XYZ INC.

To Read Part One, Click Here...

Matt Desmond, with his bushy black hair slicked back, sat on the bus as it traveled down Glenoaks Blvd, towards Sun Valley where the XYZ Warehouse was located.

The jacket and slacks were borrowed from his father. The shoes were purchased at the Salvation Army for $5. The tie was a birthday gift from his mother: jet black, no stripes. The shirt was stolen from his older brother years ago, and never returned.

Matt got off the bus and put his Columbo trenchcoat on to combat the early morning cold. Matt never was nor ever would be a 'morning person'-- he preferred to sleep in late and stay up until the wee hours. He definitely was a 'nocturnal animal'.

Matt walked into the upstairs office above the warehouse and saw many young men, all dressed in suits, milling about, standing casually while sifting through a breakfast buffet table that consisted of bagels, coffee, and donuts.

Matt got a good look at all of the people there. He could tell who were the newbies, because they all reminded him of himself: laconic, apprehensive, exhausted from the night before...

He also distinguished the 'veterans', if there could be such a term for a job like this with such a high turnover rate. They were the go-getters, the ones who couldn't stop talking, the ones who were practicing their sales pitches on their peers and bragged about the take from yesterday and the day before.

He silently wished that he'd landed a job in the actual warehouse, lifting boxes and taking orders. But they wanted him on the front lines; Chas knew an able-bodied salesman when he saw one, and even Matt knew that much about himself-- that he could be mighty persuasive when need be, and that he possessed a sterling silver tongue.

Matt stepped outside for a cigarette. He was followed by a young man in a three-piece suit that his grandfather must have been married and buried in, because it didn't look contemporary by any means and fit quite badly on the lanky man's frame.

"Gotta light?" the man asked Matt.

"Yes," Matt replied, and flicked his lighter for the man.

"Name's Joe," the man said.

"Matthew."

"Nice to meet you, Matthew," Joe said, eyes darting furtively. "You been here long?"

"First day."

"Mine too."

Matt lit himself a cigarette and paused to savor the flavor. "What do you think they'll have us do today?"

"I dunno... that Chas guy, he said we were ready to hit the streets. I don't think I am, but I'll give it a try. Shit, anything's better than collecting unemployment right now, ya dig?"

Joe had a Southern twang in his voice, and Matt noticed he was missing a lot of his front teeth. "I dig," Matt answered.

"Gotta move out of my dad's place, ya know?" Joe was sucking down his cigarette in record time. "Me and the wife, it was only temporaries, see? Weren't sposed ta be there longer'n a month... but times, they're tough."

"I'm in the same boat," Matt said. "I'm living at h--"

"This job here, I hope I makes a lotta money on it, 'cause I'm goin' crazy dealing with all the stress," Joe said, unfazed by his interruption of Matt. "But I thank I can dew it. I thank I got the knack. It just takes hustle."

"I'm not so sure I have what it takes," Matt said.

"Aw, man, don't say that. I don't wanna hear that, man!" Joe was petulant.

"I'm not trying to be a downer... I mean, I want to do good. I want to make money. But if I'm no good at it, then... I'll just walk away." Matt finished his cigarette as Joe pulled out another and motioned for another flame from Matt's lighter.

"See, I ain't a quitter," Joe said, as he dragged on the butt. "I sticks it out, no matter what. Even if it kills me, I'ma sell somethin'..."

"That's awesome," Matt said, in a tone that belied the statement. "I wish you the best of luck, Joe. You deserve it."

"Thank ya," Joe said. He seemed sheepish and shy now, possibly excited that Matt had wished him well.

"I think Chas is here," Matt said, as he looked inside the office and saw the rest of the men congregating in a circle. "Let's go in."


*/*


Chas, decked out in a fine black Italian suit and loafers, whistled loudly and motioned for everyone to stand in a circle around him, in that charming Irish brogue he loved to exploit.

"Okay, papal, gather ron, gather ron, ah goat ta brief ya befar whey tek tew da streets..."

Mat surveyed the room: a collection of lowlifes, losers, unlovable lugs and louts, all stuffed into tight-fitting monkey suits that projected respectability but couldn't suppress the sleaze beneath...

