CockSparrow
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Jul 4, 2022
- Posts
- 285
Fifty years ago I used to have friend. George. George was a supersalesman. He could sell anything to anyone. Well… almost.
When I first met George he was selling cars. Mainly high-spec low-mileage Audis and BMWs.
‘If someone’s buying a Ford or a Toyota, they’ll fight you ‘til the last dollar,’ he told me. ‘But people who buy Audis and BMWs don’t really care about the price. Not really.’
After cars, George moved on to selling small planes. Gulfstreams, Bombardiers, Cessnas, and the like. And then he turned his attention to selling fine art.
One day George phoned and invited me to lunch. He had a chap he wanted me to meet. I knew there’d be a catch. But I went anyway.
We went to an upmarket, out-of-the-way steakhouse with an impressive wine list.
At the table next to us there were six women of a certain age and type. They seemed to be having a sales meeting of some sort. They also seemed to be watching their corporeal (as opposed to financial) figures. As far as I could tell, their luncheon fare was restricted to champagne – Bollinger as I recall – and bread sticks.
It took George just half an hour to arrange for our two tables to be joined together, and for the women’s chairs to be interspersed with our own – although the women continued to eschew anything more substantial than Bollinger and bread sticks.
After lunch, all nine of us strolled a few hundred yards down the street and around a couple of corners to a flat – which I assume belonged to one of the women. There was much conversation; much laughter; and more Bollinger. And then one of the women enquired where George was.
It was Bill, the chap I had been summoned to meet, who first detected the squealing and grunting sounds coming from a coat closet. He put his ear to the door, and then smiled. And then he held a finger up to his lips. We all hushed and dispersed ourselves behind items of furniture.
A few minutes later, the closet door opened. Just an inch or so. And then a little more. And then further still. And then George appeared – a puzzled look upon his face.
We waited until George and the missing woman emerged into the ‘empty’ room before the rest of us revealed ourselves and offered a round of applause. George took a gracious bow. The woman was not so appreciative of our admiration. She blushed and hastily attempted to rearrange her clothing.
When I first met George he was selling cars. Mainly high-spec low-mileage Audis and BMWs.
‘If someone’s buying a Ford or a Toyota, they’ll fight you ‘til the last dollar,’ he told me. ‘But people who buy Audis and BMWs don’t really care about the price. Not really.’
After cars, George moved on to selling small planes. Gulfstreams, Bombardiers, Cessnas, and the like. And then he turned his attention to selling fine art.
One day George phoned and invited me to lunch. He had a chap he wanted me to meet. I knew there’d be a catch. But I went anyway.
We went to an upmarket, out-of-the-way steakhouse with an impressive wine list.
At the table next to us there were six women of a certain age and type. They seemed to be having a sales meeting of some sort. They also seemed to be watching their corporeal (as opposed to financial) figures. As far as I could tell, their luncheon fare was restricted to champagne – Bollinger as I recall – and bread sticks.
It took George just half an hour to arrange for our two tables to be joined together, and for the women’s chairs to be interspersed with our own – although the women continued to eschew anything more substantial than Bollinger and bread sticks.
After lunch, all nine of us strolled a few hundred yards down the street and around a couple of corners to a flat – which I assume belonged to one of the women. There was much conversation; much laughter; and more Bollinger. And then one of the women enquired where George was.
It was Bill, the chap I had been summoned to meet, who first detected the squealing and grunting sounds coming from a coat closet. He put his ear to the door, and then smiled. And then he held a finger up to his lips. We all hushed and dispersed ourselves behind items of furniture.
A few minutes later, the closet door opened. Just an inch or so. And then a little more. And then further still. And then George appeared – a puzzled look upon his face.
We waited until George and the missing woman emerged into the ‘empty’ room before the rest of us revealed ourselves and offered a round of applause. George took a gracious bow. The woman was not so appreciative of our admiration. She blushed and hastily attempted to rearrange her clothing.
