We've been busy

Chet is in the Marines, and he just started TBS, which consists of 100 hour weeks until November, and Scott just went through finals...more stories are coming, we promise!

Stories coming soon:

My adventure with Ashley Furniture

The day we realized we were Screwed

The Last Day in Hell (a.k.a Kansas City): Part 2

In case you didn't catch it, part 1 was two weeks ago...read it before you read this weeks post. To catch you up if you did read it, when we last left our hero, he had just knocked on the next door...



The door creaked open to an elderly woman with thin, white hair and glasses thicker than my arm. She quietly asked what I was doing out on such a hot day and invited me inside. Perfect, I thought, this will be an easy one. Once inside a house it usually only took me a few minutes to get the sale made and I could be on my way, but this sale wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought.

“Now, what are you doing out on a day as hot as this?” She asked again as she handed me a drink of water. I started into my pitch, pointing out flaws in home design that made her house susceptible to break-ins and the benefits of our alarm system as she listened intently to what I had to say.

“Now you can use this system to contact the police or ambulance for anything, whether it be a medical emergency or for the police, and they can talk to you anywhere in the house through the speaker we’ll put right here!” I was acting excited as I spoke, getting ready to make my second sale of the day, when she said it sounded good. I pulled out the paperwork and asked her name just in time for her to run back to the kitchen.

I sipped my water as I waited, and she returned from the kitchen with a glass of water in hand. I assumed it was for her, but she handed it to me and asked “Now what are you doing out on a day as hot as this?” I paused as I took the second water glass and took a quick look around…calendars were pegged to the wall from as early as 1998, a large bottle of pills set open on the table…I realized I was in a very grey area when it came to sales. The last thing I wanted was for this old woman to wake up one day and wonder why the hell an alarm went off every time she tried to leave the house. I went through my pitch again to test the waters while getting started on the paperwork. I figured if she was lucid for a few minutes and did want the alarm I had better be prepared.

“So you can talk to cops or whoever through the system…do you want it?” I quickly asked, before the entire conversation was lost in the abyss.

“Sure I do! It sounds great!” She replied, as I silently celebrated as I asked for her information. About halfway thorough the paperwork she got up to go to the kitchen, and I decided I’d better expedite the process if I wanted to make this work. I downed the two waters sitting in front of me just in time for her to hand me a third as she asked “Now, what are you doing out on a day as hot as this?” I began to speed through my pitch only to have her exit once more to the kitchen. I quickly dumped my third into a nearby plant as she exited and waited patiently for my 4th glass of water.

“Now, what are you—“ I cut her short and went straight into it.

“It’s a security alarm, do you want it?” I asked bluntly, to which she surprisingly said yes. We finished the paperwork and I called our main office to schedule the technician to come out and install the alarm before she forgot about it again. I wanted things to go quickly before she walked into the kitchen for more water and took my sale with her. In my haste to get things done so quickly I neglected to realize the dreaded confirmation call…a call between the office and the customer to make sure I had explained everything properly and there was no surprise when the customer was billed $45 a month from now. I cringed as I turned to hand the old woman the phone to see her offering me another glass of water.

“Hello?” She spoke into the receiver as I sipped on what felt like the 10th gallon of water I had drank in that home. I listened inconspicuously to the conversation, only to hear her ask “now what is this for again?” I hung my head in agony over the 45 minutes I had just wasted pushing this sale on this poor old woman, when she responded “well I’ve always wanted one of those! That sounds fabulous!” I looked up in shock as she agreed to all the charges and she handed the phone back to me. I quickly hung up as our installer arrived, and sure enough he was greeted by a glass of cold water and an inquisitive old lady, who wondered “Now, what are you doing out on a day as hot as this?” I quickly informed her she had purchased an alarm system and slipped out the door before any objections could be raised.

I wish the story ended there, me with a sale and an old lady with a direct line to a police and ambulance dispatcher, but her son, who doubled as her caretaker, arrived home moments before the installation was complete. He swore up and down and me, claiming I had taken advantage of an old woman who didn’t know what was going on. To my credit, she actually defended us and didn’t care what she had bought, “I’ve got all the money in the world and these nice boys can take it for all I care.” Unfortunately, seconds after this statement, she handed me a glass of water and asked “Now, what are you doing out on a day as hot as this?”

Thus ended my life as a door-to-door salesman.

Shots Fired

Scott and I take turns writing each week. So, if you are dying to hear the rest of Scott's story, you're going to have to wait till next week when it's his turn again.

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Kansas City has some pretty bad neighborhoods and a high crime rate. Because of the nature of our product, the high crime rate is our friend and those neighborhoods are some of our best selling areas.

