BACKTRACKING
The View From My Side of the Screen
by
Terry Hogan
Do
you remember the Fuller Brush salesman? He'd come to the front porch and knock
on the screen door. It was a hot summer day. The flies were angrily buzzing
around the door and windows. No air conditioning back then. So only the screen
was between you and the salesman. Do you remember? I do. But from the other
side of the screen. For one summer, I may have been your friendly Fuller Brush
salesman.
It
was the summer of 1964. I had graduated from good old GHS and was bound for a
freshman year at Knox College in the fall. But I had two problems. One, I
needed money for college. And two, because of my date of birth, I was only 17
years old. I couldn't get a "real job" in a factory that paid good
wages.
With
all the naivetŽ and optimism that a 17 year old can muster, I became a Fuller
Brush man. I started off owing the company. I had to buy the sales case. I had
to buy the "free gift" that was to be presented at the approach of each
sales pitch. It was a little bit like the "old company store" story
but without having to go down in a mine. I had to pay all my expenses - gas,
meals and the like. There was no minimum wage. It was purely sales commission. Looking
back, it makes me wonder. It had to be one of those mistakes that my parents
saw coming, but figured it was mine to learn.
So,
I was off with great optimism, at least for the first few days. I had learned
my sales pitch. Up to the door; knock; "Hi there. I'm your new Fuller
Brush salesman. Which of the free gifts shown on this card would you like
today? They're absolutely free. Great, let me set my case down and open it up
to get your gift. While I'm at it, let me show you a few of the specials we
have this monthÉ" Some
days I'd make a little money. Some days, I wouldn't make enough to cover gas
and lunch.
I
sold in southeast Galesburg. I sold in Knoxville and in parts of Monmouth. I
didn't make much money. But I did loose some naivetŽ. I learned a little bit about
loneliness. I found it as a companion with the old. Surprisingly I saw it
whispering in the ears of young housewives. Some were at home with little
children. Others just home alone. Their plight was expressed in different ways.
There
was an old woman in Knoxville that I remember well. She lived alone in a large,
neglected two-story wood frame. It was dark inside and obviously too much for
her to take care of. She was anybody's, or perhaps everybody's grandmother.
Gray hair in a bun. Wrinkled skin on her hands. Old print house dress that had
failed to shrink with its owner. She wore her loneliness so that it hurt to
look at her. She'd invite me in. She'd sit me on the old over-stuffed
davenport. She'd get me water. She'd listen. She'd order stuff she didn't need
and didn't want, and probably couldn't afford. I'd write in all down; leave;
and tear up the order form. In a few weeks I'd return and we would repeat the
process. She never asked about the previous order. She needed someone to share
her loneliness, even for just a half an hour. And even if it was just a young
Fuller Brush salesman.
Young
wives had their loneliness to share, as well. Some were overwhelmed by their
children and longed for a brief adult conversation. Even if the adult was only
17, and had a blond flattop and looked about 12. Usually these conversations
were on the front porch, interrupted by the occasion screech and holler
emanating from some dark area within the house, not discernible through the
screen. These were bright; often pretty women, just trying to come to gripes
with how their lives took a sudden, unanticipated change with motherhood. It
wasn't like they thought it would be. Lovers became husbands who became
fathers, who became absent. Loneliness came in their absence. Life wasn't what
it was supposed to be. But there it was.
Young
wives who were not mothers often found their own version of loneliness. It was
perhaps the most surprising to a 17 year old Fuller Brush salesman. Lovers
became husbands who became absent or bored. Young wives sat at home, as many
still didn't work outside of the home. They were lonely, bored, and perhaps a
little insecure. Up came a young lad trying to sell a hair brush, a room
deodorizer, after shave lotion, a mirror, or perhaps a spray to make dusting
easier. A young wife appeared to be offering up some of her wares. Or at least
innocently testing the old flirting skills. At 17, how can you be sure?
Of
course some of this insight, if that's a fair term, didn't come to the 17 year
old. It came to the old guy, looking back at the surprises confronting the 17
year old that he once was. In hindsight, they are predictable reflections of
the human condition in 1964 and in 2005. I just didn't know it at 17.
I
remember meeting a Knoxville girl in Galesburg that summer so long ago. In the
small talk, I mentioned trying to sell Fuller Brushes in Knoxville. She said,
as best as I can remember, "So you're the cute boy that I've heard
about." Forty years
later, I remember that. "Cute" wasn't a term that I heard used toward
me very often. Again, in hindsight, it probably was another reflection of the
loneliness coloring their vision. But like them, you take what pleasure and
comfort you can find it. So that's my story.
At
least that's how it looked from my side of the screen some forty odd years ago.
tmh
8-29-05