I have been a salesman most of my life. You could say I started my sales career selling newspapers door to door in Spokane, Washington at the age of 14. The newspaper was the morning addition of the Spokesman Review which I would deliver no later than 5:00 a.m., seven days a week. I was given a base of customers and a paper route in my neighborhood but it was up to me to grow the business. And there was only one way to do it: knock on the doors of everyone in my neighborhood who wasn't already a subscriber. Now at 14 years of age the idea of knocking on a stranger's door was not exactly what I had in mind as a way to make pocket money. But my father said I would be fine. He told me knocking on doors was good for my soul.
Before I could start canvassing the neighborhood for new customers I had to receive proper training. I can still vividly remember my first sales class which took place in the newspaper hut with the other neighborhood paperboys. It was a wooden, one room A frame with a rickety porch and a small window facing the front. A fellow paperboy from the south told me it reminded him of his first schoolroom. It was the gathering place where we would meet every Saturday morning to deposit the money we had collected and determine our payment for the week. A paper lost, a collection left unpaid, or a quarter missing, weighed into the factor of how much one would get paid. The general rule of thumb was if you wanted to make more money you needed to get more customers. This is where our sales trainer came in.
He was a regular looking kind of guy, probably in his thirties, of average height, thinning blonde hair, and a bit thick around the middle. He looked, as I recall, like many Dads I knew, someone you would see on the baseball field coaching Little Leaguers. But in this case he was coaching youngsters about the finer art of selling newspapers. His name was Mr. Thompson.
"The first thing you have to do is find out what they like to read. If it is a man ask him about his favorite sport. Most men like sports and some men like certain sports more than others. Once you know what he likes you can began to sell him on our great sports section."
A hand went up immediately, "But Mr. Thompson, I don't know anything about the sport section of the newspaper." Good comment I thought.
"Ah," he said with a gleam in his eye, "that is EXACTLY the point. It is up to you to get to know the sports section so you can sell it. This boys," he paused for emphasis, "is what we call product knowledge. Before you can sell something you have to know WHAT you are selling."
"Other people may be interested in the front page news. It is up to you scan the paper so that when you knock on a door you can tell your customer why the Spokesman Review is such a fine newspaper with serious coverage on all the issues."
He continued telling us how we needed to ask lots of questions to determine what our future subscribers were interested in. Perhaps it was the crossword puzzle, or the funnies, it could be the national news, or simply local events. It was up to us to find out. He spent a good deal of time telling us that a surprising number of people read the obituaries. "People want to know who died in their community." I was afraid to ask but the term, obituary, or as he called them, "obits" was new to me. But then again, it was all new to me. My head was swimming with this information about how to sell papers to unsuspecting customers and I wasn't sure I liked it. Not only was I expected to deliver the paper, now I was supposed to know what was inside as well. "But don't be intimidated boys; you don't have to read the paper cover to cover, you just have to know the sections in brief. Know just enough to determine what your customer wants. This is called qualifying the customer."
The more Mr. Thompson talked the more animated he became. He told us story after story about his life in the news business and how much he liked it and how he was sure we would feel the same in due time. Looking back on it, this was my first experience in the presence of a true optimist.
"Boys, if at first you don't succeed, try, try, again." I knew that one; my father used it on me all the time. "Because if you are going to be successful in sales you have to be willing to deal with rejection. And you will get plenty of it. People will be rude. They will slam doors on you. They will tell you they are too busy to talk. They will let their dogs come to the screen door and growl. Some will simply hide when they see you coming. But don't be intimidated. You will get the sale if you want it bad enough. And how do I know this?" he asked raising his voice, "Because everyone--sooner or later-- will subscribe to a paper. Don't take no for an answer." Years later I would learn that Mr. Thompson was the first person to introduce to me the theory that NO is simply a complicated yes.
"Now you are probably all feeling overwhelmed and somewhat afraid.
Don't be. There is no need for fear. We are going to give you the tools
you need to win." Tools, I thought, that's all I need. The paper bag is
heavy enough.
"We are going to give you an incentive program that will reward you for
gaining new customers and it will also help you get new clients, and it
goes like this. . ." Mr. Thompson went on to describe how we could earn
all types of gifts by getting a certain number of new customers. We could
earn enough paper points to get a new bike, or a baseball bat and mitt, or
even a trip to Disneyland. We were given a brochure that described the
different types of gifts we could earn and how many new customers we
needed to get them. "Your job is to sell yourself to your neighbors. Tell
them you are trying to earn a trip to Disneyland and how their one sale
will put you that much closer to your goal."
And so begin my life of selling. The first couple of cold calls, from the steps leading up to the porch, to the ominous looking dark windows where I was hoping no one was home, to the cranky old lady who said she was just about to feed her dog when I interrupted her, were hard and scary. But then it got easier, the door would open and I would present myself. I was a pudgy fourteen year old with a bag of today's newspapers slung around my shoulder. I had a subscription form in one hand and the brochure describing the trip I was trying to win in the other. And I was ready and willing to discuss the news of the day.
"Hello Ma'am, I am the paperboy in your neighborhood. I am working my
way to Disneyland. Will you help me get there?"
It's not the destination. It's the journey.