I had just finished the paperwork for a family that was very happy to be getting a new security system in the next few hours. I said my good-byes and opened the front door. As I stepped onto the front porch I saw a guy sprint between the two houses just feet from me. I watched him go by and jump the fence at the rear of the ally. “Only in KC,” I thought. I turned back toward the street to see two police officers in chase about fifteen steps behind the thug that just ran past.

“HE’S GOING EAST, HE’S GOING EAST!!!” the second one yelled into the radio.

“Wow, I’ve never seen a police chase in real life before,” I thought. I looked around hoping to see some video cameras from the show COPS. No such luck.

I made my way down to the street and looked toward the next house on my list. There was a police car blocking the intersection at the end of the street. I turned around and saw the same thing at the other end. This was a bigger deal than I thought. A squad car quickly pulled up to me and an officer jumped out.

“What’d you see?” he asked. This was going better than my last encounter with police here. (See “Cuffed and Stuffed in Raytown, MO”)

“I’m a salesman. I came out of that house,” I pointed. “Black guy, maybe 5’ 10”, 165 pounds, white shirt and jeans. Both about five sizes too big for him. The dude ran between those houses. I think he went up the street that way after he jumped the fence.” I pointed again.

“Thanks,” he yelled as he ran off. Just then a blue police helicopter came swooping in. The skids were almost touching the tree tops and one guy was hanging half way out pointing at things and looked to be talking on a radio.

This was getting cooler and cooler. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who thought so. Half the people on the block had made their way outside to see the spectacle. At that point I wished I had been a popcorn salesman, I would have made a ton of money.

Moments later, I saw the thug jump a fence into the front yard a couple houses down. He looked around for a second, and then jumped back over the fence. More cops were showing up now as were neighborhood spectators.

“This guy doesn’t have a chance,” I muttered.

POP!……..POP! I recognized the sound of gunshots.

Just as quickly as it had arrived, the helicopter peeled off and flew away. People left their front yards. Several police cars drove off… It was over.

Two guys dressed the same as the thug were standing about ten feet from me.

“That was Tyrone,” I overhead one say.

“He dead,” the second remarked nonchalantly as they walked off.

I watched as the scene continued to die down. It was interesting to see the reaction of the thug’s buddies, or hommies, or whatever. Made it seem like a common occurrence.

I continued to knock on doors. My thinking was that after a police chase through a neighborhood, EVERYONE would want a security system. I came to realize that such a common occurrence desensitizes people to crime and that, for whatever reason, a police shooting in someone’s backyard doesn’t translate into neighbors buying from me.

The Last Day in Hell (a.k.a Kansas City): Part 1

At 51 sales on the summer, my last day knocking doors in Kansas City needed to be amazing. I had initially wanted to hit 55 sales as a personal goal, but I was so burnt out on knocking on doors and being demoralized I was almost ready to settle. Steve (our boss and driver) dropped me off on the street I had started working the night before, and I started knocking. The first home had no answer, and as I walked through the humid Kansas City air towards the second home, I felt like dying.

Before my fist could connect with the oak, the door swung open to a 30-something black woman in a towel. “You look hot and I saw you coming!” She stated in a Kansas City-esk accent. “Why don’t you come in for a bit?” I looked down the street at the plethora of houses just waiting to reject me and I decided to oblige her.

It was a typical Kansas City house…a couch, a few chairs, an enormous big screen television that you have to wonder how someone on welfare can afford…the usual setup. As she motioned towards a chair for me to sit in, she laid on the couch and began asking me about how my day had been and what I was selling. This was also typical of Kansas City—there may be three shooting deaths a day in that town, but people sure were pleasant. I informed her of the alarm company I represented, the heat, the fact it was my last day, and she decided to celebrate. I got a little worried she might strike up the marijuana joint resting on one of her end tables, but instead she picked up the phone and made a call to her landlord.
“I got a friend over here and we need some ice cream and Sobé,” she proclaimed into the phone. “Hurry up, he’s got a job to do.”

Bewildered at the interesting choice of celebratory food, I quizzed her on her relationship with her landlord. He and her had been dating on and off for quite some time, but I got the feeling she took advantage of him to do things like bring her ice cream at 11:30 AM on a Thursday.

We spoke more about the alarm I was selling and she informed me she would love to have one, but couldn’t pay the $99 deposit our company requires. Still in sales mode, I informed her if that was the only problem, I could take care of it, and she decided to buy. I began to think the day might start looking up, but this was no ordinary sale. The law requires that any improvements made on a home be done by the owner, and with the owners consent, and this 30-something black woman in a towel was not the owner…her friend brining us ice cream, however, was.

It took three more phone calls and 45 minuets for the landlord to show up, but sure enough, when he got there he had ice cream, drinks, frozen candy bars, everything you could want on a cold day. Lucky for me, I was also going to get a sale. After fifteen minutes of convincing, I got a signature on the contract from him, which was all I needed. “I really don’t want this alarm thing in here, but I guess I don’t have a choice.” Those were the words we loved to hear…having someone buy something from you that they really don’t want was the mark of an excellent salesman. He exited the cool house back into the humid Kansas City heat, and I worked on finishing my ice cream bar, when suddenly the 30-something black woman in a towel hit me with something else.

