The Hick and I Part Two: South Central Travails

On the business side of my right heel, right smack-dab in the middle, where seemingly all of my weight rests, there's a blister. A sizable one.

As it stands now it has been a little more than a week since my brief time with The Company. And yet it still feels like it happened only a few days ago. I'd like to forget about it, all of it: The Hick, Asian Johnny Cash, The Austrian, The Firefighters, The Tweekers, The Pitch, and really every single aspect of and moment I spent on the expanse of Slauson Avenue. But I can't. My fucking foot won't let me.

But the blister isn't the worst, most frustrating part of this sad little tale of woe. No, that is still to come, believe it or not.

PICKING UP WHERE WE LEFT OFF...

When we last left our hero (me), I had started to realize just what sort of quagmire I was getting myself into. Asian Johnny Cash was blaring top 40 hip-hop while The Hick regaled The Austrian in the backseat of the Ford Mustang about some intensely interesting movie he had Netflixed over the weekend. He couldn't remember the title, but the film had profoundly affected him.

"They, like, went on some sort of killing spree," he kept saying. Now, I'm a film buff. I love movies of all sorts and will watch pretty much anything. When people claim to "watch" a movie, but clearly didn't pay any attention to the plot of the fucking thing, it irks me, to say the least. But I wasn't going to show that. After all (and this part is really sad and makes my blister throb and sear just a little harder), I was still trying impress these people.

The resume debacle had been embarrassing enough, and I knew I would have to redeem myself and do it fast. I would be given such an opportunity. And then promptly blow it.

A little exposition is needed at this juncture: while I won't reveal the name of The Company on this blog, I will tell you what they do. They call themselves a marketing company that specializes in sports. They seek out high-profile clients and then market said clients to potential customers, via ticket packages and promotional offers. But, really, that is all one epic ream of horseshit. Here's what they really did: The Company prints up several hundred glossy, cardboard-like sheets with tickets to various sporting events on them. These are the ticket packages. On this particular day we were peddling Clippers tickets and Kings tickets. Now, The Company owns the printer that prints the "packages" and each "package" (I was told this by The Hick) costs 7 cents to print. The Company then charges $40 for the Clippers package and $50 for the Kings. Part of The Pitch is that you're supposed to emphasize each ticket packages' total dollar amount (which was around $500). Now, this is all legit. You would actually get two tickets to a Clippers game and four buy-one-get-one-free coupons for $40. As far as I know, everything was above-the-table. They printed these sheets, marked them up, and sent gullible schmucks out into the city to pound the pavement and attract "clients." Who were our clients?

"We do business-to-business marketing here," The Hick said when we dropped off The Austrian at (seriously) a random 76 gas station. Of course, "business-to-business" was bullshit. The real answer to "Who are the clients?" is "Anybody we come across... anybody."

Now, clearly, when selling tickets to sports it probably helps to have some knowledge of sports. Or, in my case, any knowledge of sports. Sports and I have an ugly history, but, generally speaking, if I leave it the fuck alone, it leaves me well enough alone. And I'm not completely sport-illiterate. I know who Kobe Bryant is. I know what teams Los Angeles has. I know... uh... look, I went to college, all right? And you know what I did there? I read books. A lot. So, y'know, go to hell with your sports and your balls and your rules and scrimmages and punts and inbound passes and other stupid facts that don't matter. Can you name Joss Whedon's alma mater? Because I can.

Of course, none of my geeky obsessions would be of any use when The Hick asked, "So, guy," (I told you he forgot my name about 30 seconds after I told it to him), "what kind of sports do you like?"

"Oh," I said, trying to remember words that I have no use for while, simultaneously, attempting to block out whatever "hot jam" Asian Johnny Cash was blasting, "basketball? Base...ball?" The question marks are entirely accurate.

"Oh, nice," The Hick said. We were cruising up Slauson and I hadn't noticed our surroundings yet. "How do you like Kobe this year?"

Mother pus bucket, my brain said. What do you know about Kobe? He's still a good player, right? Okay: Kobe. Plays for the Lakers. Really good. Spike Lee made a documentary about him. He was accused of raping someone, right? Wait, don't say that last one. Whatever you do, don't bring up the rape.

Of course, now all other smidgens of information I had about Kobe Bryant had fallen by the wayside and the only thing I could think of was the rape. "Kobe?" I asked.

"Yeah, Kobe," The Hick implored.

Don't say rape, don't say rape, don't say anything about rape. Say anything else. Go. Go. Go.

Nothing. Just a whole lot of very-intelligent "um"-noises and lip-biting.

