customer base? And you have developed those marketing strategies and stuff?”
“Yeah?”
“You could freelance, you know. You don’t have to work for anyone else—you have a computer and a printer, and a phone… and you know the ropes. You could pick up the accounts that are too small for your old firm. Didn’t you say Pillory specialized in larger clients with fatter budgets?”
I nodded, twirling my tepid beer some more and noticing my blunt nails and the way they were all broken from rock climbing. How Reyna managed to climb and keep a good manicure, I’d never know. Not that I cared for painting my nails—I was too manly for that—but still, it boggled the mind. I drank some. Her suggestion wasn’t so bad, so I drank a bit more, thinking.
“Here,” Reyna said. “I’ll help you with your business plan. That’s what I’ve been doing a lot of at my old job. I’ll e-mail you this blank form….”
We drank some more beer and ate some stuffed hot peppers and chicken wings. My tongue burned, contaminated with a side order of that awful habanero sauce Reyna favored. I didn’t bitch, though, because she had some good ideas. Most people figure Reyna’s a slow child because of her bottle-red hair and tattoos, excessive gypsy jewelry, and dragon-lady crimson nails. The fact that she gets flustered when she has to speak in public doesn’t help her image, either. She doesn’t make a really great first impression, but when it comes to results, she can deliver.
She was doing good by me and I owed her one, and suddenly I realized how I could pay her back. I smiled and chased the potent hot sauce with more beer.
“Okay then. We’ll meet tomorrow at eleven at Starbucks and give it a whirl.”
T WO days later I was seated in Mr. Pillory’s client chair with a gold-rimmed cup of coffee on a tray before me, feeling distinctly aware of the fact that I was the one drinking the coffee and not serving it. Frank Yamada gave me an encouraging smile as he left, closing the door.
Pillory peered at me with his steady, gray gaze. His hair spilled in midnight streams down his shoulders, making his chiseled face seem even paler. “I hope you didn’t come with hopes of getting your job back, Mr. Gaudens,” he said, his fine-boned hands steepled before him.
I sipped some of the good coffee, set the cup down, and smiled. “No. I know you don’t go back on your decisions, Mr. Pillory. However, there are two other issues I’d like to bring up.”
His eyebrows rose, beckoning me to continue.
“First, I decided to go freelance. Now I realize you’ve taught me all I know in this field, and I wouldn’t dream of poaching your clients, so I have a proposal. Those smaller companies with a small advertising budget that can’t afford you—if you’d refer them to me, I’d greatly appreciate it. In turn, when I run into a client too big for me to handle, I’ll refer him or her to you.”
At that point I shut up and rested my hands in my lap. Silence was golden, and I knew he wouldn’t take me seriously if I weren’t at my professional best. I was selling something, and you can’t sell if you talk all the time. You have to give them space to think.
One minute doesn’t sound like a lot, but when you’re sitting in somebody’s office, it drags on for eternity. A typical American salesman can’t shut up for more than six seconds on average; I was doing pretty well so far.
Eventually I saw him stir.
“Do you have anything worked out, or is this just an idea right now?”
I reached for a small, faux-leather portfolio and pulled out one of those paper folders with pockets. It had my business card in it and a flyer describing the services of WG Guerilla Marketing. I let him look it over. “I also brought my business plan,” I said.
He extended his hand, his eyes still on the graphic layout of my promotional materials.
I handed the bound, fifty-page business plan across the table, mentioning in an
“Yeah?”
“You could freelance, you know. You don’t have to work for anyone else—you have a computer and a printer, and a phone… and you know the ropes. You could pick up the accounts that are too small for your old firm. Didn’t you say Pillory specialized in larger clients with fatter budgets?”
I nodded, twirling my tepid beer some more and noticing my blunt nails and the way they were all broken from rock climbing. How Reyna managed to climb and keep a good manicure, I’d never know. Not that I cared for painting my nails—I was too manly for that—but still, it boggled the mind. I drank some. Her suggestion wasn’t so bad, so I drank a bit more, thinking.
“Here,” Reyna said. “I’ll help you with your business plan. That’s what I’ve been doing a lot of at my old job. I’ll e-mail you this blank form….”
We drank some more beer and ate some stuffed hot peppers and chicken wings. My tongue burned, contaminated with a side order of that awful habanero sauce Reyna favored. I didn’t bitch, though, because she had some good ideas. Most people figure Reyna’s a slow child because of her bottle-red hair and tattoos, excessive gypsy jewelry, and dragon-lady crimson nails. The fact that she gets flustered when she has to speak in public doesn’t help her image, either. She doesn’t make a really great first impression, but when it comes to results, she can deliver.
She was doing good by me and I owed her one, and suddenly I realized how I could pay her back. I smiled and chased the potent hot sauce with more beer.
“Okay then. We’ll meet tomorrow at eleven at Starbucks and give it a whirl.”
T WO days later I was seated in Mr. Pillory’s client chair with a gold-rimmed cup of coffee on a tray before me, feeling distinctly aware of the fact that I was the one drinking the coffee and not serving it. Frank Yamada gave me an encouraging smile as he left, closing the door.
Pillory peered at me with his steady, gray gaze. His hair spilled in midnight streams down his shoulders, making his chiseled face seem even paler. “I hope you didn’t come with hopes of getting your job back, Mr. Gaudens,” he said, his fine-boned hands steepled before him.
I sipped some of the good coffee, set the cup down, and smiled. “No. I know you don’t go back on your decisions, Mr. Pillory. However, there are two other issues I’d like to bring up.”
His eyebrows rose, beckoning me to continue.
“First, I decided to go freelance. Now I realize you’ve taught me all I know in this field, and I wouldn’t dream of poaching your clients, so I have a proposal. Those smaller companies with a small advertising budget that can’t afford you—if you’d refer them to me, I’d greatly appreciate it. In turn, when I run into a client too big for me to handle, I’ll refer him or her to you.”
At that point I shut up and rested my hands in my lap. Silence was golden, and I knew he wouldn’t take me seriously if I weren’t at my professional best. I was selling something, and you can’t sell if you talk all the time. You have to give them space to think.
One minute doesn’t sound like a lot, but when you’re sitting in somebody’s office, it drags on for eternity. A typical American salesman can’t shut up for more than six seconds on average; I was doing pretty well so far.
Eventually I saw him stir.
“Do you have anything worked out, or is this just an idea right now?”
I reached for a small, faux-leather portfolio and pulled out one of those paper folders with pockets. It had my business card in it and a flyer describing the services of WG Guerilla Marketing. I let him look it over. “I also brought my business plan,” I said.
He extended his hand, his eyes still on the graphic layout of my promotional materials.
I handed the bound, fifty-page business plan across the table, mentioning in an
Similar Books