“I don’t have any way to pay for this alarm, you know.” I had the ice cream bar half-way down my throat when she mentioned this tidbit and I nearly coughed it back up, but I managed to choke it down and ask for a clarification by what she meant. “I don’t have a credit card or checking account or anything. I just pay cash for this place.” I looked at my now useless contract, bemoaning the fact that I just spent two and a half hours waiting on ice cream in the hopes of a sale. I went to tear the contract in half and leave when she put me in quite the pickle. “I have his credit card though…” she stated. I looked at my contract, looked at the black, 30-something woman in a towel, and then at my watch. It was nearly 2 PM, I only had 7 hours left, and if I wanted to show anything for this day, I had to act.

I sat silent for a few seconds, staring at the signature on the dotted line of the contract, and noticed the small print underneath which read “The signee hereby declares intent to pay all charges associated…” upon seeing those little words I didn't need to read anymore. I had explained how much it cost and he signed the papers, so at this point it was out of my hands. I took the ‘borrowed’ credit card and finalized the sale, feeling justified in my actions. As the installation technician entered the house, the black 30-something woman in a towel thanked me for getting her an alarm system, and I knocked on the next door, which would be my next sale of the day.

More on my last day in Kansas City later.

The McDonalds Dumps

As mentioned in another post, I was never a big fan of asking to use people’s bathroom. Food and water, no big deal. Even asking if I had to go #1 wasn’t that bad. But if #2 was necessary, I always found a gas station or a fast food place.

Almost every day was in a new area, I would check my map to see what was around me. Today, I was smack dap in the middle of a big, residential neighborhood when I felt the urge. I looked over my map one more time. Nothing but houses for seven or eight blocks. I called Steve and explained the situation. He laughed and said that I was the fourth person to call him about that and joked that I should just use a customer’s sink. Also, he couldn’t give me a ride. He was in a house trying to close for Taylor and was about a half hour away. “Call me back if you come down this way,” I told Steve, even though I knew it wouldn’t happen.

I hung up with Steve. I felt some pressure and held it in until it rolled over. I looked at my map again for the closest area that would have public bathrooms. I found a spot where the freeway cut through the neighborhood about a half mile away. “There has got to be a gas station somewhere around there,” I thought as I started my hike.

As I walked all my energy was focused on holding my bowels in. I knew if I didn’t I’d have a pretty embarrassing accident and no one is going to buy ANYTHING from a guy who crapped his pants. I got within a block of where I thought a public bathroom would be and there was nothing. Just an overpass with no on or off ramp. I was getting a little worried.

I looked around and saw a yard sale just a few houses down. I made some small chat and then asked, “Do you know where a gas station or a McDonalds or something like that is around here? The closer the better.” I was hoping they would think I was hungry the way I worded the question.

I was directed down another street all the while praying that I would be able to hold this billowing burden in my gut long enough to make it to the toilet. At last I saw the golden arches of McDonalds. I raced into the bathroom and locked the door to the only stall just in time to burst. Sweet relief.

As I was doing my business I heard three or four guys run into the bathroom. Having had a few run-ins with gangs in Kansas City, I was a bit worried. Then I heard one of them say, “Firstline! Hahahaha!”

“How did they know I was with Firstline?” I thought. Then I saw my sales binder with the Firstline logo on top of the baby changing station in the stall just in view from the other side of the stall door.

“Chet? That you?” one of them said. I recognized the voice now. It was Peter from the office. The always up-beat, super motivated, black guy.

“Yeah, I’m almost done.” I said.

“Hurry up, there’s four of us and we need to go BAD,” he responded.

I finished my business and made my way out to the seating area. Peter quickly took my place in the stall and I sat down to talk with the other guys. They filed back one at a time, and all looked pretty panicked that they might not be able to hold it long enough to make it.

None of us were sure what was wrong with all of us. Luke, the other boss, had picked up three guys to drive them to the bathroom; Steve had gotten several calls he couldn’t respond to; and a bunch of others found places to relieve themselves. With three quarters of the office crapping their guts out, the only thing we could think of was maybe it was some bad food at one of our office potlucks.

I already had the rule not to eat unpackaged food from customers (see “Kenny and the Spiked Potato), now I also had to worry about office party food.

Go to the zoo...

Door-to-door sales were pretty taxing, as you well know by now. We would knock for 10 hours a day, 6 days a week, and only have Sundays off to kick back and recoup for the next week. One day after Chet and I went to church, we decided we would use our time of to do some sight-seeing in Kansas City. We asked around about some interesting places to visit, and of all the places to go, the Kansas City Zoo sounded the most interesting.

