The Pitch
Today the road was perfect, dry enough for wagon wheels but not yet dusty. Ian, who had sold a few of the up-time plows that were in the fields, was delighted. He had a new product in the wagon that he said was a surefire-couldn’t-miss item, and he and Bert were going to revolutionize a different part of society, a part as yet untouched by the ongoing industrial and agricultural revolution. This far out in the country, a lot had not yet changed.
They checked off the inventory, made sure the two goats were firmly hitched to the back of the wagon, and slapped the mule into motion. Ian called “Up, Napoleon!” and laughed. Bert had no idea what it meant. Ian had picked up all kinds of up-timer phrases and ideas. But the mule’s name was Oliver.
Three days later they were still on the road. They had yet to make a sale. Oh, they’d had fair luck with other, smaller farm implements, and farm bulletins and pamphlets and plans. Dream Farms Holding Company lampwork glass beads were doing especially well. But they had sold no washing machine kits, which was the larger part of their inventory.
Ian was entirely upbeat. “Nothing to worry about. It takes time to develop a good pitch. A peddler hears ‘no’ a lot more often than he hears ‘yes.’ Once we sell the first one and word gets around, they’ll fly off the back of the wagon. So relax, enjoy the ride, and enjoy the day. Life is short. Get happy. Everything is going fine.” Ian was talking just to hear himself talk. Maybe he needed the pep talk as much as Bert did. Ian talked a lot, when he was inclined.
A smartass remark at the wrong time to the wrong people had cost Bert his tongue, years ago. While he could still make most sounds, he rarely said anything. He said even less now. He was grumpy. His butt hurt from sitting on the hard bench of the wagon, his feet hurt from walking, and his head hurt from the frustration of watching Ian make his pitch. In Bert’s humble opinion, nothing was more tightly fisted, closed minded, mulishly stubborn, or suspiciously grim than the people in the little towns and hamlets like the ones they kept passing through.
Ian was the salesman, or peddler, or drummer, or bullshitter, whatever anyone wanted to call it. He seemed to like everybody he met. That was fine.
Bert was security. He was the muscle. This meant Bert did all the work while Ian talked. Ian talked, and Bert fed the goats. Ian talked, and Bert unloaded things from the wagon. He put the demonstration model together, if they got that far, and he went for water, and did every other damn thing, like unhitching the mule and setting camp or handing Ian the right display model or illustration, or mug of beer. All the while, Ian talked. And it didn’t do a damn bit of good, as far as Bert could see.
Ian thought otherwise. He talked about weather, and war, and seed crops and hay, and tough times past and good times to come, and the hopes and fears of the average Joe. He avoided talk of the court, and politics, and religion, which of itself was a wonder, but probably a necessary one. He softened the waters for future sales of scissor cutters and hay rakes and hand tools and farm gadgets of all kinds, and he planted seeds of his own in fertile ground when he got the chance. But somehow or other, whenever he broached the subject of the washing machine he got stonewalled. Froze out. Stopped cold.
“We’ve got a laundry.” Some communities had a communal laundry.
“My wife washes my clothes. She does just fine.” Never tell a man to go ask his wife. About anything.
“We have a river right over there. What do we need that gadget for?”
“We just don’t need it.”
“It costs too much.”
“Are you saying my clothes are dirty? You sayin’ I stink?”
One time they had back-pedaled right out of town. Mostly they were treated fairly, and they were listened to, and they were given a polite “no.” Even when they were enthusiastically received and did well with the other products, they received a firm no when they got to the washing machine. Mostly Ian talked to the men, while the women looked out of doorways and held the children back. Bert, of course, stayed silent.
Sometimes Bert juggled, and often in the evening he and Ian played penny whistles, and drank beer at the local pub, and made a few more sales—and probably a lot more future sales, according to Ian. But they sold no washing machines. Twice they were allowed to set up and demonstrate, and women watched and men stood about with sarcastic expressions, and children teased the goats and had to be scolded by apologetic parents, but after all the fuss and bother and activity, nothing happened. Ian was untroubled by this. His plan was to travel out for two weeks, planting seeds, and then turn around and retrace their steps, reaping harvest.
Bert had his own opinion about the plan. But over the next week, they worked up an act, and Bert began to enjoy himself, and they were more and more allowed to set up the demonstration model.
They would pull the mule to a stop in the middle of some dozen or two buildings, sometimes haphazardly placed, sometimes organized into a tidy square or main street, and Ian would introduce himself and comment about the weather and pass on whatever news they had picked up in the last little hamlet. Bert would look about for the nearest mud puddle and promptly trip over his own feet and fall into it. Or he would drop something heavy on his toe when he was unloading the wagon, and pinch his fingers while setting up the demonstration model. Once a goat nipped his ass, and they worked it into the act. Ian talked, and Bert did shtick, and he always did his best to make it look unintentional. He pantomimed with increasing skill, and he exaggerated his muteness, and when people laughed it made him unreasonably happy. Ian seemed satisfied, too. They enjoyed themselves, they made a profit, and they moved on, but they sold no washing machines.
They passed through the last little hamlet on their itinerary one lazy spring afternoon and a few hours later settled into a campsite where they would remain for three days. They fished, they sparred, they honed their fighting skills, they practiced with their penny whistles, they slept and they talked. Well, Ian talked. They tethered the critters on good pasture, they rubbed the mule down and checked his hooves and legs, they patched and greased tack and harness and wagon wheels, and they generally passed the time. Then they did a fresh inventory, hitched up the mule, tied the goats to the wagon, and started back. They passed through the same little hamlet without stopping, and without comment or incident.
Late that afternoon they reached the next, and they were spotted long before they reached the first building. They drove into the middle of town and found the road blocked by two men; men they had drunk beer with and shared news and gossip with, men who had been friendly when they parted. Now these same men stood with arms folded and dark scowls on their faces, blocking the wagon. When Ian pulled Oliver to a halt, other men emerged from various buildings to close off retreat. More joined the ones in front. Grim-faced women stepped out from doorways, or looked out of windows, determined and resolute, hands on hips or holding heavy ladles. One woman had a beauty of a shiner around one eye. She had a definite attitude and a heavy iron fire poker in her fist. She glared not at Ian and Bert, but at one of the men, most likely her husband. One of the angriest looking men had a dark bruise along one cheek.
Ian tied off the reins and sat up straighter, wearing his poker face. Bert, if he’d had a tongue, would have bitten it. It took every effort and a really hard self-inflicted pinch on his ear to keep from grinning. Grinning, he was sure, could be bad. They were on the verge of a riot.
Ian, his eyes flat and his face blank, leaned slightly toward Bert and spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Looks like we’re about to make a sale.”
And Bert figured it was true, and he pinched his ear again and bravely kept even a hint of a smile from his face. Later, perhaps, it would make a great story. But not now. When a dozen or so angry men surround you, it’s best not to laugh just because they’re not wearing trousers. And it was clear as sunshine that none of these men were going to be wearing trousers again until those very trousers had been washed in a reasonably priced, assemble-it-yourself, newfangled, goat-powered washing machine.