Mr. Job Satisfaction

Ever thought about being a salesman? Well stop. What, are you crazy? Dig graves, pick up dead animals off the side of the highway or be a high school janitor. Choose a career where you can at least maintain some of your dignity. I work in a toll both, now. Great job. I don’t even have to pitch my product: Hey, for just fifty cents, enjoy the convenience and reduced traffic that modern tollway travel provides. No, they just toss in their quarters and go on their way. I smile at them, and even wave sometimes. Mr. Job Satisfaction, that’s me.

I haven’t always been so content with what I do for a living. You see, I was once a salesman...


A demure little woman opened the door and greeted me with a pleasant smile.

“Oh, are you Mr. Wyler?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Please, come in. I’m so glad you’re here.”

Dust had a fastidious adversary in this home. The light beige carpet was spotless and the walls and furniture were warm in color. Scented candles filled the home with the smell of vanilla and cinnamon.

“Lovely place, Mrs. Collins.” I smiled with honest approval.

“Well, thank you,” she studied her shoes and tried to hide a smile of appreciation. “My mother always kept a clean, well decorated home. I guess it rubbed off on me.”

Underneath the candled scent lurked another smell, a barely noticeable, but unmistakably noxious smell.

“Please, have a seat, and I’ll get my husband.”

She pulled out a chair at the dark, cherry wood dinning table.

“Would you like anything to drink?”

“No thank you, Mrs. Collins. I’m fine.”

"Please, call me Evelyn."

While Evelyn was gone, I set out my glossy sales material and plugged in the small, demonstration Pleasant Air, air purifier. It was a product that practically sold itself; gave the air a fresh, after-rain smell. I noticed Mr. Collins walking toward the dinning room with Evelyn close behind and I stood up to introduce myself.

“Hello, Mr. Collins; Garret Wyler. Good to meet you, sir.”

He was a tall, dark-haired, meaty man with thick body hair peaking out from the collar of his well pressed dress shirt. My smile wasn’t returned. He acknowledged me with a tilted head and a head-to-toe look over.

“Honey, Mr. Wyler is here to show us that air filter I was telling you about.”

“We don’t need an air filter,” he said.

I reached out with my left hand for a handshake. He looked at it and raised his right hand with a frown. The awkward left-hand-right-hand handshake always makes for a bad start.

“Mr. Collins, you’re right, you don’t need the Pleasant Air, air purifier. But give me fifteen minutes of your time, and you’ll see why you’ll want one in every room of the house.”

He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Baby, I don’t have time for this,” he said, looking at his wife.

We sat down and I began my standard pitch. A few seconds in, I noticed Mr. Collins lean to the side and squint his face. A rumbling fart echoed off the walls and stunned me into a brief silence.

“Um – well,” I was at a loss for words.

No one acknowledged the eruption. He watched me with a blank stare. Evelyn looked around the room for a hole to crawl in, I presumed. Thinking fast, I decided to jump straight into the product demonstration portion of my spiel.

“As you can see, it oscillates like a floor fan, but with one key difference: rather than circulating dirty, stale air, it removes ninety-five percent of pollutants, giving the air that fresh after-rain smell.”

The little Pleasant Air labored dutifully, and, as advertised, the sharp stench in the room lost some of its bite. Evelyn looked at her husband.

“Isn’t that remarkable, honey?” Her voice cracked and she tried to force a smile, but her expression was one of a cry for mercy.

Not to be out done, Mr. Collins looked at me with crossed arms and a straightened back. He tilted to the left and blessed us with another flatulent overture. Evelyn dropped her head and shaded her eyes with a hand.

“We don’t need an air filter,” he said, looking at me eye to eye.

I leaned back in the comfortable chair and my shoulders drooped. You can’t win ‘em all, I told myself. And then, I felt something, something churning deep within my gut; a barely audible reminder of the morning-chili I had consumed in such great quantity. With a resolute smile, I lifted slightly from the chair and released my rebuttal. Mr. Collins nodded his head with a stiff neck.

“Mr. Wyler, you are a foul man,” he said.

“I am? Your wife needs to buy a gas mask, not an air purifier. Didn’t your mother teach you there is a time and place for everything. I’m a foul man? That’s rich, Mr. Collins, that is very rich.” I was on a roll. Evelyn laid her head on folded arms and sobbed uncontrollably. Mr. Collins stood up and pointed at the door.

“Get out of my house!”

“With pleasure.” I gathered up everything but the Pleasant Air.

“Evelyn, this is my gift to you. No one will ever need it more than you do.”

With that, I stomped out. Just before I made it to the car, I turned to see the Pleasant Air hoisted airborne on a path headed straight for my face.

“And you can keep your sorry air filter,” Mr. Collins said.

With a quick duck, I avoided a direct hit. The Pleasant Air caromed off the top of my head and landed on my windshield with a crunch. I rubbed my scalp and, being the better man, picked up the air purifier and left quietly.


Needless to say, the Pleasant Air people weren’t impressed with my particular style of salesmanship. They let me go despite many years of award winning sales numbers. I don’t hold it against them though. After all, if they hadn’t fired me, I wouldn’t be where I am now. No quotas, no late night drives chasing leads, just happy, if not content, commuters. I keep the little dented Pleasant Air in my booth to remind me of where I came from and why I’m here; that fresh after-rain smell my constant companion.

A road-weary women with frazzled hair and two uncooperative children in the back seat drove up to my booth.

“I’m sorry, can you make change for a twenty. It’s all I have,” she said.

“Absolutely, ma’am."

"Thank you so much."

"There you go, and have a great day.”

Yet another happy customer. Yep, Mr. Job Satisfaction. That’s me.