Thirty minutes of driving found us at the zoo entrance, still in our shirts and ties from church, as we walked around the outside of the zoo, discussing what exhibits we might look at first. As we approached the ticket booth, we noticed the prices of the zoo were astronomical: 10 bucks a person. While this sounds like very little money now, $10 while you are living by $100 commissions is pretty steep. Naturally, we didn’t want to pay the steep charge, but we really wanted to get inside and flip off the monkeys (watch Anchorman). We scanned the area, not sure what to do, when we noticed the IMAX theater which linked to the zoo.

I led the charge as we walked past the main ticket booth towards the IMAX entrance, where a 60 year-old woman was tearing tickets and a velvet rope in a V shape herded zoo-goers towards her. We walked up to the first rope of the V on the right side and casually unhooked, walked through, and re-hooked the rope back in place. As I did so, I looked at the woman taking tickets, nodded to her, and she smiled and waved back as we waltzed into the zoo. We continued to talk about sales from the previous week, so as not to seem suspiciously giddy about our indiscretion, but once we were in the clear we couldn’t withhold our laughter any longer.

We proceeded to the monkey cage and flipped of the monkeys repeatedly, after which we returned to our apartment, triumphant.

Kenny and the Spiked Potato

Kenny was a guy like no other. Here is another story about him.

One of the reasons Steve couldn’t pick me up as soon as I would have liked when I was getting chased (see The Great Escape) was because of Kenney. On his way to pick me up, Steve got a call from Kenny. “STEVE!!!! Go. There’s a bird on the sign!”

“What? Is this Kenny?” Steve asked.

“I’M KENNY! I’M KENNY! I’M KENNY!”

“What? What’s up Kenny,” Steve asked. Steve wasn’t very surprised he was getting a weird call from Kenny. He kind of expected it by now.

“The Mexican barbeque… Everything is spinning… I need a ride…” Kenny slurred. Steve realized that something was genuinely wrong this time.

“Ok Kenny, where are you? I’ll come pick you up.” Steve asked

No answer.

“Kenny? Are you there?”

Kenny then mumbled something about a dog and then hung up. Steve got a couple more phone calls like this from Kenny and still couldn’t get a street name or any other useful information from him. Steve drove up and down the streets he had assigned Kenny earlier that day. He finally found Kenny standing on a corner looking straight up in the air and spinning slowly in circles.

Steve rolled down the window and said, “Get in Kenny.” Kenny grabbed the door handle and stood there. There was a look of confusion on his face, like he didn’t know how to open the door. Steve waited and Kenny just stood there. Steve reached over and opened the passenger side door. This time a look of astonishment flashed across Kenny’s face, but he still just stood there. “Come on, Kenny. Get in,” Steve said, trying to hold back the laughter.

Kenny climbed into the van, put his Big Gulp and baked potato in the cup holder, and immediately started rambling incoherently. Steve had no idea what Kenny was trying to tell him. This went on for about ten minutes before Kenny suddenly reclined the seat and went to sleep.

Steve resumed his daily duties with Kenny sleeping in the passenger seat all the while wondering what actually happened.

Kenny woke up an hour or two later and filled Steve in on what happened.

As I was hiding on the floor of the minivan (for the reason I was hiding, read “The Great Escape” from a few weeks ago) Steve and Grady filled me in on Kenny’s story. It was a typical hilarious Kenny story. They said it was best when you hear it straight from Kenny. Not being too far from his area and having some time to kill we went and found him.

We pulled up to Kenny and he jumped in the van with a massive big gulp in his hand.

We inquired, and Kenny divulged his story one more time, clearly happy that people were enjoying it.

“I was walking down to the next street and I saw all these people in a back yard so I stopped to talk to ‘em. I was telling ‘em all about the Simon 3 and how I could put sensors on their doors and they asked if I wanted something to eat. They were having a barbeque and it smelled really good. So I was like, ‘Ok.’ Maybe it will help me get another sale. Oh yeah, I sold a system to this hot blond chick earlier that…

Kenny started talking about a different sale he got earlier in the day and Steve guided him back on topic.

“Ok. So these Mexican guys were getting me a plate of food ready while I was talking to one of the wives or girlfriends or whatever. I was telling her about how the system is cellular based to call 911 so that bad guys can’t cut the phone line and…”

“I know how the system works, Kenny. Keep going with the story.” Grady guided Kenny back on track one more time.

“Oh yeah. So I’m telling her about the system and the guys getting my food ready were kind of laughing and stuff. I didn’t think much about it because I really wanted a sale. So the guys gives me a plate with some grilled chicken and a baked potato. I start eatin’ and telling them about the system and they all seamed really interested. Everybody there was gathered around the picnic table listening to my pitch. I thought I was going to get three sales right there. Do you know how awesome that would be! To get three sales all at the same time! Man, That would be so cool…”

“So what happened next?” I pushed. This is how Kenny’s stories typically went; a lot of prodding to get them out of him, but always well worth the effort.

