From the standpoint of ambience, the good people at Howard Johnson’s had decided to carry the colors of their well-known rooftop into the restaurant by dressing the booths in bright orange and the waitresses in bright blue—despite the fact that the combination of orange and blue hasn’t been known to stimulate an appetite since the beginning of time. The definitive architectural element of the space was an uninterrupted chain of picture windows, which gave everyone an unimpeded view of the parking lot. The cuisine was a gussied-up version of what you’d find in a diner, and the defining characteristic of the clientele was that with a single glance you could tell more about them than you wanted to know.
Take the red-faced fellow in the next booth who was wiping up his yolk with a corner of whole wheat toast. A traveling salesman, if ever I saw one—and I’ve seen a lifetime supply. On the family tree of unmemorable middle-aged men, traveling salesmen are the first cousins of the has-been performers. They go to the same towns in the same cars and stay at the same hotels. In fact, the only way you can tell them apart is that the salesmen wear more sensible shoes.
As if I needed any proof, after watching him use his command of percentages to tally his waitress’s tip, I saw him annotate the receipt, fold it in two, and stow it in his wallet for the boys back in accounting.
As the salesman stood to go, I noticed from the clock on the wall that it was already half past seven.
—Woolly, I said, the whole point of getting up early is to get an early start. So why don’t you tackle some of those hotcakes while I go to the john. Then we can pay the bill and hit the road.
—Sure thing, said Woolly, while pushing his plate another few inches to the right.
Before going to the men’s room, I got some change from the cashier and slipped into a phone booth. I knew that Ackerly had retired to Indiana, I just didn’t know where. So I had the operator look up the number for Salina and put me through. Given the hour, it rang eight times before someone finally answered. I think it was Lucinda, the brunette with the pink glasses who guarded the warden’s door. Taking a page from my father’s book, I gave her the old King Lear. That’s what my father would use whenever he needed a little help from someone on the other end of the line. Naturally, it entailed a British accent, but with a touch of befuddlement.
Explaining that I was Ackerly’s uncle from England, I told her that I wanted to send him a card on Independence Day in order to assure him there were no hard feelings, but I seemed to have misplaced my address book. Was there any way that she could see to helping a forgetful old soul? A minute later, she returned with the answer: 132 Rhododendron Road in South Bend.
With a whistle on my lips, I traveled from the phone booth to the men’s room, and who should I find standing at the urinals but the red-faced fellow from the neighboring booth. When I finished doing my business and joined him at the sinks, I gave him a quick smile in the mirror.
—You, sir, strike me as a salesman.
A little impressed, he looked back at me in the reflection.
—I am in sales.
I nodded my head.
—You’ve got that friendly man-of-the-world look about you.
—Why, thanks.
—Door-to-door?
—No, he said, a little offended. I’m an account man.
—Of course you are. In what line, if you don’t mind me asking.
—Kitchen appliances.
—Like refrigerators and dishwashers?
He winced a little, as if I’d hit a sore spot.
—We specialize in the smaller electric conveniences. Like blenders and hand mixers.
—Small but essential, I pointed out.
—Oh, yes, indeed.
—So tell me, how do you do it? When you go into an account, I mean, how do you make a sale? Of your blender, for instance?
—Our blender sells itself.
From the way he delivered the line, I could tell that he had done so ten thousand times before.
—You’re too modest, I’m sure. But seriously, when you speak of your blender versus the competitions’， how do you . . . differentiate it?
At the word differentiate, he grew rather grave and confidential. Never mind that he was talking to an eighteen-year-old kid in the bathroom of a Howard Johnson’s. He was gearing up for the pitch now and couldn’t stop himself even if he wanted to.
—I was only half kidding, he began, when I remarked that our blender sells itself. Because, you see, it wasn’t so long ago that all the leading blenders came with three settings: low, medium, and high. Our company was the first to differentiate its blender buttons by the type of blending: mix, beat, and whip.