A salesman is a pin on a map to the sales manager, a quota to the factory, an overloaded expense account to the auditor, a bookkeeping item called “cost of selling” to the treasurer, a smile and a wisecrack to the receptionist, and a purveyor of flattery to the buyer.
A salesman needs the endurance of Hercules, the brass of Barnum, the craft of Machiavelli, the tact of a diplomat, the tongue of an orator, the charm of a playboy, and the brain of a computer.
He must be impervious to insult, indifference, anger, scorn, complaint, and be razor-sharp, even after drinking until dawn with a customer.
He must have the stamina to sell all day, entertain all evening, drive all night to the next town, and be on the job fresh at 9 AM.
He must be good at story-telling and willing to lose at golf and cards.
He wishes his merchandise was better, his prices lower, his commissions higher, his territory smaller, his competitors more ethical, his goods more promptly delivered, his boss more sympathetic, his advertising more effective, and his customers more human.
But he is a realist who accepts the fact that none of this will ever be.
But he is an optimist, so he makes the sale anyway.
He lives or dies by the daily report.
He rolls his days away in a tedium of planes, trains, and cars. He sleeps his nights away in cheerless hotel rooms.
Each morning he hoists on his back the dead weight of last year’s sales record and this year’s quota, and goes forth to do it all over again.
Yet for all of this, he is absolutely certain that tomorrow will be better and there is nothing he would rather do, anybody he would rather be – than a Salesman.