“When I finished the chicken the guy with the hat asked if I was spinning yet. I didn’t know what he was talking about so I just kept going on with my pitch. Then all the sudden I started to get dizzy and everything felt like it was going in circles around me.”

“So they drugged you?” I clarified.

“I think so,” Kenny replied. “I got up from the picnic table and it was really had to walk and keep my balance. I grabbed the rest of my potato and backed out of their yard so they couldn’t attack me or something and they were laughing the whole time.”

Adrian, the ardent worker he was, saw the van sitting there from a few blocks away and came up in the middle of Kenny’s story. Any excuse to get out of knocking on doors was a good one, especially for Adrian. He caught most of the story and pieced it together with the pieces he read through text messages he had already gotten. He asked Kenny a few questions about what exactly he felt and other circumstances and immediately had an answer.

“They gave you a barb.” Adrian stated very matter of fact-ly. Adrian continued due to the puzzled look on all of our faces. “A barbiturate, most likely a ‘yellow-jacket.’ Probably mashed it up in the potato.” Adrian proceeded to explain what exactly that was and all the effects. Adrian was a stalky Canadian from rural British Columbia. Some earlier suspicions about his recreational drug use were confirmed.

Kenny continued, “So I called you,” as he pointed to Steve, “and told you where I was and you came and picked me up.”

“You never told me where you were, Kenny.” Steve joked.

“Yeah I did, then how’d you find me?” Kenny asked with a puzzled look.

Steve explained, “You said something about a barbeque and a bird, most of the rest was pretty incoherent, but you mentioned something about a dog at the end.”

“Oh Yeah!!!” Kenny exclaimed. “I remember chasing a dog right before you picked me up. I thought he took my Big Gulp.”

We laughed for a good five minutes at that one. Kenny was laughing too but I’m not sure he realized why.

Peeing

Just a quick note, most girls probably won’t like this story. Read at your own risk, girls.

Door-to-door sales can be a tough job, especially for someone who doesn’t like to intrude on other people. Most of us were like that when we started. It was hard enough for me to get through a pitch at a door, much less ask someone for something after they had already rejected me in the first place. One of the things I hated to ask was to use someone’s bathroom…as a result, I often found myself peeing under a bridge, in some bushes, behind a vacant house, or even in a co-workers shoes (see The Prank War). Thinking back, I’m surprised I felt more comfortable peeing in public than peeing in someone’s house.

I wasn’t the only who relieved himself creatively either. One of the guys who worked with us had to go #2 so bad one day that he found a house no one was home at and pooped in the backyard. He came back with only one sock…we all thought he was pretty funny, but his wife didn’t seem to agree. This was the first of many interesting reliefs over the summer…as time went on we all discovered the joy of peeing in water bottles while we were on the move. The first time I had to pee and didn’t have an option, Steve picked me up and threw me a water bottle. It took some time, but I eventually succeeded, and thus the trend started. We would be driving along, listening to the radio in silence, and we would suddenly hear the sound of a stream of liquid filling a plastic water bottle. At first this was quite comical, but it actually became fairly commonplace.

As time went on, it became normal to jump into the back of the van and find a pee-filled water bottle. We would dispose of our own waste every night, so the van didn’t get too full of refuse, but as time went on the peeing moved into new realms. Steve, or manager, would often come to the houses we were making a sale at to help close the deal. Steve’s favorite past-time quickly became asking to use the customer’s bathroom, and instead of peeing in the toilet, he would pee in the sink. We’re not sure why this was so hilarious, but it caught on. Instead of bragging about how many sales we got that day, we would brag about how many sinks we had peed in. This was a big change for me, since at the beginning of the summer I was embarrassed to use a customer’s bathroom, and now I was abusing them.

One evening, we were all waiting for Grady, one of the other salesmen, to come out of a sale so we could all go home. Taylor, another salesman, was sitting in the backseat drinking a fountain-drink from 7-11 when an idea hit him. He finished the soda and jumped behind the backseat into the trunk area of the van, where he proceeded to…not pee…but poop in his empty Styrofoam cup. About three seconds after the other 5 guys in the van realized what he was doing, we escaped the van before we felt like puking. Taylor remained in the van for a few minutes before exiting the trunk hatch with his prize possession, when we all informed him that he and his friend were both not welcome for the ride home. Taylor placed the poop-cup behind a tree just in time for Grady to come out of the sale, and as we all drove home in silence, Grady sat, wondering what the awkwardness had resulted from.

The next day, no one peed in bottles, cups, or even sinks. Except for Grady, but we made him drink his pee as punishment.

