I never really understood the sayings “making a killing” or “getting away with murder” until I took a job with a sales company in Merriville, Indiana. I was eighteen years old and had never had a sales job before, so I did not know what to expect. Six days later my life changed abruptly, and I vowed never to work a sales job again.
It was a business to business sales position, selling useless novelty junk for practically nothing. During my six days of employment with the company, I sold things like a large cardboard book with ten smaller children’s books inside for five dollars, magazine subscriptions, three pairs of scissors that will cut a penny for five dollars, orthopedic can openers, toy car sets and many other mostly useless things.
More than we were selling these crap items, we were selling ourselves. We were required be well groomed, fairly articulate and wear business suits. My seamstress girlfriend volunteered to tailor a suit for me. After a trim and a shower, I was in business.
My first five days were spent in training. I traveled with an experienced salesman, became his shadow, and sometimes was allowed to make my own pitches. Pretty soon I realized that we seemed to sell significantly better in areas that were considered poor. We “slaughtered ‘em” in Gary, Indiana. We “cleaned up” in Schererville. It wasn’t until we went to Stony Island Avenue in the south side of Chicago that I “made a killing.”
It was the sixth day, my first day out alone. One of my trainers had previously “mopped up” in the area, so I decided on this location for a day of “slamming tee.” It was a cloudless, cool morning, and I was wearing my finely tailored suit. Nothing could go wrong. I made my first rounds through the area and did pretty well. A school, a barber shop, a few retail stores, most bought something. It took me about two hours before I ran out of merchandise in the bag that I carried on my shoulder. It was time to go back to the car to restock my supply. I had barely unlocked the door to my car when I heard a noise behind me. I felt a blow to the back of my head and I lost consciousness.
When I came to, I was lying on the ground in an alley with three guys standing above me, talking amongst themselves. I was being mugged. This had never happened to me before. It was something new, and I was both excited and afraid. I pretended to be unconscious for a few moments while I devised a plan. It was either kill or be killed. Luckily for me, my demo scissors were in the pocket of my jacket pocket. Without much further thought, I grabbed the scissors in my left hand, jumped up and thrust them at the man directly in front of me. The sharp end disappeared in his flesh and a warm wetness spread down my hand and onto my arm.
Suddenly, there were sirens and flashing lights, and I passed out. When I woke up I was in the hospital with a policeman at the door. I was checked and, having only a minor concussion, I was arrested. I was held in a cell in the local police station for about twenty-six hours, until the arraignment at the courthouse, where I was released. My actions were considered self-defense.
A few days later, I went back to the office to return the merchandise that I still had in my car. I told them what had happened and that I was no longer interested in working for them. I later learned that the man I had stabbed had died in the hospital that day. The same day that I had “made a killing,” I had also “gotten away with murder.”
