
Thomas of Dekalb, IL on Sept. 20, 2009
I worked for Kirby one summer. What a summer that was.
I was a first or second year student at the time interested in a career in medicine. I decided not to take summer classes that year, but to get a full time summer job in order to save money so that during classes I wouldn't have to worry so much about finances.
Temporary summer jobs are difficult to find, but when I saw a vague ad for summer jobs that pay $400 a week, and I calculated that that would be a bit more then I would expect to make on a normal full time job, I gave the number a call.
Being nave about the vague lingo slung at me, I think I got the impression that the job that I would be interviewing for would be some kind of delivery job of cleaning equipment, perhaps to hospitals or something?
I found the office on the appointed day and time, and still knowing very little about the job, I was asked to fill out an application. I saw some boxes labeled KIRBY, looked up at the Manager who was watching me fill out an application, said, 'Kirby, that's the vacuum from The Brave Little Toaster, isn't it?' He confirmed this.
My actual interview was with a Junior Manager (?) who was wearing obnoxious gold cufflinks and a gold watch. After revealing that I was applying for a job selling vacuum cleaners, he started talking about big money, contests, trips to Vegas, and so on. I wasn't interested in any of this (as I had made it clear that I had other life goals and I had no interest in visiting a city synonymous with desperate people gambling their rent money for false dreams, or turning to uncaring prostitutes to pacify their hopelessness, all beneath a tacky veneer of bright lights, high kicks and painted smiles) but questioned him about what the job entailed. I got the impression that I would be selling to people who were already interested in the product and wanted an in-home demonstration; basically going in to close the deal. Also, as long as I reported to work every morning and went to all of my appointments, I was guaranteed at least $200 a week.
The first appointment I went to, I can't remember the details exactly but the person indicated that she wasn't expecting a demonstration, already had the previous model, or something else. I apologised, said that the appointment had been made in error, grabbed my stuff and took off. When I got back to the headquarters, the junior manager said to me, 'You walked out of a house.' I said, 'Yes, the appointment was made in error.' I didn't realise until much later that I had done something wrong.
Every morning I would drive to the office, shaving with a bic disposable razor from the gas station where I stopped at on the way up, where there would be these horrible company songs, and each person who had sold a machine the previous day would describe how he did so, followed by applause and high fives. Then we would be given appointment slips that the telemarketers had arranged. Most of mine were due in half-an-hour's time and would be at least an hour's driving distance away (we used our own cars, I spent almost all of my $200 weekly income on gasoline back when it was about $1.10, and supplemented that with gas from grateful hitch hikers that I would pick up (I would plant a seed early on when they asked me how I was by mentioning that that times were tough for me with this job, listen to their life story, and by the time I dropped them off they would almost always offer to top off my tank)). I would drive like a maniac to not be too late, arrive flustered, apologising for the incompetence back at the office, and for the next several hours of the 30 minute appointment, do my very best impression of a 1950's vacuum cleaner salesman.
As things went on, I became a living example of the famous Milgram experiment. It's interesting to see where I succame to the influences of no longer being myself, but a representative of the company acting under their direction, and where I maintained my values. I did follow the directive of barging into a home, ignoring all hints that I should leave, and turning around any objection to a purchase with some horrible line. When I offered to take a trade-in on the person's old machine, however, and they asked what we did with the trade ins, I would say, 'Well, we are meant to say that we give them to "charity" but actually we sell them to someone who cleans them up and sells them to resale shops. It's basically an excuse to knock a couple hundred off the asking price.' While I was impressed by the design and workmanship of the machine, I didn't truly believe that most of the people I visited needed one, but did my best to pretend like I did.
I actually lost a lot more money then I made that summer, blew an engine block on my 89 Grand Am, got a few speeding tickets, learned to drive with my knee, visited my first adult bookstore (coming back from an appointment in Zion and depressed as hell), saw a lot of really bad neighbourhoods in Chicagoland, and begged for gas money a few times. I also ruined a nice family's new sofa when a machine malfunctioned (I do hope the manager rectified that). Working as an independent contractor did hell on my income taxes.
I think that I sold a total of three machines that summer.
Quitting was also an interesting task. I only stayed for the whole summer because I made a commitment, it would be difficult to find a new summer job that late, and I kept being told that soon things would turn around. I quit over the phone and got some horrible replies about what a great opportunity Kirby was, and wouldn't I take a $100 bill on the table it it were offered me.
I would just like to apologise to anybody who has ever been terrorised by a Kirby salesman. I'm pretty sure that the only people who are successful in that company are truly evil. I've learned from a former employee who now works as a landscaper and was doing some work on the trees out front of my mother's house that Arlington Heights Kirby has since closed due to people not being paid and a sexual harassment lawsuit.