Kenny and the $35.29 Big Gulps

Kenny, like half of the office, was a Canuck. Some things just plain escaped him. Debit cards were one of those things.

As mentioned in other stories, Kenny always had a Big Gulp. Every time I saw him he had a Big Gulp with him. Once, I saw him get into the van without one and I was shocked. Then he got a worried look on his face as he jumped out of the van. He scrambled around outside until he found his Big Gulp sitting on the curb. Every day Kenny would buy his Big Gulp, sometimes two or three of them a day. Without fail.

Firstline didn’t have the best track record when it came to paying employees. The first few weeks of the summer only a couple people got paid the right amount at the right time. We all opened up accounts at US Bank because it was right across the street from our office. Every payday the bank was a madhouse in the morning with everyone showing up to deposit checks and such.

Kenny knew how much he was suppose to be getting paid. But he didn’t keep very good track of how much he was actually getting paid. One payday Kenny deposited his check and the teller handed him his deposit slip and Kenny’s jaw dropped open in disbelief.

“$238?!” Kenny exclaimed. “How can I be negative $238?!” Kenny proceeded to argue with the teller who clearly didn’t care what kind of predicament this put Kenny in. Kenny picked up on the fact that the girl didn’t care and he got louder and louder.

Finally a senior teller stepped in and pulled Kenny over to her desk. “What seems to be the problem?” she asked in a soft, grandmotherly sort of tone.

Kenny quieted down some but was still visibly angered. He told the lady that it was impossible that he could be $238 in the hole. “All I buy is Big Gulps,” he said.

The lady patiently explained that Kenny had been buying all of his big gulps for the past week when he didn’t have any real money in his account. Each time he bought a $1.29 Big Gulp he was also incurring an additional overdraft fee of $34.00.

Kenny was irate. He was so mad he could barely talk. The only thing he could say is, “But, that’s not how debit cards work in Canada!” His argument got louder and more incoherent. The lady calmed him down once again and told him she would wave one or two of the fees but he would still have to pay off the rest.

Kenny realized he had nothing left to argue and left. He decided to open another account at a different bank and leave his debt here when he went back to Canada at the end of the summer. Kenny still bought Big Gulps on a daily basis.

Kenny

Kenny is a guy unlike any guy I’ve ever met. How can I describe Kenny…he has a messy-hair look all the time, and I guess that pretty much summarizes his whole life…messy hair. Let me explain a little better.

I first met Kenny the night after I got to Kansas City. I had flown in from San Antonio that morning and went straight out to knock and get some sales. At the end of the day, Steve picked me up and I met up with Chet and talked about how the last few weeks down in Texas had been for me. We headed back to the office and inside I saw…Kenny.

Kenny looked confused…he was just standing in the middle of the room, staring at the dry-erase board where we recorded the sales, holdng a Big Gulp.

“Hey, you need something?” I asked the clearly confused young man.

“I got a sale today but the board says I didn’t…” Kenny motioned to the board and sure enough, it didn’t say he had any sales. It also didn’t have anyone else’ sales recorded either, and it being my first day in a new office, I was a little confused myself. Kenny laughed to himself as he shook his head and walked away. That was Kenny.

Over the next three months, Kenny would never cease to amaze me. One morning, as we all gathered in for the ritual morning cheer, Kenny seemed confused about something.

“Has anyone here ever heard of that Jeep thing?” Kenny shouted to us as we were milling about.

“Like…the car?” Someone replied.

“No not like that,” Kenny responded, as he set down his Big Gulp, got down on all fours and began crawling about, saying “Beep, beep, I’m a Jeep…beep, beep, I’m a Jeep!”

Everyone stared at Kenny in shock, not knowing if we were supposed to laugh, cry, or even join him…but that was Kenny. After he ‘explained’ what the Jeep thing was, he got up, grabbed his Big Gulp, and walked out without saying another word…that was Kenny.

Outside Kenny’s odd outbursts and interesting personality, he was a pretty good salesman and pretty luck as well. Kenny usually came back with a sale at the end of the day, and even if he didn’t, someone he had talked with extensively would call him a few days later.

“We wish we had listened to you, Kenny, our house got robbed last night and we want an alarm now,” they would state. Kenny would get their information and get over to their house immediately to seal the deal. This happened at least four times to Kenny, and we all just thought he was lucky. Turned out, he wasn’t.

Kenny walked into the office barefoot one day with a Big Gulp in his hand after going to sign a deal earlier that morning. No one thought it was beyond Kenny to forget his shoes, but we decided to ask him what happened anyway. Kenny took a breath and began to explain.

“We’re so glad you could come back and get us this alarm system…we wish we had listened to you before we were robbed.” Kenny sipped on his Big Gulp and listened to his client as they were ready to sign the papers, and consoled them on the emotional event. Just as the woman was about to sign the papers, she looked down and asked “What kind of shoes are those?”

