The other day I got a good idea of what my son thinks of my profession. I’m a salesman. I’d like to think I’m not your every day “Tin-Man”…I strive for a high level of customer service and…Blah Blah Blah.
So the Fam and I are on vacation. We’re on a small island somewhere in the Caribbean. The pathways are lined with local folk selling a variety of trinkets. They’re relentless as they constantly call out to you trying to suck you in. My 17 year-old son is a great target. He’s 6’ 3”, weighs maybe a buck 50 and has no idea how to tell people “No” ...except of course when I’m asking him to mow the lawn. (sidebar: I'm told this is normal for a 17 year old. But just for the record, it doesn't make me feel any better. If memory serves me, when I was his age and my Dad would ask me to mow the lawn, I'd be doing cartwheels in gratitude for the opportunity to in some small way, repay him for the years of premium room and board he provided as well as the promise of higher education. I guess times have changed, or possibly my dementia is really kicking in.)
My son decides to go off and find a place to get a drink. He’s gone for a while and we begin to wonder where he might be. He finally shows up with his arms full of trinkets. He’s got hemp bracelets with beads, small wood boxes, some with his name carved in them incorrectly, some correctly. He’s a bit frantic as he tells us the “salesmen” wouldn’t leave him alone, they pulled him in and he owes them money now. We size up the situation and my wife hands him $10 and says, “Tell them this is all the money you have…period.” My son looks at us incredulously and says, “You want me to go back to the salesmen and negotiate with $10?” He goes back, completes his transaction and reports to us that the salesmen were not happy with him.
Throughout this whole episode, my son is constantly referring to the cat-calling street hagglers as “salesmen.” And he’s doing it innocently enough, but every time he says it, I get a sharp dual feeling of embarrassment and a needle in my side. I finally asked him, “So what do you think I do when I get off the train in NYC…camp out on a street corner with some company gear and scream out to people to sell them something?” I only got a slightly puzzled look back.
On our way out, it’s like walking through a mile long gauntlet of cat-calling street merchants. I tell my son, “Don’t look at them or say anything.” He comes up with a better plan. Every twenty or thirty feet he keeps repeating the same phrase, “I No Speak English, I Only Speak Russian.”