Literally, spew any old stupid word out of your stupid mouth so you do not seem like a doddering fool! My brain is kind of a jerk.

"Yeah, he...," I was like a kid at a spelling bee who couldn't remember how many Es were in the word "mercurial." "He's really giving them a show."

This, remarkably, worked.

The Hick guffawed (not an exaggeration--he actually guffawed). "Ain't he though?"

I rule.

And then I got out of the car and realized how much I totally don't.

THE MIDDLE, CONTINUED (Or: The Hick Dons Blinders)

We had arrived.

Asian Johnny Cash parked the car on a residential side street off Slauson.

"I wish I hadn't worn black today," he said as we all climbed out of the car. I wanted to point out that that totally would've ruined my nickname for him, which I'm sure he would've gotten since I'm just that clever. "It's a hot one."

And it was. Even though we were in the early days of November, this is California and the thermometer was mockingly informing us the day's temperature would be around 80. We were dressed appropriately, though, in K-Mart slacks and Gap dress shirts. Not to mention our shoes: scuffed black pleather things that provide about as much support and comfort as a pair of flip-flops made from the skins of crocodiles. We were set.

I took off my sports coat and shoulder bag (you're not way out of line if you think that I seek to mimic Indiana Jones in most professional settings) and put them in the car. As I looked at our surroundings, I started to get nervous.

"Well," The Hick said as he, unbeknown to him, stood in a puddle of drain water, "we are on the edge of the Ghetto."

Asian Johnny Cash nodded, stopped, looked puzzled, and shook his head. "No," he said. "We're flat-out in the middle of the Ghetto."

Asian Johnny Cash had spoken out of turn and The Hick let him know with one slicing glance. "No," The Hick said. "We're a few blocks away from it." He made a gesture to me. As if I couldn't figure it out.

In case you haven't noticed yet, The Hick did not think highly of me. He thought I was still trying impress him (which I was, but wouldn't be for much longer). And I guess he thought my glasses were of the Mr. Magoo prescription because I think he assumed that I couldn't see where we were.

I could. And Asian Johnny Cash was right. Welcome to Ghettosville, population: us.

I could tell from the overgrown weeds that threatened to swallow rusty train tracks. I could tell from the cigarette butts and discarded cans of Tecate that littered the sidewalks. I could tell from the faded billboards that promised lower prices and better lives. I could tell from the chop shops with leery mechanics watching the two white boys walk down the street dressed like a couple of Mormon missionaries. I could tell from the sad number of kids who, by all logic, should have been in school (it was a Monday after all) yet roamed freely. I could tell from the homeless in their tattered rags who, with shredded minds, desperately spouted all manner of nonsensical ramblings, as if the correct guttural mumbling would act as some sort of magical incantation that would free them from their fate. I could tell.

However, whether it be through willful ignorance or actual myopia, The Hick, seemingly, could not. One of the first stops on our trip was to a local Big Lots. As we walked in, one of the more desperate members of Slauson Avenue lay on the concrete outside, twitching and moaning in such a way that meant it had either been too long since or was too soon after her last hit. It was one of those moments where you feel that pang in your stomach. You know you can't do anything about it and you don't know anything about this woman other than fact the that she is strung out, but you feel overloaded with compassion.

Unless you're The Hick. Then you just keep on being an idiot.

"Did you see that?" he asked when we were inside the grocery store.

"Yeah... sad stuff."

"No, man," he said. "She was wearing bunny ears!" This was not a false statement. The junkie had been wearing bunny ears atop her head. They were filthy, covered in dirt and half-falling off her greasy, matted hair. "Looks like someone forgot to take their Halloween costume off, right?"

It was right then and there that I finally decided I no longer cared about this job, The Hick or anything else to do with this stupid, stupid company. As the day went on I learned more and more about him and with each nugget of information he let slip, the grating aspects of his person were revealed. The Hick came from South Dakota, as I have already said. He has, if I remember correctly, two siblings and his parents own a farm. They do something with horses. The Hick himself used to be a ski instructor in Lake Tahoe before moving to Oregon. He hooked up with The Company via answering an internet posting (just like I did) and started out shilling for Sears (there are many aspects of this company that I am not aware of). He married his Brazilian wife (you're not entirely off base if you think it's a Green Card marriage) and left her in Oregon (because that's how you show you're in love) and came down here to work his way up the ladder in The Company.

