The Prank War

Chet and I don’t always agree on everything, and this can get us to war against each other, but one way to get us to forge together is to try and screw with both of us. It started pretty innocently…we were in our sales teams getting ready for the day, when someone from one of the other teams got a squirt gun and was squirting people with it. We thought “no big deal” and over the next few days a water fight occurred. We would pour a water bottle down someone’s shirt, they would get a hose on us, back and forth in a juvenile fashion, and no one got hurt. It was fun.
Jack was the son of a Japanese immigrant who had made a great living for himself in Southern California. He had been recruited and came out to Kansas City, but he was fun-loving guy…didn’t mind goofing around. Jack decided, in the midst of the water fight, that he would take things up a notch. Chet and I always seemed to stand out during the water fight as primary antagonizers, so Jack targeted us first. We got in the van, and Chet was driving, only to find the seat was soaked with water…lots of water. It wouldn’t have been a big deal, but we had a half-hour drive out to our area, and the humidity didn’t allow for much evaporation; Chet had to knock all day with a wet butt, and the seat stayed wet for at least a week. We got Jack back in the water fight the next day with a couple buckets of water and thought the matter was put to rest, but Jack was no quitter.
We piled in the vans as usual on a hot, muggy Kansas City day to find our van reeked like something awful. After 10-15 minutes of driving we located the source—several cans of tuna fish, dumped into the storage bays below the seats…growing things. A few people vomited, and a few people gagged, and those with strong stomachs disposed of the disgusting science project-looking tuna. Chet and I exchanged looks and we knew this would not end well for Jack. Amidst the searching for the smell, we had found a pair of shoes…Jack’s shoes. “What kind of idiot, in the middle of a prank war, would leave his shoes in the hands of the enemy?” I laughed.
“Well what can you do with his shoes?” Someone else replied, wondering what you could possibly do to a pair of shoes that would be so vile. I didn’t even have to think.
As we drove, Chet and I plotted other ways to pay Jack back if the retaliated against our plan, including a severe antiquing (flour in the face), powdered milk in the bed (soaks into your pores and makes you reek for days), or maybe even killing his parents and making him eat them (like that one South Park…but not seriously).
After a long day of knocking with no sales, I decided it was time. We all piled out of the van, and everyone headed towards their apartment, but Chet and I walked towards Jack’s place. We placed the shoes next to the front door, in hopes he would realize we had kindly returned them, but before we departed, Chet stood watch while I unzipped and let loose a stream of urine I had been saving all day. The shoes began to absorb the pee at first, but they eventually began to fill. It was difficult to maintain a constant stream, Chet and I were laughing so hard, but after a few moments the job was done. We called it Operation PeeShoe.
Not much later, Jack’s team came back from knocking. Jack had a good day, a sale or two, and felt like celebrating. He had been wearing his walking shoes all day, and before going out for the night to celebrate, he wanted to get his shoes out of our van. Seeing they weren’t there, he went home, to find his shoes had kindly been returned. It was dark by now, and the poorly lit porch didn’t provide much opportunity to see what was coming. Chet and I watched from the distance as Jack untied and kicked off his walking shoes and reached for his pee shoes...
Jack finished the summer without changing shoes again.

Chili Cheese Dogs and the 10:29 Bail-out

Sometimes in life, two events happen at two different times which are both completely unrelated, but one event sincerely exacerbates the other.

Steve, our boss, really liked going to Sonic for food during the day, especially if it was a slow day. His favorite food there is the Chili Cheese dog, or at least it used to be. On a day like any other, Steve bought a chili cheese dog to eat when he could, but throughout the day never had the chance. Finally, after he had picked most of us up, he was about ready to eat, but had one last stop to make. Taylor was making a sale at the house he was being picked up at, and needed Steve to step in and help to close the deal. Not trusting a van full of 5 other guys to leave his chili dog un-eaten, Steve took it with him and placed it a foot outside the entrance to the home. Nights in Missouri were much like the days, very humid and hot, but the difference at night was the amount of bugs and creatures all around. Steve was only in the house five minutes when he came outside and grabbed his chili dog and sat back into the van to eat it. To his surprise, at least a dozen slimy, sticky slugs had crawled their way onto the warm and intriguing chili dog container. Steve flung the door open and threw the chili dog, still in its warm tin foil Sonic wrapper, into the air, sending several of the bugs flying. Steve picked a slug or two off his shirt, then proceeded to remove the gummy, disgusting slugs off his dinner.

