Selling Candy

Many women turn to sales as a means of making money and gaining some independence once the children are grown. This takes many forms – real estate, makeup, nutritional products, retail sales, and policies of all varieties . . .

I ate my breakfast at a Cracker Barrel in Mount Sterling, Kentucky, and saw from a few tables over a woman in her mid-sixties who had taken on such a role – she spoke to a like-aged couple across the table over a hearty breakfast of ham, sausage, coffee, eggs, grits and sawmill gravy. Great stacks of papers and brochures were spread out before her as she approached this couple with her goods – “The cost will be right at 6,000 dollars for the two of you,” was the first thing I heard her say, and it was the way she said do-oll-ars, with more syllables that it really has, that caught my attention and made me think about the importance of selling once a woman gets older and it’s too late to go back to school. I thought she might be peddling a trip overseas, because of the brochures, and I listened up to hear what exciting place they were going for such a grand fee. But I could never hear more than an essential word or key phrase during our breakfast because of the commotion of coffee cups and busboys and children eating pancakes, demanding more syrup and such.

The saleswoman wore a zebra patterned topper/knit jacket sort of thing, striped yardage that generously covered her solid black pants and a black top beneath. There were many chains of gold around her thick neck and her hair was coiffed up big atop her large head, frosted blonde and streaked with other stripes of varying shades. She had large gold hoop earrings and a big powdery jowl that jiggled when she proposed her point or changed pages for the couple to see differing views. She wore those half moon kind of glasses that fell down low on her nose so she never had to actually look the couple directly in the eyes but rather dodged them repeatedly from either below or above her glasses. Her arms were spread out wide on the table because of all the girth between, and her fingers were fat and waxy looking, strangled by big star-shaped rings that flaunted colored jewels and maybe diamonds. The finger nails were thick like horses’ hooves, painted bright pink and trimmed to a squarish angle. I thought of the limestone imbued Kentucky water that is attributed for strong bones in both horses and people in the Kentucky region – limestone, the same reason, by the way, that grass is blue and real bourbon can be brewed only in Kentucky. Those thick jousting fingernails pointed to clauses in the papers, lines that were to be signed, and they made a scratchy noise on the paper . . .

“But if you buy in the summer . . . “ I heard her say when the couple flinched and tightened their lips on hearing the first figure of 6,000 dollars. I began to wonder, what destination might cost less in the summer months? But I could think of nothing reasonable.

I heard the word Medicare come up in between children yelling, and later the word deductible, so I began to doubt the couple’s travel plans and instead thought they were planning for some kind of nursing care – or an insurance policy – or maybe cemetery plots? But why were the summer months cheaper?

The saleswoman was patient and “on their side,” because at one point she said, “Oh no, you shouldn’t have to pay for that . . . my package includes . . . ” and she shook her jowl definitively. She had the art of being serious and trusty about certain points, but she could punctuate her seriousness with friendly laughter when appropriate. The wife leaned over to confide something to the saleswoman, and the saleswoman leaned closer too, and the husband backed his chair away to gain the attention of a waitress with a coffee pot. The two women were becoming friends it appeared.

“Well, tell me then, how much are you willing to pay? I can write this up any way you like,“ the saleswoman said in a voice that grew suddenly loud and businesslike.

Someone in the kitchen dropped a full tray of dirty coffee cups and our entire non-smoking section voiced, “Ohhh . . . “ -- and so I never heard the couple’s reply.

The man rocked back on his chair and entwined his fingers behind his head, letting his elbows branch out to either side of his head – like a man who has been arrested and told not to move. But in this case, he rocked back and forth in the chair, removing himself from the interaction but at the same time giving in to it.

After rocking a few minutes, he excused himself to go pay the check for the table of three. I had already lingered long enough to imbibe a third cup of coffee when really one is plenty for me, so I figured it was my time to go as well. I made a point of walking past the table of business, just to see what the woman was selling – but spread across the papers was an open checkbook which the wife had pulled out of her purse. I saw those fat waxy fingers, pink lacquered nails, and glittering rings – they thrust forth a pen. Perfume wafted over the smell of sausage and bacon. I wanted to chase after the husband, “No, go back, don’t let her do it!”

It wasn’t intentional, but I found myself standing behind the man as he paid the check. I wanted him to hurry so he could get back before his wife finished writing the check. But the woman behind the counter wouldn’t leave well enough alone. “Would you like some candy bars, sir, we’re having a two-for-two sale today,” she said. (If you buy two you get two for free? I think that’s what it means.) He shook his head demurely as he folded his wallet to hide it away from one last intrusion – and this is where someone might suspect, but not really know as I knew, that something was on the man’s mind – he said, “I don’t know how you women do it. I couldn’t sell a thing if my life depended on it.”

She said kindly, “Sir, I’m not selling candy, I’m just offering it to you.”