An Elon Musk Fantasy

A discordant melody is heard, played upon a hundred honking cars from the traffic outside.

Before us is the unemployment office — a labyrinth of angular cubicles.

Only the white glow of the pale ceiling lights upon the waiting area forestage; the surrounding area shows a gloomy haze of blue.

As a spotlight light appears, we see a long line of tired people. An air of the dream clings to the place, a dream rising out of reality.

Since I lost my high paying IT job, I had worked 55 jobs. Daily labor, mostly, unloading 100lb potato sacks from a railroad car.

I also did telemarketing, delivered flyers on doorsteps, and asked women to smell scented wash soap.

The desperate men and women wearing a blue tweet pin on their clothes were prime targets for those with a suitcase and a song.

“Hello, my name is Elon Musk. I am the president of sales for the Combined Insurance Company. How long have you been looking for a job?”

He wore a patterned vest and vibrant suspenders that held up a pair of black trousers. It was an easy answer.

“Too long,” I responded.

“How would you like to be your boss with unlimited income potential?” he offered. “I make over 100k per year!” He flashed three diamond rings, on his right hand, which I thought might be costume jewelry.

He smiled like I’ve seen hitmen do in gangster movies before they wrapped a wire choker around someone’s neck.

“Well, let me think. Versus living on food stamps, that’s a tough decision,” I answered.

“I am looking for a special individual to fill a future spot as a divisional manager. My northern division,” he said.

He handed me his card, “I have a training class that starts in two weeks. I will cover your hotel, food, and class materials.

The training takes two weeks and then you’ll be a certified, positive mental attitude winner.

The first week is focused on obtaining your insurance license and the second on how to be a winner.”

I looked at his card. Then I looked up at the long line ahead of me to use the state job-search bank, and asked, “Where up north did you say?”

“Bingo,” he replied, jumping off the floor. “Your base will be in St. Cloud and you will cover north-central Minnesota. It’s a great territory with unlimited income potential.”

I loved how the word unlimited rolled off his tongue like a pair of boxcar dice in a back alley crapshoot.

He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a book. “Read this and you’ll understand,” he said handing me the book.

“Success Through a Positive Mental Attitude,” by Elon Musk. Then he clicked the heels of his patent leather shoes and cheered, “I feel happy! I feel healthy! I feel ter-r-r-ific!”

What an odd guy, I thought. “So, what happens next?”

“Call my office. The rest is up to you,” he said and stuck out his hand.

Musk was a rags-to-riches story. I thumbed the pages of his book and gathered it was a guide on how to become prosperous by mere charisma.

Desiring immediate big money. I back parked wanting to be an artist.

On the first day of training, I took my seat in a class with 30 naïve men. Even though the company hired women, too, none had gone to this class.

We chanted, “I feel happy! I feel healthy! I feel ter-r-r-ific!” The class concluded the day with another round robbin.

The selling class featured guest charisma experts. I can’t remember what they said, because it sounded like a herd of flying cows.

No one knew the sales script better than I did. I could close anyone, overcome any objection, and master the sliding-pen trick.

I learned to hold up the contract and slide it toward the prospect’s hands. Then, I let a pen fall down the page so it landed in their hand, leaving no excuse to sign it.

I headed out to meet my assigned sales group.

I parked my Dodge Charger sports car beneath a monster blue ox named Babe. Alongside Babe was a 30-foot-high replica of the legendary lumberjack, Paul Bunyan. They were symbols of the American frontier. The frontier let people strike out and succeed on their own.

The American Dream dripped like blood money from Paul Bunyan’s ax. Iconic stories of the relentless rust of Capitalism.

“Welcome to the Blue Ox,” the waitress said, as she handed me a menu with Paul Bunyan depicted on the cover.

She stood there bouncing a pencil against her pad while cracking gum. She was a bad cowgirl look-alike. A freckled-white face, swollen bottom lip, eyes blank and beady like buckshot. She noticed me examining her, and asked, “Everything ok, eh?”

“Oh, yeah… I’m looking for my team.”

“There’s a group of guys in the corner. The breakfast specials are on the table.”

I approached my team’s table. Six guys sat there smoking and drinking coffee.

