Was the Salesman Pretty?

One of my favorite episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond was when Raymond bought a vacuum cleaner for a door-to-door saleslady, and Debra asks if she was pretty. He says, “Yes, but you should see this machine.”

I once read that good looking people make the best sales people, but in the same article, it said that good looking people also make the worst telemarketers because they are not used to rejection.

As the saying goes, “you have a face made for radio.”

To be clear, I have nothing against unattractive people. I firmly believe that anyone with the right grooming and wardrobe can be attractive. If you take a good look at unattractive people, you will notice they have done everything possible to make themselves unattractive. This is especially true with many teenagers who adopt hairstyles and make-up applications that do nothing to make them good looking, oftentimes achieving a repulsive effect.

If it were not true that anyone can make his or herself attractive then how come on Good Morning America they can make over some shluub in an hour? The results are usually phenomenal with one exception. The dresses. They get the hair and make-up right, and if they put the woman in slacks, she comes out looking damn good, but who picks out the dresses? It’s as if they raided the dumpster behind the Goodwill Thrift Store for the rejects.

Another point is that attractiveness has nothing to do with weight. I have seen the most beautiful fat people and the ugliest skinny people, and every one of them either worked to make themselves attractive or just crawled out of bed wearing an “I don’t give a shit” T-shirt.

I have been told I am attractive since I was a little boy by only one particular demographic – middle-aged Jewish women. The yeantas love me. I have worked to maintain my looks for my demographic by doing a nightly ritual that involves the mixing of Oil of Olay with formaldehyde and sleeping in a hyperbolic chamber. Oh honey, this doesn’t just happen. And although I don’t wear the most fashionable clothes, I also never go out looking sloppy. I don’t wear jeans, and I never even go to the grocery store without hair and wardrobe in proper order and a healthy layer of moisturizer on my face. And, the middle-aged Jewish women still wink at me in the produce section while squeezing their melons.

I also have the cleanest shoes in town. My friend Dean always asks me, “Do you still wear spotless tennis shoes?”

When your feet don’t touch the ground, it is easy to keep your shoes clean.

I even look spotless when I go to Krav Maga class. I always win best hair.

In high school, I sat in 11^th Grade homeroom and watched as every boy was nominated for the Homecoming Court except me. I wasn’t the guy whose name was scrawled in some girl’s notebook, although through Facebook, I did find out a former male classmate had a crush on me. To think I could have had a better time at the prom.

Since my look is an acquired taste, I have never been called sexy or hot, but then again, sexy and hot have nothing to do with looks as much as it has to do with essence. Have you ever noticed there are some plain people whose bones you want to jump in public and some very good looking people whom you wouldn’t consider boning even if there was a monetary reward in the end?

I have a friend who is attractive, but not what one would call a knock-out, yet everyone who says hello to him wants to screw him. It is funny to watch how guys react to being introduced to him. He doesn’t have a killer body or model hair or even the snazziest wardrobe, but he must put out a scent that is a mixture of a porterhouse steak and musk (I stole that from the Golden Girls). I think I am the only person in the world who is immune to his lure.

I am glad I am not sexy or put out a natural fragrance. I don’t know how I would handle the responsibility of having sex with so many people. Oh the burden my friend must bear.

Although I state anyone can be attractive with just a little effort, there are those who have a natural beauty that is just breathtaking. You know the type, male or female, they walk by, and you just cannot help but stare at them. If they say hello to you, you exhibit the symptoms of a mild stroke. You know you do.

However, I don’t.

What I do is flirt.

I know there isn’t a chance in hell one of God’s perfect creatures will rock my world, so I figure I have nothing to lose, so I flirt. And I can flirt with the best of them.

But sometimes, my flirting gets me in trouble.

Take Valentine’s Day. Seriously, take Valentine’s Day and never let me have to live through it again.

On the way home from work Valentine’s Day night, I performed my Milton is alone on a special day ritual. I stopped and bought a bucket of fried chicken, with the intent of eating every damn piece of succulent meat then having a large piece of cake for dessert. And of course, watching some TLC show about the morbidly obese afterward. Sometimes, I don’t even use a plate; I just stand over the sink and throw the bones into the disposal.

If I spend any more special days alone, I will be on one of those TLC shows as they slice away a wall of my trailer and carry me away on a flatbed.

I arrived home with my chicken and cake and immediately took Esmeralda out for a walk. As we turned the corner, I spotted a guy in a winter coat similar to mine who was wearing a badge and holding a clipboard, and he was one of the beautiful people. He was no older than twenty-five, no taller than five-six, with short brown hair and a smile that would make angels sing.

All of you would have had a stroke.

I flirted.

With my brightest smile, I asked, “What are you selling?”

He said, “Look, our coats match.”

See, even some beautiful people have questionable taste.

As it turns out, he was selling some kind of alternative provider for my electricity that was going to save me 1.7 cents a kilowatt per something or other. It sounded good. OK, it sounded wonderful coming from his beautiful mouth. I gave him my address.

Fifteen minutes later, he was knocking on my door.

I said, “Your wife must be mad about you working on Valentine’s Day.”

He didn’t respond, instead getting into his shpiel.

We sat at my dinette while he explained what I was getting and how for a year I would be getting my electric bill as usual but my power from a competitive supplier, and five minutes later, I was signing a contract while looking into his beautiful brown eyes. Yet, I still didn’t know what the hell he was selling.

I also noticed something else since I rarely get a chance to look at the face of someone half my age. There wasn’t a blemish, a line, a wrinkle, a crease, not one flaw at all.

God, was I ever that young?

He also told me he sells health supplements that are organic through his side business. I told him to come by and tell me about those as well.

Interestingly, I didn't want to bone him, just look at him.

Then, he was gone, and I still didn’t know what the hell I just bought.

Later that evening as I stood above the sink eating my fried chicken, Esmeralda looked at me and asked in Beagleeze, “Was the salesman pretty?”

If you buy from only good looking people, or you find yourself attractive, follow me, link to me, tell your pretty friends.