Chas took the center stage and proved why he was at the top of this particular pyramid:

"Yer oll here for won reason, roight? Won reason and only won reason: ta mek munney, no? Orange ya tired of wekkin' up in da marning, yer back is knockin' from slaypin on a beaten mattress? Ya git up and ya goat no shoes own ya feet? Ya got no car, no automobile, and ya gotta tekk the measly buss? Iddin dat a drag?"

The crowd of men agreed vocally.

"I cand 'ear ya! Ah no it's marnin' boat ya gotta sound off like ya gotta pear!"

The men got louder, more riled up.

"Dat's betta. Ya gotta have big bolls if ya wanna make enny munney oaf dis gig, boys. Ya gotta have big, fat, red-hot elephant nuts!"

The men laughed. Matt chuckled at the spectacle, at Chas' choice of words.

"Look at me, boys. I wes jess like yew once. I was broke as a joke, eaten Top Ramen out da bag wit no water, holes in me shoes from walking, no girlfriend, no house of me own, nothin' but me bolls, gentlemen. Cos like Tony Montana says, 'I only got ma word and mah bolls, an' I brake dem far no one!'"

This got a huge laugh, especially from Matt, who found it surreal that he was up at the crack of dawn, listening to an Irish/Scottish bloke with a heavy accent do his impression of Al Pacino's Cuban accent in Scarface.

"In a few moments we're going to go down tha list, tha things yew need to no when I set ya loose on the streets, peddlin ya wares ta customers and potential buyers. Ahm gonna tell ya wot ta do and wot NOT ta do, ya get me?"

They all nodded in unison. Chas then split the group up into smaller groups, so that the experienced pros could give pointers to the newbloods.

Matt was accosted by a well-dressed, firmly-cologned man named Johnny. He was wearing a gold chain and some nice rings on his fingers.

"Hey, you... show me your pitch!"

Matt was a bit dumbfounded. "My... my pitch?"

"Your pitch, man! Your sales pitch. Let me see what you got!"

Rather than standing there explaining to Johnny that he'd never pitched before, Matt instead played along instinctively. Johnny pretended to be walking down the street, setting himself up to be solicited.

Matt walked up to Johnny and started to speak but before he could get a word in edgewise Johnny blurted out, "Not interested!" and briskly walked away. Then, he stopped, broke character, and walked back to Matt.

"See how easy it was for me to brush you aside?" Johnny said to Matt. "Now let's switch!"

"Okay," Matt said, as he walked back down the hall a bit, turned around, and walked towards Johnny.

"Excuse me, sir--"

Matt tried to do the same thing Johnny did to him. "Not interested".

"--I know you're a busy man and hate to be bothered but if I can have one minute of your time to show you exactly what it is you're missing, I promise it will be worth every second I'm asking. Is that okay, sir? I won't be very long."

Matt, against his own will, acquiesced to the opening line. Johnny went halfway into his pitch and then stopped.

"See how I got my foot in with you? I just kept on talking until you heard me. Maybe you knew I was a salesman when you saw me, but I got you to stop and listen. And that's half of it, kid. If you can do that, then you're on the right track."

Matt said, "I gotta admit-- you made me stop and listen."

"One more time. Try it on me again, kid. " Johnny walked down the hall and looked at Matt, but this time with a gleam in his eye, like he'd just discovered new talent and was giving it some sort of a litmus test. Then, Johnny began to walk.

"Hello, sir, how are you doing today?"

"Whatever it is, buddy, I'm not interested."

"You look like a fair-minded person, I know you're in a hurry to stay on schedule, I'm a busy man myself, but I can tell you'd be interested n this item because it's for serious-minded individuals such as yourself..."

Johny stopped and looked at Matt. "That was pretty good, kid. Where'd you learn words like that?"

"Words like that?"

"Yeah, you know... 'serious-minded' and 'individual'... that shit works. In fact, if you don't mind... I'm gonna use it in my pitch today, see how it goes!"

"Go right ahead, bro," Matt said, unaware that Johnny was nicknamed 'The Fisher', not just because he was good with casting out lines, but because he liked to practice his pitch with others so that he could poach their best lines.

"Is this your first day, kid?"

