Letters From an Old Time Salesman to His Son

by Roy Lester James

Yes, I know—I know there are a lot of things you’re not going to stand for and you’re all right in it too. There are a lot of things you shouldn’t stand for, as a Manager, but what I’m talking about, Red, is the best way to go about to correct them.

Before you sit down and dictate that red hot, phosphorous, steaming, sizzling letter to Hulbert on account of the way he emphasized his unfortunate displacement of bone, where gray matter should be, stop a minute, Red, close your eyes a minute and let this picture come back. Remember when you were new, when you were beating the brush?—you got in that town that’s always a Jonah; was raining and had been all week; the farmers weren’t paying their bills; it was inventory time and it just seemed like every merchant you called on was just a little more grouchy than the last; no one wanted your goods, and after working hard all day in the rain and snow, you ended up at a so-called hotel that made you think of the Biltmore—it was so different!

You were hungry, but after a glance at the greasy fried potatoes, a pork chop burned to a cinder and the inevitable bread pudding, you just swallowed the lump in your throat and called it a meal? After sitting around the lobby making out a few reports and listening to the senseless patter of a dumb-bell in a checked suit and a pink tie, you took your little pitcher with the broken handle, filled it at the faucet and went up to a sea-going bed that humped up in the middle like William S. Hart’s pet broncho?

Remember, Red, how you worried yourself to sleep—sick of the whole bloomin’ mess, but determined that if others could succeed, you could? You got up in the morning, shaved in ice water, but stuck out your chin and strode to the dining room? Remember the gum-chewing waitress whom someone had told she looked like Theda Bara, who brought in a murky glass of water and exclaimed in a breath, “Steakhamliver’nbacon an’ how’d you want yer aigs?” You wouldn’t have known the coffee if it hadn’t been in a cup, but you picked around like an old hen and sauntered out into the lobby still unbeaten when the fresh squirt behind the register handed you three letters.

Ah, Red—how you smiled! The first one was written in a round girlish hand and told of the good time she was planning with you when you got back to “headquarters.” The next one was written in an old-fashioned hand, now a little scrawly and nervous from age, but it carried the “mother message” of hope and pride in the success she knew was bound to come to “her boy.” Things weren’t so black after all—you’d show those hard-shell merchants you would. You were almost normal when you opened the last letter, which from the envelope you knew was from “the Boss.” It read—“Why don’t you send us some orders—we didn’t send you out to write up weather reports; we don’t pay your salary to allow you to loll in good hotels. Unless you do better next week, we’ll have to make a change.”

Bam! How’d you feel, Red? Now, honest—hasn’t it happened to you? Did it fill you full of pep and enthusiasm and cause you to go out and just knock the cover off the ball? You bet it didn’t and such things never will. That kind of letter was written by a graduate hack-driver, not a real man manager.

New, Red, listen—you were made Branch Manager because of your experience, not alone in the product—not alone in selling, but experience in Life. Your company thinks you have seen so much of conditions that you know how to “help” the weaker brother over the rough places. Teach ’em, Red, lead ’em! The only place for a driver is on the south end of a pair of mules. A kind word here, a helpful suggestion there, will make your men want to take off their coats to help you, Boy, and it is the cheapest way in the world to buy loyalty.

And Red, don’t spend all your time telling the other fellow how to do it. All men are not “from Missouri,” but the “show me” method carries a healthier kick than volumes of sales talks.

You’re going to be a busy man in the new job, Boy, but Mother and I have decided now that we’re glad we didn’t insist on your finishing your musical education, for some day we know you’ll be a Sales Manager and I tell Mother that if she had her way, you would now be playing the snare drum in a jazz orchestra.

Let’s go, Boy, let’s go!