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The Pitch

Written by Domenic and DJ diCiacca

Today the road was perfect, dry enough for wagon wheels but not yet dusty. Ian, who had sold a few of the up-time plows that were in the fields, was delighted. He had a new product in the wagon that he said was a surefire-couldn't-miss item, and he and Bert were going to revolutionize a different part of society, a part as yet untouched by the ongoing industrial and agricultural revolution. This far out in the country, a lot had not yet changed.

They checked off the inventory, made sure the two goats were firmly hitched to the back of the wagon, and slapped the mule into motion. Ian called "Up, Napoleon!" and laughed. Bert had no idea what it meant. Ian had picked up all kinds of up-timer phrases and ideas. But the mule's name was Oliver.

Three days later they were still on the road. They had yet to make a sale. Oh, they'd had fair luck with other, smaller farm implements, and farm bulletins and pamphlets and plans. Dream Farms Holding Company lampwork glass beads were doing especially well. But they had sold no washing machine kits, which was the larger part of their inventory. Ian was entirely upbeat. "Nothing to worry about. It takes time to develop a good pitch. A peddler hears 'no' a lot more often than he hears 'yes.' Once we sell the first one and word gets around, they'll fly off the back of the wagon. So relax, enjoy the ride, and enjoy the day. Life is short. Get happy. Everything is going fine." Ian was talking just to hear himself talk. Maybe he needed the pep talk as much as Bert did. Ian talked a lot, when he was inclined.

A smartass remark at the wrong time to the wrong people had cost Bert his tongue, years ago. While he could still make most sounds, he rarely said anything. He said even less now. He was grumpy. His butt hurt from sitting on the hard bench of the wagon, his feet hurt from walking, and his head hurt from the frustration of watching Ian make his pitch. In Bert's humble opinion; nothing was more tightly fisted, closed minded, mulishly stubborn, or suspiciously grim than the people in the little towns and hamlets like the ones they kept passing through.

Ian was the salesman, or peddler, or drummer, or bullshitter, whatever anyone wanted to call it. He seemed to like everybody he met. That was fine.

Bert was security. He was the muscle. This meant Bert did all the work while Ian talked. Ian talked, and Bert fed the goats. Ian talked, and Bert unloaded things from the wagon. He put the demonstration model together, if they got that far, and he went for water, and did every other damn thing, like unhitching the mule and setting camp or handing Ian the right display model or illustration, or mug of beer. All the while, Ian talked. And it didn't do a damn bit of good, as far as Bert could see.

Ian thought otherwise. He talked about weather, and war, and seed crops and hay, and tough times past and good times to come, and the hopes and fears of the average Joe. He avoided talk of the court, and politics, and religion, which of itself was a wonder, but probably a necessary one. He softened the waters for future sales of scissor cutters and hay rakes and hand tools and farm gadgets of all kinds, and he planted seeds of his own in fertile ground when he got the chance. But somehow or other, whenever he broached the subject of the washing machine he got stonewalled. Froze out. Stopped cold.

"We've got a laundry." Some communities had a communal laundry.

"My wife washes my clothes. She does just fine." Never tell a man to go ask his wife. About anything.

"We have a river right over there. What do we need that gadget for?"

"We just don't need it."

"It costs too much."

"Are you saying my clothes are dirty? You sayin' I stink?"

One time they had back-peddled right out of town. Mostly they were treated fairly, and they were listened to, and they were given a polite 'no.' Even when they were enthusiastically received and did well with the other products, they received a firm no when they got to the washing machine. Mostly Ian talked to the men, while the women looked out of doorways and held the children back. Bert, of course, stayed silent.

Sometimes Bert juggled, and often in the evening he and Ian played penny whistles, and drank ...