“It’s still alright to eat, isn’t it?” Steve asked inquiringly. “None of the slugs got inside… it’s not like they ate through the wrapper…” Steve inspected his chili dog and its combined wrapper for a moment and shrugged it off. “Should be fine.” We all encouraged him it probably would be, not wanting to see such precious food go to waste. Taylor exited the home shortly there after, and as we made the trip back home, Steve wolfed down his chili dog, assuming Sonic had taken the care to ensure their packaging would prevent bug contamination or any other problems.

About 12 hours later, we began knocking doors in a new town…Raytown. Eventually Raytown would earn such nicknames as Sucktown, Helltown, Dumbtown, and any other negative adjective with “town” tacked on the end. Sales were made, people were pleasant, but due to the lack of “real” crimes being committed in this neighborhood, Raytown police officers seemed to have nothing to do with themselves but hassle visitors and door-to-door salesmen, like ourselves. After I had finally made one sale that day, I went to the street to try my luck with some neighbors, only to receive a text from Steve.

“Stop knocking. Cops r arresting ppl.”

Having been warned this might happen by some of the upper management of the company who had recruited us, I immediately stopped and sat on the curb to await further instructions. I called Chet to make sure he had got the message as well, but he wasn’t answering. At the time I assumed he was probably in a sale, making another call, or otherwise busy. I waited around at least half an hour before Steve finally showed up with nearly all our team in the van. “Chet got arrested!” I looked at him, still not quite believing exactly what was being said. He couldn’t be serious…could he? I asked Steve exactly what he meant and sure enough, Chet used his one phone call to let Steve know he had been arrested for selling goods, door-to-door, without a valid permit. Steve had been told we should stop knocking or we would be arrested, and apparently Steve took a little too long to get the message out to everyone.

Suddenly my train of thought was cut short to the sound of someone vomiting violently just feet away. I looked to the victim to see Steve, hunched over with a puddle of vomit at least 6 feet in diameter at his feet. Everyone jumped back in disgust as we all immediately knew the cause of the sudden food poisoning—the chili-slug dog.

Moments later the other team arrived in their van. Steve needed to go bail Chet out so we could get back to work the next day. But another look at Steve to see him curled up on the ground, clutching his stomach revealed he was in no shape to drive. I dragged him into the backseat, and while everyone else piled into the other van to go home I set our GPS to the Raytown police station. I drove leisurely at first, thinking it was only 8:30 pm and that I had plenty of time to get to the station, have Steve bail Chet out, and make it home for an early dinner. As I pulled into the station, Steve jumped out of the van’s sliding door quickly to vomit in the nearby bushes, and I parked the van and walked Steve inside to bail Chet out. Steve presented his credit card, to which the bail officer stated: We don’t take those here. A debit card was then produced, with the same result. I asked the clearly overweight, butch police woman what we could use to bail out our friend, to which the response came…

“Cash only.”

“What are you, a drug dealer?” I asked, clearly upset.

The police woman replied some very crude and hasty words back to me, many of which I didn’t think a police officer, or even a woman should be saying, so we walked out to the parking lot, dejected, with a new plan. Steve suggested we find the nearest ATM, and luckily our GPS guided us all the way. By the time I arrived at the nearby gas station, Steve was so sick he offered to lie on the grass and wait for me to get back from bailing Chet out. I admit I was tempted to take up his offer, but this would have to wait. Steve gave me his debit and credit card to take inside and withdraw cash, but after trying several attempts with both his cards, a lack of funds and the inability to get a cash advance left me leaving the store empty handed. Steve was still lying on the grass about 10 feet away from where the van was parked, a pool of vomit steadily growing nearby, and I realized I had to act fast. Looking at my phone, the time was 9:30…and the bail office closed at 10:30.

I quickly grabbed Steve and threw his limp body back into the van. I punched in our home address…I had left my debit card at our apartment for fear of being mugged or robbed. Apparently more people knock on doors illegally in Raytown than get mugged or robbed…45 minutes to our apartment. Another 45 minutes back put me at the lockup at 11 pm. I threw the van into gear and gunned it onto the highway. I knew the car was a rental so I wasn’t too worried about pushing it a little hard. Once my speed hit 110 I figured that might be enough to get there and back in time.

Sometime after hitting the halfway point and between swerving between cars on the highway, I realized Chet had the only key to our apartment. We had never foreseen a problem like this, but I knew I had no choice but to hope we had left the door unlocked. Steve sounded like he was losing it in the back seat, so I pushed the van to 120 mph. I never knew mini-vans could even go this fast! I arrived at our apartment at about 9:58 pm. Now was the moment of importance…was our door locked? I told Steve to get out, wanting to drop the dead weight to make it back faster, and I rushed up the stairs.

