For Halloween a radio forum website – the terrific Radio Sales Cafe - asked its members to recount their scariest sales experiences. That, plus a promo for The Sopranos I saw that evening, reminded me of the following:
For me the scariest experiences involved working with, er, connected businesses in a certain suburban market. (If you've seen any of the Godfather movies, you know what - and where - I mean.)
By the way, in that market, you either worked with such businesses or - do I haveta paintcha pitchure?
There was this one night club, a dinky little dive, that for some inexplicable reason booked all the top talent of the day. (Their tour schedule would be like, Las Vegas ... New York ...dinky dive ... Miami ...)
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| MY PAL SAL |
The owner was a guy we'll call Vinny (not his real name; he had a kid that made Sonny Corleone look like an alter boy, and I don't want any trouble). Anyway, Vinnie was a great guy. Always wanted to give me a little extra sump'n sump'n for my superior service (like I'm going to give him anything but). Like a car. ("Don't worry about those holes; they'll buff right out.")
But then, I guess because he was such a great guy, all his vendors always gave him a little extra sump'n sump'n, too.
Then there was Sal (same deal, except he had a daughter, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Sonny Corleone). Sal was away a lot on "vacation." Upstate. Anyway, in between his “vacations” I spent many an entertaining hour at his estate, where he threw the Best. Parties. Ever. (The entertainment, inexplicably, was the same crowd that played the aforementioned dinky dive.)
Later I found out Sal was the tutti-frutti-di-tutti-capi or whatever it’s called - I don't have my copy of The Godfather handy) of the area branch of the Family. Good thing he liked me.
Good times then. Scary now.
