I WENT TO THE BALL GAME, BUT THE DEVIL GOT MY SOUL
 
           She was undoubtedly the most beautiful girl that these twelve-
year-old eyes had ever see.  Definitely a Miss America at one time
or another.  In an era preceding supermodel mania, she was a true
American beauty.  Nudging my brother to let him know that this
one was mine, I nervously repeated the line that I had been
rehearsing for weeks:  “Excuse me, Miss, would you like to buy a
broom?”
           “What?”
           “A broom,” I repeated, “We got house brooms, push brooms,
whisk brooms.  I am selling brooms for the Franklin Lions Club.  If
we sell enough we can have real uniforms for our Little League
team.”
           “I’m sorry,” she responded, “I just don’t need a broom right
now.”
           Now, one does not survive long in the rough business world of
door-to-door sales without developing your own set of tricks
designed to get you what you want, or at the very least to level the
playing field.  My specialty was the “hurt puppy-dog look.”  When
I engaged this ploy it would look to the victim as it I fully thought
the world had come to an end.  This tactic was particularly effective
against strangers, who, unlike my family, were completely unaware
of its sheer repetition and utter lack of sincerity.
           After employing “the look” on the beauty in the doorway, I
politely gave my thanks and turned to walk away. I wondered to
myself how far I would get before she called me back. Would I
make it off the steps?  Halfway down the driveway?  Into the street?
Or had “the look” lost its magic, compelling me to search for an
entirely different strategy of closing the sale? I had scarcely turned 
when I heard her call after me,  “Wait a minute.  How much are
they?”
           Yes, another direct hit.  “The whisk brooms are $3.50,”  I said.
“The house brooms are $7 and the push brooms are $15. What
would you like?”
           “Oh, give me a whisk broom.  Here’s your money.”
           “Thank you, Miss.”
           As I walked away, I thought about how this was the fifth or
sixth whisk broom that my brother and I had sold that day. Why
was there such an unmet demand for whisk brooms in Alexander, a
community of about 200 people?  Was Alexander a refuge for home plate
umpires?  Why were people not buying house brooms or push
brooms?
           The Great Whisk Broom Buyout continued for the next two
weeks in the neighboring communities of Waverly and Franklin, as
well as in Alexander itself.  Most people politely declined to buy a
broom, but those who purchased one almost always chose a whisk
broom.  In the end, we must have sold enough of the brooms. At
our first Little League practice, we were presented with brand new
grayish uniforms bearing broad purple numbers on the back and
the Lions Club insignia on the left front breast. When the umpire
dusted off home plate prior to the first pitch of the game, I just
knew in my heart he had used a whisk broom purchased with pride
from one of the town’s youngest agents of the local Lions Club.
           Every year, a new generation of kids hits the streets offering for
sale such varied items as cookies and National Geographic
subscriptions.  Behind each child stands an organization hoping not
only to raise money for a good cause, but to teach the youngsters a
valuable lesson about hard work and responsibility. The genius of
this plan lies in the promise to the children that a valuable prize
awaits those who hawk the greatest number of goods or reach a
minimum level of sales.  What the kids don’t know, and what I
never figured out, is that the prize represents just a drop in the total
revenue bucket.  I estimate that even at minimum wage and a
meager five percent sales commission, the Lions Club still owes
me $800 for the blood, sweat and tears that I expended to earn a $14
uniform and a $3 cap.
           It would not have been so bad had the Lions Club provided us
with state-of-the-art products to sell. Suffice it to say, the Club’s
marketing officer will never be mistaken for Donald Trump. The
year after we swept away the community with our great broom offer
we polished up the old sales pitch and unveiled our newest
product-light bulbs.
           If I thought brooms were a tough sale, I had yet to see the light. 
The package of six bulbs selling for $4.50 could be purchased in
any store for less than $3. Why the brain trust of the Lions Club
thought people would pay 50 percent more for light bulbs banged
around for miles by nine-year-old midget salespeople remains one
of the great mysteries of life.  I can recall selling only five or six
boxes, and I swear at least three of them were to my mother.
           The greatest success I had selling fund-raising goodies was the
year we brought pecan log rolls to a starving public. Again it was
the prospect of claiming a valuable prize that captured our
undivided attention.  Any child selling fifty or more logs would
receive a free reserved ticket to a Cardinals baseball game at Busch
Stadium in St. Louis.  Like two Muslims on a pilgrimage to Mecca,
Jeff and I set out to claim our destiny.
           Now, I do not know if pecan log rolls were a new product just
entering the marketplace, or whether it was simply a good year for
nuts in general, but we had no trouble meeting our goal. The
response was overwhelming, with people buying two, three, or four
rolls at a time.  Soon our pockets were stuffed with bills of
seemingly every denomination.  Jeff and I let out a whoop when we
sold that last pecan roll ensuring ourselves two seats in the reserved
section at the ballpark.
           As we finalized the sale, I became aware of what I now believe
to have been one of the first moral dilemmas of my life. Should we
continue to sell our goods though we had obtained our material
reward?  Should we seek to add to the coffers of the Lions Club, so
it could continue to finance valuable projects? Should we sell
additional log rolls and give money to some of our teammates who
would not otherwise meet their goals?  Should we make no attempt
to sell the remaining log rolls, though there were still two weeks
left before the end of the prescribed selling period? These were
questions which required considerable discussion and vigorous
reflection.  I was convinced answers would appear, almost as from
heaven, only after meaningful soul-searching and deliberate
debate.
           “See ya,” Jeff said, as we walked down the stairs leading from
the house where we had made our last sale. So much for debate
and soul-searching.
           “Where are you going?”  We still have half a box of log rolls.”
           “I knew you would do this.  It’s over, dummy.  We have our
tickets.  Why do you want to kill yourself selling these things?”
           I wanted to ask my brother all these questions going through
my mind.  I wanted to tell him that I did not feel right about quitting
when we had more log rolls to sell.  I wanted to tell him that we had a job to
do and the job wasn’t done.  I wanted him to know it was more than
just pecan log rolls, more than just baseball tickets.  I wanted him
to know it was bigger than that;  it was about us.  Instead I shrugged
my shoulders and said, “I guess you’re right. I hope Bob Gibson
will be pitching when we go the game.”
           A few weeks later we returned some ten or twelve pecan log
rolls to the Lions Club.  I have often wondered whether the folks in
charge thought it suspicious that my brother and I sold exactly fifty
log rolls each.  I also wonder, still today, whether the difficulty I
have sometimes in finishing certain projects stems from that
incident over twenty years ago when I chose the path of least
resistance.  Maybe I need to get that monkey off my back.  Maybe
I need to go to Stuckey’s, buy a box of pecan log rolls, practice my
“hurt puppy dog look,” and hit the streets. Don’t be surprised if
you answer your door one day soon and hear the words, “Excuse
me, Miss, would you like to buy a pecan log roll?” Please take pity
on me and purchase one.  After all, there may just be a prize in it
for me.
 
Martin Bergschneider
Laboratory Technician
Second Place, Prose