A flood of adrenaline hit as I reached for the doorknob, only to find it locked tight. A wave of nausea replaced the adrenaline as my mind raced. I had always wanted to do this…I took one two steps back, then took a running start for the door, my foot connected and the door flew open quite easily. Realizing the energy I put into the kick was a little much, I rushed into our dwelling and located my debit card in seconds. Back down the stairs, Steve was just barely crawling his way out of the van, so I dragged him to safety and sped over to the nearest gas station. After pulling enough money to bail Chet out, I again jumped onto the highway and sped back to Raytown. Down the highway once again, 165 pounds lighter, I knew I could make it.

Finally I arrived back in Raytown at 10:29 pm. One minute later and Chet would be spending the night in the county jail. I walked in with my $250 and asked for Chet Boyce. Luckily a different woman was manning the desk.

As Chet walked out, I saw the police officer who was escorting him…turns out it was the same one who had arrested him. The guy was no taller than 5’ 1”, and my youngest brother could have easily beaten him in a fight.

Things turned out alright, luckily. Firstline decided to pay me back for having to bail Chet out, so I got my $250 back. After Chet’s charges were dropped, they gave him the bail money back I originally put in. Firstline really dropped the ball on that one, but at least we came out $250 ahead.

Cuffed and Stuffed In Raytown, MO

The day was just like any other day. We were selling in Raytown, MO, a tiny suburb of Kansas City, MO. I was working a typical neighborhood. Some people not home, others pretending to not be home, others asking for a card saying they will get back to you (they never do), and the occasional sale.

I had just left my sale, walked around the corner and knocked on the first door on the next street. No one was home so I proceeded to the next house when all the sudden I see blue lights coming toward me. This is not unusual in Kansas City so I didn’t think much of it until he stopped in front of me.

Officer Clear, a five foot one inch bean pole with little-man syndrome, jumped out of his squad car leaving his door open and lights running. He quickly walked over to me with his tiny little legs and informed me I was under arrest. I laughed at first thinking that one of my fellow salesmen talked him into playing a joke on me. I realized he was serious by the look on his face and him asking me to place my hands behind my back.

I asked what time it was thinking that I was perhaps knocking too late into the afternoon; some towns have laws about this. He said, “It’s not about the time, you don’t have a permit.” I thought this was a little weird considering the fact that he never asked for a permit and that I had an ID badge around my neck with the state permit number on it.

I motioned to my badge with my head due to the fact that my hands were now cuffed behind my back. He didn’t look at it; he just said it wasn’t good enough. I was getting a little tired of his vague answers when he decided to continue. Officer Clear explained that he saw my boss on the next street over and told him that we didn’t have the right kind of permit for the area and that if he caught anyone selling he would arrest them without warning. I try my luck by arguing with the Officer as politely as I could. I see it’s going nowhere fast so I shut up.

At this point in the explanation I get a text message. Officer Clear pulls the phone from my pocket, I see the text is from Steve and ask the officer to flip open my phone. He does so and sets it on the hood of his car with the rest of my things.

The text says, “Stop knocking. Cops r arresting ppl.”

Great advice… a little late though. Steve happened to drive by a minute later and stopped. He also tried to talk the officer into dropping the whole thing but to no avail. Officer Clear seemed to be enjoying this. Steve left and said he’d come by the police station soon to bail me out.

After writing out a criminal citation the officer was ready to take me downtown. He is about to put me in the back of the squad car when he sees my knife clipped to my pocket and takes it. He continues to move to the open backseat door when I ask him if he wants my gun too.

Clearly startled by the realization that his “collar” was carrying a concealed weapon, he asked where it was. I told him where it was and where my permit was. I then spent the next ten minutes educating him on the local gun laws he supposedly enforces when he isn’t harassing businessmen. I was shocked at his lack of knowledge on the topic. First he said my Washington State permit was not valid. I explained the law that says it is and that I already double checked it with the Sherriff’s office. Then there was a complaint about not having the weapon registered. I had to explain that neither Washington nor Missouri register firearms. My suspicion that this guy was an idiot was being confirmed with every passing second.

When the handgun debacle was over he put me in the back of the car… Without frisking me. That in itself is a big no-no in police work, and another confirmation of the pile of idiocy that was about to drive me to lockup.

We arrive at the police station 10 minutes later and he puts me in a holding cell with four other detainees. Still no pat down. I could have passed off drugs or weapons to other criminals at this point. He comes back and does a search and processes me into their system. I wondered who else in here he failed to search.

I’m allowed my phone call and I give my boss, Steve, a ring. He said that as soon as he picks everyone up then they’d be on their way.

