This article by Tom Hallman Jr. originally appeared in The Oregonian on November 19, 1995. It has always stuck with me throughout the years as a piece of amazing writing and a testament to the power of journalism to inspire and affect change, even on the smallest or most personal levels.
Life of a Salesman
Tom Hallman Jr.
The alarm rings. It's 5:45. He could linger under the covers, listening to the radio and a weatherman who predicts rain. People would understand. He knows that.
A surgeon's scar cuts across his lower back. The fingers on his right hand are so twisted that he can't tie his shoes. Some days, he feels like surrendering. But his dead mother's challenge echoes in his soul. So, too, do the voices of those who believed him stupid, incapable of living independently. All his life he's struggled to prove them wrong. He will not quit.
And so Bill Porter rises.
He takes the first unsteady steps on a journey to Portland's streets, the battlefield where he fights alone for his independence and dignity. He's a door-to-door salesman. Sixty-three years old. And his enemies—a crippled body that betrays him and a changing world that no longer needs him—are gaining on him.
With trembling hands he assembles his weapons: dark slacks, blue shirt and matching jacket, brown tie, tan raincoat and hat. Image, he believes, is everything.
He stops in the entryway, picks up his briefcase and steps outside. A fall wind has kicked up. The weatherman was right. He pulls his raincoat tighter.
He tilts his hat just so.
* * *
On the 7:45 bus that stops across the street, he leaves his briefcase next to the driver and finds a seat in the middle of a pack of bored teenagers.
He leans forward, stares toward the driver, sits back, then repeats the process. His nervousness makes him laugh uncontrollably. The teenagers stare at him. They don't realize Porter's afraid someone will steal his briefcase, with the glasses, brochures, order forms, and clip-on tie that he needs to survive.
Porter senses the stares. He looks at the floor.
His face reveals nothing. In his heart, though, he knows he should have been like these kids, like everyone on this bus. He's not angry. But he knows. His mother explained how the delivery had been difficult, how the doctor had used an instrument that crushed a section of his brain and caused cerebral palsy, a disorder of the nervous system that affects his speech, hands and walk.
Porter came to Portland when he was 13 after his father, a salesman, was transferred here. He attended a school for the disabled and then Lincoln High School, where he was placed in a class for slow kids.
But he wasn't slow.
His mind was trapped in a body that didn't work. Speaking was difficult and took time. People were impatient and didn't listen. He felt different—was different—from the kids who rushed about in the halls and planned dances he would never attend.
What could his future be? Porter wanted to do something and his mother was certain that he could rise above his limitations. With her encouragement, he applied for a job with the Fuller Brush Co. only to be turned down. He couldn't carry a product briefcase or walk a route, they said.
Porter knew he wanted to be a salesman. He began reading help wanted ads in the newspaper. When he saw one for Watkins, a company that sold household products door-to-door, his mother set up a meeting with a representative. The man said no, but Porter wouldn't listen. He just wanted a chance. The man gave in and offered Porter a section of the city that no salesman wanted.
It took Porter four false starts before he found the courage to ring the first doorbell. The man who answered told him to go away, a pattern repeated throughout the day.
That night Porter read through company literature and discovered the products were guaranteed. He would sell that pledge. He just needed people to listen.
If a customer turned him down, Porter kept coming back until they heard him. And he sold.
For several years he was Watkins' top retail salesman. Now he is the only one of the company's 44,000 salespeople who sells door-to-door.
The bus stops in the Transit Mall, and Porter gets off.
His body is not made for walking. Each step strains his joints. Headaches are constant visitors. His right arm is nearly useless. He can't fully control the limb. His body tilts at the waist; he seems to be heading into a strong, steady wind that keeps him off balance. At times, he looks like a toddler taking his first steps.
He walks 10 miles a day.
His first stop today, like every day, is a shoeshine stand where employees tie his laces. Twice a week he pays for a shine. At a nearby hotel one of the doormen buttons Porter's top shirt button and slips on his clip-on tie. He then walks to another bus that drops him off a mile from his territory.
He left home nearly three hours ago.
The wind is cold and raindrops fall. Porter stops at the first house. This is the moment he's been preparing for since 5:45 a.m. He rings the bell.
A woman comes to the door.
"Hello."
"No, thank you, I'm just preparing to leave."
Porter nods.
"May I come back later?" he asks.
"No," says the woman.
She shuts the door.
Porter's eyes reveal nothing.
He moves to the next house.
The door opens.
Then closes.
He doesn't get a chance to speak. Porter's expression never changes. He stops at every home in his territory. People might not buy now. Next time. Maybe. No doesn't mean never. Some of his best customers are people who repeatedly turned him down before buying.
He makes his way down the street.
"I don't want to try it."
"Maybe next time."
"I'm sorry. I'm on the phone right now."
"No."
Ninety minutes later, Porter still has not made a sale. But there is always another home.
He walks on.
He knocks on a door. A woman appears from the backyard where she's gardening. She often buys, but not today, she says, as she walks away.
"Are you sure?" Porter asks.
She pauses.
"Well …"
That's all Porter needs. He walks as fast as he can, tailing her as she heads to the backyard. He sets his briefcase down and opens it. He puts on his glasses, removes his brochures and begins his sales talk, showing the woman pictures and describing each product.
Spices?
"No."
Jams?
"No. Maybe nothing today, Bill."
Porter's hearing is the one perfect thing his body does. Except when he gets a live one. Then the word "no" does not register.
Pepper?
"No."
Laundry soap?
"Hmm."
Porter stops. He smells blood. He quickly remembers her last order.
"Say, aren't you about out of soap? That's what you bought last time. You ought to be out right about now."
"You're right, Bill. I'll take one."
He arrives home, in a rainstorm, after 7 p.m. Today was not profitable. He tells himself not to worry. Four days left in the week.
At least he's off his feet and home.
Inside, an era is preserved. The telephone is a heavy, rotary model. There is no VCR, no cable.
His is the only house in the neighborhood with a television antenna on the roof.
He leads a solitary life. Most of his human contact comes on the job. Now, he heats the oven and slips in a frozen dinner because it's easy to fix.
The job usually takes him 10 hours.
He's a weary man who knows his days—no matter what his intentions—are numbered.
He works on straight commission. He gets no paid holidays, vacations or raises. Yes, some months are lean.
In 1993, he needed back surgery to relieve pain caused from decades of walking. He was laid up for five months and couldn't work. He was forced to sell his house. The new owners, familiar with his situation, froze his rent and agreed to let him live there until he dies.
He doesn't feel sorry for himself.
The house is only a building. A place to live, nothing more.
His dinner is ready. He eats at the kitchen table and listens to the radio. The afternoon mail brought bills that he will deal with later this week. The checkbook is upstairs in the bedroom.
His checkbook.
He types in the recipient's name and signs his name.
The signature is small and scrawled.
Unreadable.
But he knows.
Bill Porter.
Bill Porter, salesman.
From his easy chair he hears the wind lash his house and the rain pound the street outside his home. He must dress warmly tomorrow. He's sleepy. With great care he climbs the stairs to his bedroom.
In time, the lights go off.
Morning will be here soon.
