My son has recently launched his fundraising career, door-to-door selling mangos. On no planet would I send my 10-nearly-11-year-old out on such a mission alone, so I armed him with a pen and paper, frog marched him around the neighbourhood, and lurked behind people’s postboxes while he went a-knocking.
Every time a door opened, he’d brace himself, slap on a smile, and start his spiel. Most often, the door would close, his shoulders would drop, and he would slump back down the drive where I’d be waiting with all the sales wisdom I (not a sales bone in my body) could muster:
Gotta kiss a lot of frogs before you get a prince! (Mu-um, I’m not gay!)
For every ten pitches, you’ll be lucky to get one sale! (Can we go home now?)
It didn’t help that he didn’t actually have any mangos to hand over. He had to convince people to cough up the cash in advance, to a 10-nearly-11-year-old stranger, promising delivery within a week.
My brilliant little man sold $175’s worth in one afternoon, and we staggered home to congratulate ourselves.
The story does not end there. (Well, actually, for one of his clients it does. See later.)
Our mango supplier let us down. It’s a long tale, and, as a typical cheque’s-in-the-mail one, not very interesting. The point is we’ve kept our faithful buyers on tenterhooks, salivating for their mangoes, for over three weeks.
Yesterday, a call came through from one of the buyer’s daughter, saying her mother has died in the interim, and so not to deliver to her when they do come.
Typically, my son’s response to this news was, ‘Meh.’
I, on the other hand, do not think I have emotional stamina enough for a sales career.