So, he's led a life, is what I'm trying to say. He's been around the block. He could tell the woman outside the Big Lots was tweaking because you'd have to have the brain of a five-year-old in order to arrive at any other conclusion. So either he knew she was jonesin' and chose to make fun of her or he's an idiot. I'm gonna go with option "C": all of the above.

Once inside the Big Lots, I heard The Pitch for the first time.

The Pitch went a-little somethin' like this:

THE HICK: Hey! How you guys doin'?

CUSTOMER (usually a clerk or manager of a business): Fine, I guess...

THE HICK: Yeah? Hey, quick question: you heard that the basketball and hockey seasons have started up again, right? (He would usually accompany the words "basketball" and "hockey" with pathetic little pantomimes of someone shooting a basket and swinging a hockey stick.)

CUSTOMER: Yeah...

THE HICK: Yeah! All right! Big sports fans here! Well, me and my bodyguard (that was me--hilarious, right?), were sent out by the owners of the Staples Center to offer tickets to fans at 90% off. You ever been to the Staples Center? (I often found this the most condescending part of The Pitch).

CUSTOMER: Of course.

THE HICK: Well, we're offering two tickets to any Clippers game for only 40 bucks. Interested?

It was awful, condescending, semi-racist, and imbued with the worst aspects of capitalism. The Hick had no qualms about shilling his little heart out. I stood behind him like a rube, feeling disgusted with the whole enterprise (but, as is my pathetic, suburban wont, I didn't actually say anything about it). Now, thankfully, The Hick had a bad day. There are many basketball fans in South Central, but say the word "Clippers" and you'll be met with a hearty chuckle. I actually enjoyed the shit out of that aspect. Every time The Hick launched into The Pitch, he would say "Clippers" tickets, the potential customer would roll their eyes and wait for us to get out of the shop. It felt good. The free market may be a broken, evil system that corrupts everyone who touches it, but you can't deny that supply-and-demand economics can sometimes be hilarious.

THE MIDDLE, CONTINUED SOME MORE (Or: The Warnings of Friendly Firefighters Go Unheeded.)

I want to make one thing clear: the people we met and spoke with, whom The Hick desperately attempted to worm his way into their wallets, were amongst the nicest people I have ever met. Everyone (literally everyone) we talked to was friendly and polite and, when most people would've told us to fuck off and die, they waited until The Pitch reached its conclusion and then sent us on our merry way.

Of course, at the beginning of the day I had no idea that this was the case. My faith in people, at 10:30 a.m. on Monday November 2nd, was at an all time low. I felt taken advantage of. I had been suckered into this "job interview" and here I was trailing The World's Most Dense Human Being, who was convinced that he was teaching me things.

Our second stop (and don't worry I'm not going to go into all of them) was at a fire station. Burly fire fighters were working out, cleaning the trucks, gardening. Were I a gay 13-year-old I would've thought this was quite the sight to behold.

The Hick pitched them the package. Rightly, they turned it down. As we turned to leave they stopped us.

"Hey, guys, be careful, all right?" one of the younger ones said.

The Hick laughed. I didn't.

"No seriously," the firefighter said. "If you stay within the next three blocks you should be all right. Any further than that, you're in dangerous territory. Gangs patrol this area and they will mug two white boys in broad daylight without a second thought."

The Hick, fucking genius that he is, laughed again. "Okay, guys thanks for the 'warning'."

An older fireman came out of the house. "No, he's right, guys. Be careful."

The Hick laughed even louder. It wasn't a real laugh. It was one of those laughs that was meant to be loud enough to drown out things like warnings. And reason. And truth. When we had gotten out of the car, Asian Johnny Cash had made a remark about the Ghetto and The Hick shut him up with a look. Now, he couldn't do that.

Of course, I wasn't thinking about any of this. I was too busy wondering if Docker's Stain Resistant trousers somehow resists the stains of human defecation.

That was when I realized how screwed I was. I had gone from being confident to nervous to annoyed to pissed off to terrified. I looked at my phone. It was quarter to 11 and, with my coat and bag in the car and Asian Johnny Cash off doing his rounds, I was stuck here for the whole day. I had no choice than to stick with The Hick and pound the pavement.

And we did.

The Hick and I headed up Slauson. He stopped every few minutes to pitch a shop clerk or manager or random passer-by, with me behind him trying to signal with my eyes to the shop clerk or manager or random passer-by that they should definitely not give this guy any money at all whatsoever. We walked some more. The Pitch began to blur into a tinny din. Every time I heard it I started to think of new ways to rebuke it. The blocks stretched on in front of us and my feet began to ache around hour three. Around hour four the pain became as ubiquitous as The Pitch.