"Yeah, first day."

"Hold on for a minute."

Johnny walked over to Chas, who was busy giving orders to the office associates. Johnny bent Chas' ear for a bit, motioned over to Matt, and then Johnny walked back over to where he left Matt standing.

"I talked to Chas about you, man. He's putting you on with Ugly Greg."

"Ugly Greg?"

"Greg's the best. You're gonna learn from The King!"

Matt tried to smile but his stomach, upset from sugary donuts and watered-down coffee, wouldn't let him.


*/*


Ugly Greg was not unattractive at all-- in fact, he was quite handsome for a man, with a passing resemblance to James Mason in his younger days. Ugly Greg was tall, well-dressed, and charismatic, but he was far from ugly.

He gained the nickname for two reasons: One, his last name was Feo, which means 'ugly' in Spanish; Two, and most tellingly, he was the resident sales champion of XYZ Inc., and anyone who went up against him in a contest of sheer numbers ended up eating the humblest of pie. Greg was so determined to be the best that it often "got ugly", with rival salesmen getting angry at Greg's seeming invincibility. Add to all that the fact that Greg always rang the bell early, scooping up every bonus that XYZ offered as an employee incentive, and it became clear that Ugly Greg was the Alpha Male, the Big Dog, the Man To Beat.

Greg was the only "wholesale contractor" (the euphemism that the salesmen implemented for themselves) who had his own office upstairs. Johnny personally escorted Matt to Greg's office and knocked on the door.

"Yes?"

"Greg, it's Johnny. Open up."

Ugly Greg opened the door to his office. The decor inside was chaotic and messy, with papers strewn every which way. Greg welcomed them into the office with a hearty smile and a warm demeanor.

"Greg, this is Matt Desmond. He's a newblood. Matt, this is Ugly Greg."

"Nice to meet you, Matt." Greg extended his arm and caught Matt's hand with a firm shake.

"Nice to meet you too," Matt said.

"Greg, you know I don't bother you for no reason, man, but this kid... I think he's got potential."

"Really?" Greg looked Matt over, trying to find his angle. "What makes you say that?"

"He's articulated, bro," Johnny said.

"Articulated?" Greg raised an eyebrow.

"You know, well-spoken... he sounds like a news anchor!"

"How old are you, Matt?"

"Nineteen."

"No shit? Are you in school?"

"No sir."

"Did you graduate from high school?"

"Yes, I did."

"I bet you like to read."

"Yes, I do, as a matter of fact."

Johnny started guffawing. "Hear that, man? 'As a matter of fact'... that's his deal! That's his angle. Kid's got a vocabulary!"

Greg put his arm around Matt. "Well, if Johnny here says you're good to go, then I'll take you under my wing. Normally, I don't do this shit-- God knows how many losers these boys tried to pawn off on me-- but I can tell you're smart, Matt. You could be long-term, for sure."

Greg then looked back at Johnny. "Is Chas cool with it?"

"Oh, yeah," Johnny replied, "I ran it by him before I brought him up here."

"Cool," Ugly Greg said. "Welcome to XYZ, Matt. I'm gonna show you the ropes!"

Chas whistled again, and gathered his private congregation, his fledgling flock, around him once more for the final briefing of the morning. In his hand was a cheap 35mm camera.

"Today, we're gettin' rid of dees cameras. We paid three dullahs far dem, so we recommend ya sell dem far four and a haff. Of carse, the price ya set is oll up ta yew, gentlemen, so go ahead and stop buy the warehouse and grab yer merch and git ta sellin'!"

The warehouse was swarming with fashionably-dressed testosterone, each filling out forms and grabbing boxloads of cameras and other merchandise-- 'merch', as Chas referred to it --to sell throughout the day.

After Matt grabbed his own box, Greg told him to meet him ouside of the building so they could get on their way. Matt was a bit underwhelmed when he saw Greg's car, a Datsun B-210 with severe body damage and an interior that looked like a grizzly bear had eaten a man alive behind the wheel.

"What happened to your car, Greg?"

"It was stolen, then used in a high-speed chase."

"No shit!"

"I was at home watching TV when they interrupted the news. At first I was all like, 'check it out, another car chase' but then I realized it was MY car!"

