Sales. . . not my calling

 This piece is my take two of a vignette. My first is called "Revenge" if you wish to mosey on over there. It is an account of one of my actual experiences this time, so it is not nearly as exciting, but nonetheless, enjoy!

      Last summer, I worked as an assistant to one on my grandfather’s associates in Manhattan. My boss could convince you buy anything! I admired the ease at which he picked up the phone and would dial CEO’s of big companies and talk to them as if he had known them for years.

      For the majority of the summer, I organized, cleaned, and scanned, but two weeks before I was to leave, my boss decided I was ready to make sales calls. My stomach had dropped. “I can’t call people I don’t know!” my thoughts screamed, but my boss assured me over and over again that he believed that I was fully capable.

     My boss then handed me a list of companies, told me to call as many as possible, and left on a business meeting, leaving me to fend for myself against the slings and arrows awaiting me on the other side of the phone line. I leaned away from the phone, eyes as big as saucers, dreading what I was about to do.

     I picked the phone up off the receiver and dialled the first number on the list and a secretary picked up. I jumped in my seat slightly; a part of me had expected them to know who I was at my first word and hang up. Surprisingly, the secretary did not suspect I was only a sixteen year old intern! I even spoke to the head of IT and took some of his contact information!

     I hung up the phone and sat back in wonder. I did not know how to feel. After a few more calls, I brushed up on my technique, but each time I felt as if I was lying to the person I was speaking to because I couldn’t seem to sell myself on the idea of selling. I just didn’t like it. I inquired mentally as to why I could feel so tainted when I told people about products while admiring my boss’s mastery of persuasion. I suppose sales is not my calling.

Selecting a Reader

I wrote this for those writers who are trying to pinpoint a certain audience when they write. I originally wrote this as a sort of dedication for my poetry anthology for my Creative Writing class, but something about it spoke to me; I didn't know who I was writing about as I wrote it, but once I read it through I could see who I had been subconsciously picturing. I've always been a sucker for guys like this; they're so tragically adorable. So, without further ado, here is my original poem "Selecting a Reader."



He should be confused
lost even
Searching for himself
in the maze of adolescence

He should be curious
enthralled with the beauty surrounding him
Accepting other’s individuality
welcoming it with arms spread wide

He should be the quiet one
who no one ever thinks to befriend
Assuming he is content
in his solitude

He should polite
always holding the door open for others
before himself
because he is blind to his own beauty

It emanates from his core
in vibrant pulses of genuity
visible to all except he
without the confidence to ask

the one of his dreams
fearing he is unworthy
of her unparalleled beauty
when he, in fact, parallels