Read Online A Bridge of Years by Robert Charles Wilson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Charles Wilson
Tags: Science-Fiction
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memory.
She
was your conscience, Tom
thought.
But
morality—the morality of weapons research or the morality of
selling cars—had a way of twisting out of his grasp. He was twenty
minutes late when he arrived at the lot, but there were no buyers
waiting and nobody seemed to notice the time; the salesmen were
clustered around the Coke machine telling jokes. Tom had clocked in
and was standing helplessly on the lot watching cars roar
past—thinking about Barbara, thinking about the house—when Billy
Klein, the manager, eased up behind him and draped an arm over his
shoulder. Klein was wide all over his body, big shouldered and big
hipped and broad in the face; his smile radiated predatory vigor and
automatic, fake heartiness—an entirely carnivorous smile. Tom
turned and took a blast of Tic-Tac-scented breath. "Come with
me," Klein said. "I'll show you what selling really means."
It
was the first time since his interview that he had been allowed into
Klein's sanctuary, a glass-walled room that looked into three sales
offices where contracts were written up. Tom sat nervously in what
Klein called the customer chair, which was cut an inch or two lower
than an ordinary office chair; troublesome deals were often T.O.'d to
Klein, who felt he benefited from the psychological edge of gazing
down from a height. "Strange, but it works. The salespeople call
me 'sir' and practically shit themselves bowing out of the room. The
customer looks up and he sees me frowning at him—" He frowned.
"How do I look?"
Like
a constipated pit bull, Tom thought. "Very imposing."
"You
bet. And that's the point I want to make. If you're going to work out
in sales, Tom, you need an edge. You understand what I'm saying?
Any kind of edge. Maybe a different edge with different
customers. They come in and they're nervous, or they come in and
they're practically swaggering— they're going to make a killer deal
and fuck over this salesman —but either way, deep down, some part
of them is just a little bit scared. That's where your edge is. You
find that part and you work on it. If you can convince them you're
their friend, that's one way of doing it, because then they're
thinking, Great, I've got a guy on my side in this terrifying
place. Or if they're scared of you, you
work on that. You
say stuff like 'I don't think we can do business with that offer,
we'd be losing money,' and they swallow hard and jack up their bid.
Simple! But you need the edge. Otherwise you're leaving money on the
table every time. Listen."
Klein
punched a button on his desktop intercom. Tinny voices radiated from
it. Tom was bemused until he realized they were eavesdropping on the
salesroom behind him, where Chuck Alberni was writing up a deal for a
middle-aged man and his wife.
The
customer was protesting that he hadn't been offered enough on his
trade-in, an '87 Colt. Alberni said, "We're being as generous as
we can afford to be—I know you appreciate that. We're a little
overstocked right now and lot space is at a premium. But let's look
at the bright side. You can't beat the options package, and our
service contract is practically a model for the industry."
And
so on. Focusing the customer's attention on the car he obviously
wants, Klein said. "Of course, we'll make money on the financing
no matter what happens here. We could practically give him the
fucking car. His trade-in is very, very nice. But the point is that
you don't leave money on the table."
The
customer tendered another offer—"The best we can do right
now," he said. "That's pretty much my final bid."
Alberni
inspected the figure and said, "I'll tell you what. I'll take
this to the sales manager and see what he says. It might take some
luck, but I think we're getting close."
Alberni
stood up and left the room.
"You
see?" Klein said. "He's talking them up, but the
impression he gives is that he's doing them a favor. Always look
for the edge."
Alberni
came into Klein's office and sat down. He gave Tom
She
was your conscience, Tom
thought.
But
morality—the morality of weapons research or the morality of
selling cars—had a way of twisting out of his grasp. He was twenty
minutes late when he arrived at the lot, but there were no buyers
waiting and nobody seemed to notice the time; the salesmen were
clustered around the Coke machine telling jokes. Tom had clocked in
and was standing helplessly on the lot watching cars roar
past—thinking about Barbara, thinking about the house—when Billy
Klein, the manager, eased up behind him and draped an arm over his
shoulder. Klein was wide all over his body, big shouldered and big
hipped and broad in the face; his smile radiated predatory vigor and
automatic, fake heartiness—an entirely carnivorous smile. Tom
turned and took a blast of Tic-Tac-scented breath. "Come with
me," Klein said. "I'll show you what selling really means."
It
was the first time since his interview that he had been allowed into
Klein's sanctuary, a glass-walled room that looked into three sales
offices where contracts were written up. Tom sat nervously in what
Klein called the customer chair, which was cut an inch or two lower
than an ordinary office chair; troublesome deals were often T.O.'d to
Klein, who felt he benefited from the psychological edge of gazing
down from a height. "Strange, but it works. The salespeople call
me 'sir' and practically shit themselves bowing out of the room. The
customer looks up and he sees me frowning at him—" He frowned.
"How do I look?"
Like
a constipated pit bull, Tom thought. "Very imposing."
"You
bet. And that's the point I want to make. If you're going to work out
in sales, Tom, you need an edge. You understand what I'm saying?
Any kind of edge. Maybe a different edge with different
customers. They come in and they're nervous, or they come in and
they're practically swaggering— they're going to make a killer deal
and fuck over this salesman —but either way, deep down, some part
of them is just a little bit scared. That's where your edge is. You
find that part and you work on it. If you can convince them you're
their friend, that's one way of doing it, because then they're
thinking, Great, I've got a guy on my side in this terrifying
place. Or if they're scared of you, you
work on that. You
say stuff like 'I don't think we can do business with that offer,
we'd be losing money,' and they swallow hard and jack up their bid.
Simple! But you need the edge. Otherwise you're leaving money on the
table every time. Listen."
Klein
punched a button on his desktop intercom. Tinny voices radiated from
it. Tom was bemused until he realized they were eavesdropping on the
salesroom behind him, where Chuck Alberni was writing up a deal for a
middle-aged man and his wife.
The
customer was protesting that he hadn't been offered enough on his
trade-in, an '87 Colt. Alberni said, "We're being as generous as
we can afford to be—I know you appreciate that. We're a little
overstocked right now and lot space is at a premium. But let's look
at the bright side. You can't beat the options package, and our
service contract is practically a model for the industry."
And
so on. Focusing the customer's attention on the car he obviously
wants, Klein said. "Of course, we'll make money on the financing
no matter what happens here. We could practically give him the
fucking car. His trade-in is very, very nice. But the point is that
you don't leave money on the table."
The
customer tendered another offer—"The best we can do right
now," he said. "That's pretty much my final bid."
Alberni
inspected the figure and said, "I'll tell you what. I'll take
this to the sales manager and see what he says. It might take some
luck, but I think we're getting close."
Alberni
stood up and left the room.
"You
see?" Klein said. "He's talking them up, but the
impression he gives is that he's doing them a favor. Always look
for the edge."
Alberni
came into Klein's office and sat down. He gave Tom
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