” she said, half snatching the board with the paper. Then she clicked the sound down again.

“Okay,” I said.

“I’ve been burned and I know what I want. What about male clients that are wimps or pansies? How would a prospective female customer discover that from watching a video?”

I took a hit from my drink. “I don’t know,” I said.

“No mama’s boys or pansies, okay?”

“We don’t label them like that,” I said. Then I heard my mouth announce, “Why not try a biker bar? You can find all the
parolees and scumbags you want. My company specializes in compatible single adults.”

“You don’t have to be rude. You guys charge up the behind. I just want to get my money’s worth. What if I start dating someone and discover that we’re incompatible? What then?”

“Marry ‘em. That’s what I did.”

She set her drink down and looked me in the eye for several seconds. “How long have you been a dating service salesman,” she asked.

“You mean how long have I been a counselor for Dream Mates International?”

“Yes. Doing this. How long?”

“Twenty minutes.”

We both laughed.

I understood some things about Tara. I have sorted self-made women into two kinds: the first is the kind that feels she has to beat and defeat all comers, especially men, and prove how capable she is. It’s always a survival match. Kind number two is the type that has achieved some success because of being a good person and busting her ass like everybody else, and getting lucky the way we do sometimes. Tara, I was sure, was the second kind. Big and self-conscious and affectionate, like a red-lipped Irish Setter. Her toughness was air.

Drinking loosened her up, so I decided to deal with her in an up-front, straight-forward way and get right down to business. But our questionnaire bored her, and I could tell that she’d had too much whiskey. She now appeared to be leering at me and checking me out.

As a kid, I remember peeling the paper off a stick of Juicy Fruit gum and not chewing it, but running the surface against
the wetness of my tongue until all the sugar was dissipated, then turning it over and doing the same thing on the other side. Knowing the sweetness was there, but delaying the pleasure as long as possible. I was a stick of gum to Tara Kerns.

I needed the job. I had a guaranteed check coming on Friday. I had a sick dog to feed, and keeping a place to sleep other than my Dart was a good idea. Tara’s checkbook was still open on the table. I was afraid if I fucked her I would lose the sale. I tried to pull the presentation together.

We finished the questionnaire, but I could tell by her answers that my client control had turned to shit. Her interest level wasn’t high at all now, and I’d allowed the deal to get off track with so many drinks. “Let’s watch a video,” I said.

“In a minute,” she said, getting up, smiling, showing her big white teeth with lipstick stains, slurring her words. “I’ll top up our glasses first.”

I had a movie of Philip Kessler plugged in on the TV when she came back. On the label of the video box, they tell you the client’s name and a few outstanding characteristics. Phil was 6′7″ and weighed three hundred pounds. A dentist and a divorcee.

Tara handed me a half-full glass of whiskey and ice and sat down next to me on the couch, instead of on her chair.

“You’re sloshed,” I said.

“Yes, I am.”

“I’m trying to do my job. This is my first presentation. Either we do business, or I leave.”

“Okay. I do business all day. Business is fine.”

“I want you to see someone who’s your physical type, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, still leering.

The video started with Philip describing himself. I’d forgotten that Phil was arrogant and bald. “My name is Philip Kessler. Doctor Philip Kessler. I’m thirty-eight years old and I like movies and dancing and I was an avid tennis player until my knee injury…ha, ha…I own my own boat docked in Marina del Rey, and I spend my spare time sailing…I have a condo and a ski-lodge at Mammoth…”

I stopped the video with the remote. Tara looked disgusted. “What do you think?” I asked.

Her slurring was heavier. “Mama’s boy…Rich mama’s boy.”

Suddenly I hated the masquerade of the whole deal. I knew I’d blown it and I didn’t care. The stupidity of trying to hustle this woman into a dating membership had become too much trouble.

Her best sexual features were her tits, big and sloppy. Ten pounds each. At least I’d get fucked. I talked to her, but I was looking at her tits. “Do you want to put your membership fee on your credit card or do you want to pay by check?”

“Credit card,” she slurped back.

When we began fucking, she called me angel-dick but was snoring thirty seconds after I put it in.