“Oh these, these are Nike Shox…I got them about a week ago.” The woman set the pen down and pulled out a business card the detective had given her hours prior. Ten minutes later, Kenny was being asked to relinquish his shoes by that same detective.

“Listen here, sonny,” the detective grumbled, “Nike Shox are the same kind of shoe that was used to kick this door in the other night when fine these people were robbed.” Kenny had no idea what the officer was getting at, but as Kenny explained that his shoes were taken, we helped clarify that he was now a suspect in the robbery. Lucky for him, Kansas City police are more concerned with the half a dozen murders a day than with salesmen like Kenny. Lucky for him this wasn’t Raytown.

We all thought the incident was odd and very coincidental, but we all laughed it off as another interesting moment in door-to-door sales history. That is, until the drive out to our area, when someone suggested that maybe Kenny did rob that lady’s house, along with all the other houses that had been robbed where he got a sale afterwards. Kenny’s roommates had explained how weird Kenny was, every morning he would stand out on the balcony, talking and laughing while having a cigarette, but no one would be out there with him. Then, he would often be unable to recall conversations he had with other people in the office, or even customers. We pieced it together and realized that maybe Kenny had robbed all those houses and he just didn’t remember.

“Maybe Kenny is like Tyler Durden, like from Fight Club,” someone suggested. We all got a laugh at that, but then the laugh turned into a quiet realization that maybe they were right. Maybe Kenny had an alter-ego or a split personality, or maybe he was just crazy. The pieces came together in my mind…the talking to himself, the odd one-sided conversations, and the look in his eyes like he wasn’t really there…that was Kenny.

The Great Escape

The days can get really long when selling door to door. Usually the things people do or say to you at the door to get you to leave just roll off your back. They have to in this business or you end up quitting like a lot of people in the office. Today was a day that got to me a bit.

I can’t remember for sure what got to me throughout the day, but I remember the straw that broke the camel’s back. I knocked on a door and waited. A moment later I hear, “No habla Englase! F*** You! No habla Englase!”

Seriously, I think to myself. I learned enough Spanish to get a door approach out. I even made a sale in Spanish once. I don’t even speak Spanish. But I learned just enough to function in Spanish neighborhoods. These idiots moved here and all they can say in English is, “f*** you”?!

It wasn’t my best judgment ever, but I left a note on the door that said something along the lines of, “Learn English or go back to Mexico,” or something of that nature. As I walked away from the door I took a look at my map and realized there was a mall a few blocks away. I figured it would be a good idea to go grab some food there and take a break to regain some composure.

I’m half way down the street and all the sudden a speeding car comes to a sliding stop in the middle of the street. One look inside revealed an obese woman who also happend to be yelling something at me; a slightly less obese woman in the passenger seat, both are dressed like trailer trash. And in the back seat was a thirteen or fourteen year old black kid, dressed like a thug. I had a suspicion that this car load of trash was somehow related to my note.

The lady demanded I come over to the car so I decided to oblige her request. My suspicions were correct; she started yelling at me about my note. She said she was going to call the cops and call my boss so I quickly removed my badge and shoved it in my pocket and flipped over my sales binder that had the company’s 800 number in big bold letters.

I told her the cops weren’t going to do anything, but I really didn’t want to stick around to find out. I’d already had one run in with the police here and I didn’t need a second. I calmed the lady down a bit but she was set on either getting me arrested of fired. She told me I should be thanking her that she got the note first and not her Mexican-gangbanger neighbors. She even threatened to go tell said neighbors and have them shoot me after I refused to give her my bosses phone number. So much for not perpetuating the stereotype. I kept the lady talking long enough to formulate a plan.

Steve, our boss, would give each of us a map everyday and highlight the streets we could knock. I stole glances at the map while I argued with the female Jabba the Hutt about how I’m not actually a racist. I even accused her of being the racist because she was the one yelling things in Spanish. That didn’t go over real well. I noticed a fairly large, undeveloped portion of land a block away that stood between me and the mall on the map. That’s when the idea hit me.

Next thing I know I running down the street at a full sprint. I heard the sound of a car starting up and peeling out. They’re going to run me over! I think to myself. I ran between two parked cars, onto the sidewalk, and hurdled some kid’s toys.

Only twenty yards to the field.

I crossed the street and ran down the hill into the brush just as the ghetto car slid to a stop on the street above me. They started yelling and I kept running, not looking back. “Home free,” I said as I dropped out of their sight.

This undeveloped land was about a quarter mile by a quarter mile. There was a bunch of tall trees on the West side, some big piles of dirt that a construction company dumped near the Northeast corner, and fairly tall brush most everywhere else. All I had to do was go from the South end to the neighborhood on the North end and make my way a mile West to the mall. Easier said than done.