"That's crazy."

"Yeah, but what can you do, eh?"

Greg took Matt to his favorite spot for selling merch: Santa Monica Blvd and Bundy.

"I always have good luck here," Greg said. "If you ask me, it's not about the pitch, or the words you use, or the way you look-- none of that matters, Matt. Location-- that's what matters."

They parked the car and got out, each holding enough merch to carry comfortably.

"Okay, Matt, how do you wanna do this-- you wanna stick by me and watch me work, or do you wanna go out on your own for a bit and see how you do?"

Matt's answer was obvious, given his independent nature: "I wanna go off on my own for a bit."

Greg smiled. "Johnny was right. You got it. And hey, if you don't do that well, remember that it's just your first day."

Matt and Greg agreed to meet back at the car in an hour. They synchronized their watches and set off on their own separate ways.

After an hour, Matt had done pretty good for himself: he sold three cameras, each for five dollars each. This came out to a personal profit of six dollars, and it didn't take much for Matt to sell them. His pitch, although unrefined and lacking in punch, was enough to convince two old ladies and a college kid waiting for the bus to give him money for the cheap Taiwanese cameras.

He waited for Greg back at the car. Greg showed up five minutes late, with a hot dog in his hands and nothing else.

"How'd you do?" Greg asked in between bites.

"I sold three cameras."

Greg was surprised. "Three cameras? How much did you sell 'em for ?"

"Five each."

Greg smiled. "Way to go! That's awesome! One hour's work and you've already sold three!" He gave Matt a high five with his free hand.

"Where's your stuff?" Matt asked.

"Sold it all," Greg said. "The whole case."

Matt's face screwed up into an incomprehensible grimace. "That quick?"

Greg finished the hot dog and showed Matt the money. "I usually do better."

"Damn," Matt said. "I don't know if I'll ever get that good..."

"Ah, don't worry about it," Ugly Greg said. "Your first day, three cameras in one hour? That was better than my first day."

"Really? How long you been with XYZ, by the way?"

"About three years," Greg said. "I didn't make any real money until a month into it. You're doin' great, Matt! I predict that you'll make at least $50 by the day's end."

This encouraged Matt. The rest of the day, he divided his time between selling his own wares and watching Greg work his magic on the streets. By the end of the day, when the two men had returned to the warehouse at sundown, Matt had made $75 in take-home cash, and Ugly Greg had sold every box he grabbed from the warehouse that morning, for a grand total of $500 in personal sales. Greg had even swept up the incentive bonus by lunch time, a feat that both amazed and fascinated Matt to no end.

Riding home on the bus in the evening, Matt was excited about this new job. If I keep this pace up, he thought to himself, I can have a gang of money by the end of the week...

He saw Joe, the man who'd bummed a cigarette off of him that morning, in a seat near the back of the bus. Figuring he had the right to talk to him as a friend and a co-worker, Matt walked up to him and sat down next to him.

"Hey, Joe!"

"Hey, what's up, man?" Joe looked tired, drained.

"I made $75 today. How'd you do?"

Joe was silent for a spell. Then he said, "Ahm quittin'."

"What?" Matt felt very bad-- maybe Joe had done badly and didn't want to hear from someone else who had done well.

"Ahm quittin'... this ain't fer me. I ain't got what it takes."

"How can you say that? It's only been one day. I thought you were going to give it a shot, no matter what."

"Yeah, I said them thangs, an' takes it back. Ahm gonna go down to EED tomorra and get my unemployment check."

"Oh, well.. sorry to see you go, Joe."

"Don't mention it, buddy. Hey, good for you, right? I ain't tryin' to bring you down, man. Ahm happy that you did well, believe me. I just wish I was a better salesman, you dig?"

"I dig."

Joe rang the bell for the next stop, got up from his seat and exited the bus. Three more stops and Matt would be home as well. Matt sat there, feeling bad for rubbing it in with Joe, but then again he had no idea that Joe was so discouraged.

This didn't affect Matt negatively, however-- if anything, it gave him the impetus to go home, iron his clothes for the next day, and strike out on his own once again, to try and make some money so that he could move into his own place and start running his own life.