“No big deal,” I think, it’s only 5:30 now so maybe an hour or two tops.

Two hours later and still no Steve. The other people in lockup tell me why they are there and agree that it was ridiculous to bring me in. The tweaker there on a hit and run especially thought the cop was a idiot and was quite vocal about it. To be fair, he hates most cops anyway.

Another hour goes by and I am bored out of my mind with nothing to do but sit and stare at the wall. They allow me another phone call. Steve says they are on their way. A little longer than I expected to be in jail, but still not a big deal. All the other prisoners were gone by now; either bailed out or transferred to the county jail to stay overnight.

At around 9:30 I overhear some of the jail workers say something to someone about only taking cash. A few minutes later a large, angry lady tells me through the two inch plexi-glass that my brother was going to leave and come back with the money. I thought it was a little messed up that my boss was sending my brother to bail me out.

The butch police woman also said, “If he ain’t back in 56 minutes you gunna have to go down to county and spend the night. They can pick you up in the morning.”

This got me a little worried. Having no idea what was going on with Steve and my brother, Scott, I watched the clock. The minutes ticked by and I really did not want to spend the night in jail.

At about 10:25 I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to get transferred and would be spending the night in jail. Having never been in jail before I had spent much of the past hour thinking about how I was going to defend myself from hardened criminals and anal rape. The thoughts became more real with every passing minute.

All the sudden, at 10:29 another jail worker comes back, hands me an evidence bag full of my things, and tells me I am free to go. I couldn’t believe they made it.

I was finally out of jail. Unfortunately Firstline would jerk me around by not getting me a lawyer until after I tried to defend myself and got a continuance. But the charges were eventually dropped and I kept the bail money Firstline had put up.

The Watch Walk-in

My first summer selling was an intimidating time. Day after day I’d knock on people’s doors all day, get a few lines of my pitch out, and have the door close on me as fast as it opened. After a week with out a single sale my manager, Riley, a zany short guy from Canada, came out to knock with Jeff, Chris, and I. Jeff and Chris had the same problem I did. We couldn’t get in a single door. When you can’t get in someone’s door it is just about impossible to sell something. Riley told us he would remedy this.

Riley gave us a few pointers on the car ride out to the area we’d be knocking in that day. Most of it was just a pep talk, but there was one method that Riley called solid. It was the “watch walk-in.”

The watch walk-in is very simple, the sales man asks an off the wall question that vaguely relates to the product being sold. In the case of home security systems we would explain door sensors then ask if the rear sliding door is single partitioned or double partitioned. We don’t even know what that means so it’s a pretty safe bet that they don’t either. Immediately after the question, before the homeowner has a chance to answer, we say, “well, let’s just take a look at that.” The sales man then looks down at his watch, wipes his feet on the door mat, and walks right into the home without looking up.

Riley claimed that this method worked every time. Between the three of us we hadn’t been in a single door in a week of knocking twelve hours a day six days a week. So, naturally we were a little skeptical. Riley was so sure that it would work he bet us he could get into the first door he knocked on. If he couldn’t, he owed us lunch.

We pulled up to our area in a somewhat rundown part of Dallas and piled out of the car. No one was home at the first few doors we knocked. When people were home the three of us tried out our pitch, got a quick “no” and Riley critiqued us. It was now Riley’s turn. After our lack of success we were sure we’d be getting a free lunch.

Riley knocked on the door with me standing to his left and Jeff and Chris standing back a few steps. A rather large black woman wearing a moo-moo answered the door. And by rather large, I mean this lady filled the door frame. I’m not sure how she got in and out of her house with out greasing the door jams. Riley started talking to her and it was easy to tell that it was going nowhere. But if Riley is anything, it’s determined. We watched his subtle positioning on the front porch as he asked the question, “now, your rear sliding door. Is that an American slider, or an Australian slider?”

I’m pretty sure there is no such thing as either. As the summer progressed I learned that we make up lots of crap at the door.

The Nubian sumo at the door kept a stone face and said nothing. Riley then looked down, wiped his feet and proceeded into the doorway all while keeping his eyes glued on his cheap Timex watch. In fact, his eyes were so glued onto his watch that he failed to realize that the lady never moved.

As I said before, our manager is a short, zany, Canadian. So short in fact that his face was about breast high to our potential sale. The three of us did all we could to stifle the laughter as Riley pulled his now blushing face from between the mammoth udders that were poorly concealed behind the low-cut moo-moo. He took a step back, looked up, and with a straight face said, “not happening today, is it?” She shook her head no and we backed down her doorsteps.

We laughed for a solid half hour before we were able to do anything else that day.