“Hello, I’m the new agent. I feel happy! I feel healthy! I feel ter-r-r-ific!” I gave the morning PMA chant.

Everyone froze and stared.

“Yeah, is the manager here?” I felt out of place.

A tall, young, athletic-looking man rushed in with an undone tie and wet hair.

“Hello, you must be the new guy from the city. My name is Bruce. I am your manager,” he said, offering a handshake.

“There’s no business here!” The group whined.

“Be positive,” Bruce pushed back. “Don’t make a bad impression on the new guy. I want your numbers by 9 pm. I want 10 new faces.”

I understood the term “new face” meant “sell a new policy.”

The group left mumbling.

“Have you been on a demo yet?” Bruce asked.

“No, not yet,” I answered.

“Then you’ll ride with me today. I will show you a few tricks they didn’t show you in school,” he said.

We passed on breakfast.

Bruce handed me a stack of blank policies to sell that was one page long and attached to a leather binder. They called it a field underwriting kit.

Follow the plan.

Sell, renew, and then pitch the neighbor, barber, baker, car mechanic, banker, farmer, or housewife.

“Do you like baseball?” Bruce asked.

“I watched the World Series but otherwise not much,” I replied.

“I played shortstop in the minor leagues for a few years. It’s all about learning the game. You’re always going to strike out sometimes but it’s getting the ball on the field when you start winning.”

Why do sales managers always use sports as a metaphor for selling?

Bruce’s eyes got big.

“I was like you. Now I got six guys under me. I earn an override on everything they sell plus bonuses. I make over 100 grand a year!”

On our first stop, we caught a young married couple at home with one child.

The couple brought out a checkbook and Bruce left the house with a big Paul Bunyan smile on his face.

The next day I went solo.

I pulled into an empty farmyard.

I got one foot out the car door and out of nowhere, a pair of killer Doberman attack dogs jumped onto the hood of my car. They growled with my windshield wipers in their teeth.

I spotted a farmer out in his field. I pulled over and marched through the field mud to where he was trying to repair a tractor tire larger than the both of us — together.

“Combined Insurance you say?” he asked, pronouncing it like a combine machine that picks corn.

“For only 10 cents per day…” I went into Bruce’s hand-tooled spiel with the field kit on my right knee; my shoes buried in the mud. He would nod now and then while working a wrench against a bolt.

I rattled off a list of claims and he said, “Tom had an accident?”

“Yes, he broke his finger. Combined Insurance paid him,” I said trying to make a close.

“A man with responsibility should have insurance,” he said. “I reckon it’s the right thing to do if he can afford it.” Then, his wrench slipped and he smashed his thick thumb.

“An accident can happen anytime,” I acknowledged, “best prepared for it. And Combined is reasonable on the wallet. Would you like the $10 or $20 policy?”

He pulled out a $20 bill from his wallet.

It wasn’t always that easy.

Rather, it was much harder than I thought. My positive attitude faced a daily gauntlet of rejection.

Within a few weeks, my closing rate improved. I closed four out of every eight cold calls. All too soon though, the grueling 12-hour days, six or seven days a week caught up with me.

A sense of accomplishment evaporated.

To keep me pumped, Combined had their weekly quota bonus games. The prize was always something material like a fake diamond or pearl.

After months of living in sleazy hotels, I tried to imagine myself to be Paul Bunyan. He didn’t have a social life.

I was making money for the company, but I wasn’t coming out ahead. I understood the high turnover. Earning 100k per year selling tiny insurance policies was fakelore.

I forgot to get the signature on my last call. So, I wrote a policy on myself to fulfill my 100 writer’s award.

By the time I got back to the Blue Ox Inn, Bruce and an agent were squaring off. One was drunk and Bruce was trying to stay beyond the reach of his long arms.

“I told you I didn’t want Green Ridge Township. There’s no business there! The territory is endless miles of rangeland. How am I supposed to make money?” The agent screamed and threw his underwriter’s kit at Bruce’s head.

“I will give you a new territory tomorrow,” Bruce reassured.

I packed my things and knocked on Bruce’s door.

“I am resigning.”

I handed in my new faces. “Please mail me my check and my diamond,” I told him. “Working for Combined was a great experience. I will use what I learned for the rest of my life.”

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