Clancy Martin - How to Sell

I left the watch in his hands. I didn’t do it because it was the right thing to do, though it was, but because I was afraid to ask for it back. I ran into the back-of-the-house and went to the safe room to find the link box, which was a clear plastic fishing tackle box, with a white label on the side that read ROLEX, that was kept full of men’s and ladies’ stainless-steel and stainless-and-gold jubilee and oyster links and eighteen-karat white and yellow gold links for the Presidents, and even some diamond pave or bezel set links for the diamond Presidents, and pulled out five President links, made sure they were all the same size and all had screws, grabbed a screwdriver off of the Watchman’s desk, and hurried back onto the sales floor before an authentic salesperson could approach him and steal the sale. He was standing there admiring the watch on his wrist in a case mirror that he had found. Next time bring the customer a mirror. Especially a black customer, I knew. The more you serve them the better.

Later I found out that this, too, was false. In fact just the opposite is the case. But it takes years to learn how to sell.

“What did the man say? You work him over for me? You give him the old one-two? The combination?”

I knew we had four thousand and fifty dollars in the men’s Presidents we were running for forty-nine ninety-five. These watches were truly loss leaders for us. To bring in the big fish.

“He said forty-seven hundred,” I told him. I knew Jim would cut them down to forty-five fifty, sometimes, to close a deal. “For cash.”

“That’s no sales tax, then,” he said. “For cash. That’s forty-seven tax, title, and license. Out the door.”

“Yes sir. Forty-seven hundred out the door.”

“Sold. You going to fix this so she fits me? I’ll just wear her out. This thing come with a box? I can put my old Seiko in there. See what my wife thinks about that,” he said, and laughed again.

“Hell, that’s not a bad way to start your Monday morning, is it, son? What did you say your name was?” He was counting hundred-dollar bills onto the counter. My Windex bottle and my roll of paper towels were still sitting there on the glass. “I bet there’s a fine commission for you on this. I sure hope so. You look awful young to be selling jewelry, come to think of it. You old enough to be out of high school? Course there ain’t no shame in working for a living. I never finished high school myself. And look at me now. Work hard and you’ll be wearing one of these yourself someday, son.”

“Yes sir,” I said. “I hope so, sir,” I said. I finished installing the links and handed him the watch. I counted the money. There was forty-seven hundred dollars. I tucked it into the outside pocket of my jacket.

“Now I’m going to need an appraisal for this watch. You can’t wear a watch like this uninsured. Write me up a receipt, young man. There you go, write down all the details. Lifetime warranty, you said. Put it down in black and white. I’m gonna keep that piece of paper in a safe place. Safety deposit box. With that insurance appraisal.”

He shook the watch down to the end of his wrist, before the wrist joint. It fit. It was snug but it had just a bit of slide. You should be able to slip the end of your pinkie finger between the bracelet and the base of the wrist.

“Put that box in a bag for me, would you, son? Stick that old Seiko in there. Worn that watch for twenty years. My son will get it now. How’s that look? Now that’s a bit of sunshine. Look at that light up.” He laughed again, that large laugh of the older southern black man. It made you happier to hear it. “That there’s the real deal. What will this appraise for? Eight, nine grand?”

“Eleven thousand eight hundred,” I explained. “That’s brand-new retail list price. If you had to walk into Waltham’s today and buy a new one out of their case, that is what you would pay. So that’s what we appraise them for. Retail replacement value.”

“All right, well you get that in the mail to me tomorrow. It’s been a pleasure. A real pleasure. You’ll see me again. Yes sir. You’re my jeweler now. You got a card? Hell, you haven’t even told me your name.”

“Bobby Clark, sir,” I said. I shook his hand. I had not wanted to do that because my palms were wet with sweat. “I’ll put a card in the appraisal, sir.” I did not have cards yet. After he left I went along the line of watch cases and made sure all the cases were locked. I went into the diamond room and sat there for a minute in the red leather chair that was fashioned out of white and black bulls’ horns, just like the table the brass numbers sat on. Besides newspapers on my paper route growing up, which didn’t really count, and credit card applications I had sold at Sears for a few afternoons before they found out none of my applications were going through, that men’s President was my first time, my first sale.

In the back-of-the-house Jim was waiting for me. He was in the hallway next to the customers’ bathroom, what we called the executive bathroom. It had Frette hand towels and the expensive toilet paper. There was another bathroom in the back that we were all supposed to use. But the saleswomen tended to use this front bathroom on the sly, and it was the one I used, too, because if I had to I could pretend I was only replacing the toilet paper or cleaning the mirror. I always had my Windex with me. It was a safer place to do a line.

For years bathrooms were sanctuaries for me. In time I learned that the best ones are not private bathrooms at all, because in these someone can destroy the solitude by knocking on the door. Then you are on their schedule. The one you want is not a big, alienating public toilet, the ones in an airport, but a smallish-sized restroom with three or four stalls, where you can take one next to the wall and sit there as long as you please. Your boss, your wife, the police, they are all far away from that toilet and that space. It is like being on an airplane, but happier, because you are alone.

The hallway to the executive bathroom was also a confidential space insulated from the rest of the store. The steps to Mr. Popper’s office led to this hallway. The walls were papered in a green-and-silver-chevroned fabric, there was a row of porcelain-framed mirrors on one side, and it was dimly lit by a row of five small, round, pink glass chandeliers that Jim said Sheila had bought on an island off the coast of Venice. The hallway was not an easy way to get from the front to the back so you were supposed to stay out of it. But there was no official rule. I liked it because it was private and there were no cameras, I liked how my skin looked in the pink light and those old thick lead glass mirrors, and I liked those chandeliers that had flowers around the hidden bulbs. I often found Jim pausing there, too. Like me, he liked to use the executive bathroom. He was allowed to, though, because he was a manager.

“Did you sell that watch? Did you sell that President? That was the display. You didn’t sell the display, did you?”

I took the stack of hundred-dollar bills from my pocket and handed it to him.

“I got forty-seven for it. Forty-seven is all right, right? He asked for a better price for cash. I didn’t charge him sales tax.”

“That was the display, Bobby. That was the last men’s Prez in the store. We were taking orders off that watch. We don’t have another one. We can only take orders on Presidents at that price. Did you write him a receipt? You have to charge sales tax if you write him a receipt.”

“No, I didn’t write him a receipt.” Sometimes you know to lie simply by the way a person asks you a question. It is a defensive reflex, like running.

The store’s copy of the handwritten receipt I had given my customer was in my breast pocket. I could just tear it up and flush it down the toilet.