At one point, I remember, we stopped at a nail salon. The Hick went in, guns blazing, with his big, stupid Used Car grin and his heavily rehearsed gesticulations and his sheer inability to improvise or deviate from the script. A woman in the back of the salon actually seemed interested and called him over to talk more. I stayed at the front of the shop and adopted my best "fuck this gig" stance. It didn't work. I think I just came across as awkward. I mopped my brow with my sleeve.

"Hot?" I heard a voice ask.

I looked over to one of the nearby chairs where a girl about 20 was blowing on her nails. She wore an orange dress.

"Yeah," I said. "It's warm."

She nodded and stood up. Her dress concealed a baby-bump, about five or six months along. She walked over to an older woman. "We'll leave soon, grandma." She turned back to me. "You're friend is really hustlin'."

I tried to imagine what an alternative universe in which The Hick and I were friends would be like. I decided it must have dragons and people worshipping tablecloths. "Yeah," I said. "He..." I couldn't think of anything to say. At first I thought of saying "Yeah, he can really sell" but that was a lie since he hadn't sold anything that day. Then I thought of maybe "Yeah, he's dedicated" but I honestly didn't want to give him that much credit.

"How come you ain't huslin' like he is?" she asked, saving me from lying and thus my soul from curdling a little more.

"It's my first day," I said. "Only day" would've been more accurate.

"Hmm," she said. She looked me up and down in that way that only women can do, as if she were processing my worth via running data through her advanced science of facial pattern software and cosmetological psychology. I never got to find out what her conclusion was, because the next thing she said changed my viewpoint of The Hick forever: "Well, your friend's a believer, definitely."

The Hick had botched the sale and came back. He pushed me out the door and we were back on the sidewalk. I had no idea what the woman in the orange dress had meant.

We walked for a few more hours and I could feel the blisters start to form. We walked past all the businesses and up a hill. We found a small Mexican restaurant and stopped for lunch.

Back in the parking lot of The Company, he said he would go over the pay structure at lunch. We ate mostly in silence, but eventually I had to know how much it was worth to wear your feet down to bubbling boils of death.

"So, how does the pay work?" I asked.

The Hick's eyes lit up. He took out a slip of paper and a pen and sketched it all out for me. He spent about 15 minutes going over all the potential earnings but here's the short answer:

While working for The Company, you are paid a grand total of Fucking Nothing. Before taxes.

You know what word hadn't come up in the ad for the job, the first interview, the meeting with fast-talking bosses, the initial moments with The Hick, or at all during the day so far? Commission. The whole thing was a commission-only job, meaning you made only what you could sell. In fact, as The Hick made clear to me, you didn't even make that much, since at the end of the day you had to give away 30% of your sales to your lead (which The Hick was) and 30% to the office. Over half the money is gone. No benefits, no bonuses.

"So wait," I said, trying my best not to grab my bean-covered fork and impale The Hick's troglodytic forehead, "after all this... all the walking, all the pitching, all the going to dangerous places... you might walk away empty handed."

"Well, yeah," he said. "It's a business."

"Right... and if you don't sell anything, you could get fired."

"Yes, that's always a risk."

"And does the company pay for gas?"

"No."

"Do they provide training?"

"This is the training."

"And they make us wear these clothes? We can't wear sneakers so it might be easier?"

"No. We are a business. We wear business attire. You can sneak in those Dr. Scholl's gel pads though. Just don't tell them." He stopped. I could see why he never went off script -- for a dude who was looking to make a living out of sales, he does a shitty job of hooking a customer. "Look at it this way: we're in a burgeoning field. There is so much room for growth here and so much money that can be made. I mean, I've only been here six months and look how far I've gotten."

I looked around at the sunken booth we were sitting in, surrounded on all sides by yellow wallpaper, and treated to the finest of classic mariachi. And this, honestly, was the highlight of the day. The "burgeoning field" of ticket sales wasn't so much a field as it was a sinkhole.

The Hick, though, was unwavering. "There's so much money to made!" he said.

Holy shit, I thought, pregnant-orange-dress-lady was right. The Hick is a believer.

A lot of things fell into place after that. I understood The Hick so much more. He genuinely believed that The Company would make him a millionaire. It was no wonder he pitched so hard. I felt a little bad for him, but mostly hated him even more.