As I stepped out of the brush and onto the street I knew something wasn’t quite right. I looked over my shoulder and saw the crappy brown ghetto car that had been chasing me only minutes before. The thug kid stuck his head out the window and started yelling as the car picked up speed. I headed back for the brush and easily avoided them. I spent the next half hour or so popping out of different parts of the land only to be spotted with in thirty seconds. The thug kid even got out of the car and tried to follow me at one point. Luckily, he couldn’t keep up so he went back to the car. The last thing I needed was to be put in a position where I had to beat up some fourteen year old.

It didn’t help that I was wearing a bright blue company shirt. They probably could see just enough of the shirt to see which direction I was headed in so they could cut me off. New game plan. I decided to call Steve, my boss.

Steve drove around in a minivan all day. When one of us would give him a call he would show up at the house and help close the sale. I could have him drive by and I could jump in the van and leave.

I hunkered down behind some bushes and pulled out my phone. Just as Steve picked up I heard movement, so I whispered.

“Steve, people are chasing me. I’m hiding in some bushes right now. You need to pick me up.”

“You’re where? … I’m in a house with Taylor right now, I’ll call you back in a minute.”

I turned my phone to silent and waited. The sound of movement stopped so if figured it probably wasn’t the thug kid. My phone rang. I whispered again when I answered partly to make sure no one could hear me, partly for the theatrics.

“Steve, I’m hiding in some bushes in an undeveloped part of my knocking area. Some people are chasing me so I need you to pick me up and get me out of here.”

“That’s crazy! What happened?” Steve asked, half laughing.

“It’s a long story, I’ll fill you in on all the details when you get here.” I proceeded to explain where I was on his master map and the general sketch of whey they were chasing me.

“I’m way over in Taylor’s area right now. I have to pick up Grady too. I can be there in a half an hour or 45 minutes or so.”

“Alright,” I said. “I can kill some time here in the bushes.”

I spent the next half hour staying out of sight and making phone calls to keep from getting bored.

Steve pulled into the area he thought I was in and called me. Steve wasn’t very good with directions, but this time he wasn’t too far off. I was giving him directions to guide him closer when all the sudden he said, “hold on.”

It sounded like he put the phone in his pocket, luckily I could still hear what was going on.

“Hey! Do you work for Firstline?” I recognized the voice of the trailer trash hunting me.

“Yeah, I’m the local manager. What’s up?” It sounded like Steve already knew what this would be about.

I caught most of the conversation. The fat lady told Steve why they were chasing me and said the cops were on their way. Steve apologized, said he would take care of it, and asked to see the note. He also asked if he could keep it. This made me happy. If Steve had it, there would be no real evidence for the fat chicks to give to the police.

Every few minutes Steve would pull out his phone and update me on what was going on and to stay out of sight. The police showed up a few minutes later and didn’t seem to care a whole lot. They looked around for a minute and said to call back if there were any more problems.

Now that the police were gone Steve convinced the ghetto girls that he would take care of the situation. He got back on his phone and informed me that the fat chicks were still on the lookout for me and we needed to get out of there quick.

I moved to some cover on the Northwest corner of the land I was on and guided Steve in. This took quite a while. Steve is an excellent salesman, he’s just not very good with maps. I finally saw him drive by going West. I told him to stop and turn around and I explained the rest of my plan.

Growing up I remember an Air Force pilot by the name of Scott O’Grady getting shot down in Bosnia and seeing the news footage of him running to the helicopter after evading capture for several days. This whole thing vaguely reminded me of Captain O’Grady.

The plan was in action. Steve slowly drove down the street. “OK Steve, I can see you now. You’re about a hundred yards from my position… Open the door… now.”

Grady opened the sliding door of the van on my command about thirty yards from my position. This was the cue for me to sprint. Steve was still doing about fifteen miles per hour. Luckily I timed my sprint just right. I dove from the curb into the moving van. I landed on the middle seats and then rolled onto the floor and Grady shut the door.

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Where’d you come from?” Steve yelled. “I didn’t even see you coming!” Steve was clearly excited by our game of Mission: Impossible.

Seconds later Steve yelled, “get down!” The ghetto car was up ahead and flagging Steve down. He rolled to a stop and cracked the window while I tried to stay out of sight on the floor of the van. Porky asked Steve if he had seen me yet. Steve said no and made up a story about how I’m not even answering his phone calls. They seemed to swallow his story and left.

I stayed on the floor explaining the whole story to Steve and Grady while we drove to a new area. We all had a good laugh.

Steve dropped me off in a new area to finish out the night. I called him to pick me up pretending to be hiding in a bush again and he almost bought it.

The VP of the company happened to be in town to visit the office when all this happened. I was a little nervous at what might happen. Steve told me the next day that John, the VP, thought it was hilarious. It can’t happen again, but hilarious none the less.

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.