All of these are indeed important, but a good salesman has to know how to relate to people, how to connect with them on a personal Tales of a Traveling Salesman. A salesman has to know more than just how to get the sale; he has to know more than just his product line and he has to know more than just his competition's product lines. All of these are indeed important, but a good salesman has to know how to relate to people, how to connect with them on a personal level, and how to go that extra step for their customers. Thanks for telling us about the problem. Return to Book Page.
Tales of a Traveling Salesman by Thomas A. Tales of a Traveling Salesman it was amazing 5. Crisscrossing a span of one man's career of over 35 years, "Tales of a Traveling Salesman" touches on just a few of these humorous and nostalgic stories. Paperback , 96 pages.
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She eyed me suspiciously as I walked over so I straightened my tie and jacket… What could possibly be wrong? I reached for a cigar but then remembered that scrunched up face. Imagine someone being so foolish. Nothing like a good ol Yankee to shake up your morning, I thought. I threw my suitcase into the trunk and headed toward Presque Isle. About 50 miles out of Bangor the road suddenly changed. I felt like a ship ebbing and cresting each wave. My breakfast churned inside me, my head kept hitting the roof of the car, and the steering wheel shuttered in my hands as I steered.
I was afraid the car would fall apart, but it chugged along without an incident. Finally after a half an hour of bouncing, the road calmed down and I was at the beginning of a dark pine tree forest and the road that took me to my next destination. The silence was unfathomable and wrapped its profound arms around me as I drove. There were no people, no cars, no signs of life. I was miles from home in the New England wilderness. Out of nowhere, a memory from the war crashed down upon me.
Me and hundreds of other Jewish soldiers were celebrating the first night of Passover, April 7, in the Bavarian forest. At this point in time, no one had discovered the atrocities Hitler had committed against the Jewish people in the concentration camps. Passover, the holiday of liberation from the Egyptian Pharaoh who had enslaved the Jews, was now taking place in another land, another time, where Jewish people were hated and desecrated.
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The ironic juxtaposition of American Jewish soldiers freely enjoying a spiritual holiday while millions of German Jewish people were being exterminated had had a transformative affect on me when my battalion found out about what Hitler had done. I vowed never to hate anyone and to treat all men and women with the upmost respect. I had been tested many times on my return to the Bronx after being discharged — where I came up against discrimination as a Jewish man in my own neighborhood.
My brothers and I were not allowed to play golf at certain courses because we were Jewish. I had been called a cheap Jew and asked if I grew horns from my head. Yet, his outlook on life was always positive and welcoming. Now, in this wilderness in the upper regions of the United States, I was heading toward a new destiny for myself. I at once felt homesick and imagined hearing the loud clanging trolley cars of New York City — I smelled the sweet treats from the neighborhood bakery — I saw the millions of New Yorkers, people of diverse ethnic backgrounds, fill up the sidewalks — I heard the bats cracking at Yankee Stadium as Joe DiMaggio and Lou Gehrig hit home runs.
A man who seeked to escape his life, and did.
I saw my family sit down to Shabbat dinner on Friday nights as my mother lit the candles. The smell of the pines were refreshing and the density of the trees created a cool climate for driving. Every once in a while a deer or squirrel would run across the road. My car had established a rhythm again with the road and I relaxed into the beauty of my surroundings for the rest of the trip. I was going to see my first client, Baker Army and Navy Store.
Above is the Tale of Robert James Lowman.
My father had warned me about the Yankee businessman. I sold uniform shirts, the type policemen, firemen, and soldiers wore.
What would my welcome be like here? At the end of the woods was the town of Presque Isle. In the front window there was a cluttered display of army and navy pee-coats, boots, madress shirts, and blue jean overalls. Inside, the interior showed the same type of clutter.
The pants were piled to the ceiling, shirts and coats hung on top of the other on the racks, and there were boxes and boxes of shoes which formed a mountain.
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The store had a musty smell and was stuffy. On my forehead beads of sweat formed under my hat and I took out a handkerchief to wipe off the perspiration. He wore a blue and yellow pin-striped suit with a navy tie and white shirt. I presumed he was Mr. Perkins used to sell you uniform shirts, the gaberdine ones with straps on the shoulders. He worked for Wide Awake Shirt Company.
Tales of a Traveling Salesman by Thomas A. Faxvog
We did a lot of good business. He always came through promptly with my order. My heart was beating so fast. Did he really say dozen? I pulled out my pad from the briefcase and he dictated the sizes to me. I must have been writing for 30 minutes. My hand cramped from writing so much but I felt exhilarated. He was shocked by my question. Every single potato farmer in the state will buy a few of these shirts.
I tried to picture the farmers sitting on their tractors wearing uniform shirts as they worked in the fields. The other merchants I met reminded me of the desk clerk at the Bangor Hotel. They eyed me suspiciously as I walked into their shops. They would look at my samples, but refused to buy anything. By the end of the day I was totally depressed and had completely forgotten about my huge success with Mr. What depressed me even more was that Mr.