THE END (Or: The Blue Balls of Revenge)

After lunch it was 3 p.m. and The Hick was more determined than ever to make some sales. He became resolute and more aggressive. No longer satisfied with bombarding business patrons and people waiting for the bus, he barreled into schools, day care centers, churches, check-cashing places with wild abandon. He pitched people in KFC, he pitched teenagers, he pitched old ladies in wheelchairs. His belief drove him. Much like a Girl Scout peddling cookies for their troops, The Hick made sure that no person went unpitched lest he face the wrath of an angry Troop Mom.

It all kind of blurs together at this point since my feet were, bizarrely, burning. The blisters had gotten so bad they stung and seared the words "OH. FUCK. THIS." into my brain with each step.

At one point we ended up at a gas station. It was an incredibly nice one. Charged 3.19 a gallon. It was packed. I looked around and noticed that there were at least 15 people there and I wondered if the day's sensory overload of destitution had somehow forced me into seeing a mirage of prosperity.

There were two shops on the gas station's property. The building that housed the shops was newly refurbished, done up in an adobe style. One of the shops was a convenience store. The other... well, the other explained a lot.

Slauson Medical is not a hospital. It's not a clinic. It's not a doctor's office of any kind. But Slauson Medical was the reason for this diamond in the rough. Slauson Medical was small-- basically a waiting room with a few chairs, some magazines and a counter with a huge, thick, plastic partition. As The Hick started to pitch the guy behind the counter, the clerk was helping a customer. He reached into the counter and took out a glass jar half-filled with the unmistakable buds known as cannabis. Several other jars with names like "Orange Kush" were stored underneath the counter. Slauson Medical sold weed.

I couldn't help but marvel at this place. Anyone who says the country will go downhill if drugs are legalized needs to take a trip to Slauson Medical. It's helping the economy of this one little area to no end, provides a valuable service (I heard one old lady with an oxygen tank and a walker say "Praise Jesus" as she left the shop), and hurts absolutely no one. I don't even smoke pot, but I had to marvel at this enterprise. The recession would be over in two weeks if someone turned Slauson Medical into a franchise and peppered them throughout the country like Starbucks.

We were in Slauson Medical for 15 minutes. After minute four, I started to think about asking for a job application.

The day wore to a close and The Hick never stopped selling or rather attempting to sell. To be fair, he made a few here and there, but nothing like the money he swore the "burgeoning field" of ticket sales promised at lunch.

At the end of the day I found myself sitting in the empty Playplace of a McDonald's, wondering if I should check to see if my feet were bleeding. I was exhausted and angry. I remembered the beginning of the day, when I had gotten out of bed ready and excited for a new challenge. Now, I was worn down and wanted to make someone cry.

Guess who I had my sights set on.

The fast-talking boss-man at the beginning of this whole affair had told me that if the day went well, I would fill out a questionnaire and they'd let me know if I had a job. I couldn't wait to fill out this questionnaire.

Asian Johnny Cash picked us up, amped by a day of guzzling Monster Energy Drinks. He hadn't done too badly for himself. The Austrian had done the best, though, and had brought in a sizable chunk of change.

But I didn't care about any of that. I wanted to get my hands on this questionnaire. I wasn't going to fill it out, oh no. I wanted to turn it over and write My Revenge.

My Revenge would be epic: a scathing indictment of The Company and The Hick and a recount of all the stupid, stupid things that had happened that day. As we headed back to the office, I started to formulate it in my head. It would be glorious. I'd start off with "I went to college..." yeah, that's good... then I'd segue into The Hick... and then I'd tell them about the firefighters and the bullshit we went through and how the job isn't even a job since you're barely getting paid. I would make them cry.

I may have been delirious. In fact, I know I was. I know this because, in between these mental acerbic declarations, I kept nodding off in Asian Johnny Cash's passenger seat.

We got back to the office. I got out of the car and smiled my best dastardly smile at The Hick. I couldn't wait to tear this guy--

"Okay, guy," he said. "Thanks for coming in. Good luck with your job search."

Wait... what? Which I conveyed by saying: "Wait... what?"

"Good luck," The Hick said. "Thanks for coming in. We're done for the day."

"But... what about the questionnaire?" My rue-the-day masterpiece was fading fast.

"You don't need to fill that out."

"Oh..."

"Good night! Thanks for your work!" he said. The Hick, Asian Johnny Cash, and The Austrian all headed inside.

I limped to my car. I got in, turned it on, and drove away.

The whole way home I listened to NPR and thought about the day. After an entire day of bullshit and frustration and wastes of time, I hadn't even been offered the job. I kept thinking "I went to college" and grew angrier and angrier. Those monumental asshats hadn't even let me have my half-hearted retribution.

Fuck it, I thought, as I pulled up in front of my house. That's what the Internet is for.