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By Lloyd Albritton

Columnist

When Ron Douglas picked me up this first night of my new sales career, Wes Sklander and Pat Cummings were already in the car. “Did you make a sale?” Ron asked immediately, as I got into the back seat of the car.

“Well, I only sold two tonight,” I told him. “But, I’m sure I will do better tomorrow night.” I later learned that two sales was an outstanding night for even a seasoned book salesman and that they were paying me only about half the commission I would soon be earning.

And so, though I did not know it at the time, my early sales genius was immediately recognized and I was quickly received into the Ronald U. Douglas veteran car crew as a permanent fixture. Mr. Douglas soon became “Ron,” Mr. Wesley J. Sklander became just plain “Wes,” and Pat Cummings and I became good buddies. I soon learned all the tricks of the trade. I learned to drink beer and whiskey until I passed out, chase after loose women, tell lies and exaggerations to my customers (and to my Mama), and to hang out in sleazy pool halls shooting Snooker and 8-Ball while we waited for the cover of darkness to work the residential streets. Many of the small towns we worked in required a license for door-to-door soliciting, but we never bothered with such things. We did not have time. We were usually in and out before they could catch us. We were outlaws! When we saw a police car approaching we hid in some bushes. Nevertheless, we did get arrested and locked up in jail a time or two for soliciting without a license. In every instance, Ron Douglas paid our bail and sprung us loose after only a few hours in the pokey.

It was all so very exciting to one so young and naïve as I was. I eventually bought a new suit and some colored socks and tried to dress like Wes, but I soon learned that there was only one Wesley J. Sklander and it would take many years for me to acquire the ego and swagger of one so grand. Indeed, this business of selling encyclopedias door-to-door was full of characters just like Wesley Sklander, Pat Cummings and Ron Douglas. Most of them were slicksters, liars, con men, alcoholics, drug dealers and other forms of dysfunctional ne’er-do-wells, but all great actors who played the part of successful sales executives. But, of course, I would not realize this until much later. For now, I was thrilled to be an 18-year-old sales executive with a bright future in the “book bid’ness” and in the companionship of such magnificent gentlemen as these.

My exciting life as a door-to-door encyclopedia salesman soon began to fade as I slowly peeled away the layers of deception and degeneracy inherent to this nomadic lifestyle. My elite little car crew worked the residential streets of many towns and cities across North Florida and South Alabama. We took our lodging in cheap motels and boarding houses, living mostly on a diet of junk food and lounging for hours at a time in dimly lit bars and back street pool rooms, waiting for night to descend so that we could ply our vagabond trade under the cover of darkness.

Still the glamor of bright lights and big cities completely mesmerized me, big cities like Birmingham, Jacksonville, Orlando and Tallahassee. Two of our favorite Alabama sales areas were the college campuses of Alabama and Auburn Universities, where we knocked the doors of naive young married student apartments with parental stipends at their disposal for their education. University police were always diligent in cruising these campuses to keep out just such unlicensed solicitors as we were. Lurking about in the darkness, knocking on doors and hoping for a quick entry without detection, was as much a skill of our trade as our actual silver-tongued sales presentations.

Despite our carefully honed sals presentations, there were times when each of us had “dry spells” and could not seem to make a sale. These were depressing times, but despite our lowness of good character and decadent lifestyle, we managed to lift one another up as we traveled along the dusty trail together, as faithful outlaw companions ought always to do. There were some occasions when I felt prompted to call Mama (collect, of course!) and ask her to send me a few dollars for food and rent. She would have done it too, but I dared not give her cause for worry. Instead, I faithfully wrote Mama weekly letters proclaiming my success and happiness to prevent her from worrying about me too much. Had I told Mama the truth about my desperate circumstances, my father would have surely been at my doorstep within a day or two to drag me back home. Such humiliation before my peers I could not contemplate.

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Sorry, but just one more indulgence, if you will allow. I promise to finish this story up in the 4^th and final installment in next week’s column. Thanks for allowing me to share these treasured memories with you.