Selling Joy (eBook)

This was a time in my life when I began to question why God favored some people and persecuted others. I began to believe that unless you were one of the favored you were destined to live out your days knowing that something terrible was going to happen to you after you died. I remember standing at a bus stop across the street from the Jewish community center one day and looked on in amazement as one of my school mates from secondary school stood at the corner with a bible in his hand and told me I was going to eternal damnation. I asked him why. He told me I was a Jew and a Christ killer. We weren’t close friends in school but I remember him asking me to hide his booze in our garage the night before graduation. I have no idea what this fellow is doing today but what ever it is I hope he’s found a better way to spend his time.

Demeaning someone’s beliefs or for that matter saying anything that could potentially hurt someone’s feelings is to say the least, a waist of time. But being courteous and kind to others is never a waist of time. Every opportunity you have to say or do something nice for someone increases your chances of making something good happen.

Understanding that believing in the power to make good things happen simply by doing something good is the essence of your humanity and the path that leads to a joyful life.

“Rusyck’s.” I never asked my father how he came up with that name for his store. He had changed it to “Lady Campbell’s” before I had a chance to ask. “C’mon, Sport, if you want a ride downtown you better get moving.”

“I’ll be right there, Dad”!

Saturday was bowling day. Every Saturday I hung around the store waiting for the bowling alley to open. Until then I sat behind the counter where no one could see me. There was something about a boy in a store full of ladies wear that just didn’t seem right. I suspected my father was a little strange; I mean how many middle aged men do you see helping women try on clothes? It wasn’t a big store-about sixty feet long and twenty-five feet wide with dresses on one side and coats on the other. There were three salesgirls and each one of them did her best to make me feel comfortable. I sensed they knew I was embarrassed. Natalie was my favorite; she was tall with huge green eyes and radiant red hair and had a wonderful presence about her like a movie star; sort of Susan Haywardish but more elegant. Suzie was Chinese; she was fragile and petite on the outside but oh could she sell. Bert, short for Bertha was proudly full-figured with a smile and a disposition that warmed your heart first before she sold you everything you could carry. It was fascinating; I watched in awe as the three of them worked their asses off for twelve hours on Saturdays with only one break and that break was to gobble a quick bite behind the counter while keeping an eye on the front. When you’re on a hundred percent commission you never leave a customer unattended. They practically knew all the customers by name and treated them as if they’d known them all their lives.

”You look fabulous, Dear. Here, try this one on, Dearie.” They must have said it a thousand times a day. I’ve been calling women “Dear” or “Dearie” ever since. Mind you, you have to be careful these days, don’t you? You never know when someone might resent being called Dearie. Some women can get down right angry if they detect any direct inference to their femininity. Personally I never understood it. I’ve always treated women with respect; in fact I find it absolutely natural to address women in ways that highlight their femininity. One of the most successful business experiences I ever had was with a woman. She was brilliant. She was also the vice-president of a major corporation and responsible for many top-level decisions not the least of which was the one that could make me $100,000 or not. I have to admit I was a little scared of her at first. She was tall and oozed confidence. It was my first experience with a female executive and I really didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t know if I should be forceful or slightly condescending; the answer to that was never an issue. Right off the bat she called me “Sweetums” and five minutes later I was calling her “sweetheart.” She knew exactly what had to be done and how to do it and luckily so did I. She never let her gender interfere with the deal; in fact for me it made the thrill even greater.

For all the wonderful women out there don’t be afraid to use your femininity. Use it with confidence and a clarity of purpose. You’re not one of the boys; you are you and you are great.

I really liked the girls in the shop. I liked fetching sandwiches and coffee for them. There were a dozen restaurants to choose from. Sometimes they wouldn’t tell me what they wanted. “You decide, Dearie, nothing too greasy, OK?” Dad always bought lunch for the girls on Saturdays. They still call every once and while, you know, just to be nice.

I held my palms together and felt the edges of the wrapper inside them. The éclair rested undisturbed as my pace quickened. A minute later I was sitting on a short stool behind the counter about to take my first bite of the heavenly éclair when Dad suddenly ordered me to fetch coffee and sweet roles for the “Girls.” I didn’t mind; I loved bringing them coffee and snacks especially when it took me a few doors down to the best bakery in the whole world.

“Hello, Davey, back so soon? What’s wrong, something wrong with the éclair?”

“Oh no Kara,” I said, calmly. “I wonder if I could just sit at the back while you get me coffee and sweet roles for the Girls.”

“But that will only take a minute,” she said.

“I know, but do you think you could take say five minutes while I eat this wonderful éclair you gave me. You know us kids; we always eat too fast, right?”

“Right, I think,” she whispered.

I walked through a narrow corridor and into a circular room lit by dusty streams of sunlight through the high glass ceiling. There were a few iron tables and chairs you’d find in a private garden separated by tall vases filled with pampas grass and bulrushes. Two older ladies chatted over tea separated by a three tiered assortment of lemon tarts and caramel cookies. I sat down on a high backed chair and slowly opened my hands. I took great care not to have the cream filling spill out the sides. I was hopeful that if I plan it right I would be able to save all that delicious cream for the last two or three bites. It worked and the memory of savoring that wonderful eclair has stayed with me all this time. I know it’s just an éclair and I was only ten years old but this experience led me to believe that the greatest joy comes to those who save the best for last.

A year passed and every shopkeeper on the eight hundred block of Granville Street knew the kid from Rusyck’s and the great thing was that I knew them too. Between the jeweler, the baker, the shoe store and the movie theatre there were three restaurants. There was still the bowling alley in the basement under the shoe store but I didn’t go there much anymore, there was much more fun on the street above.

“Hi, Davey, what’ll it be today?”

“I don’t know, Maxi, what do you suggest?”

“My personal favorite is the cabbage rolls but I know Bert is watching her figure.”

“Well… I think she’d be disappointed if she couldn’t have them. Better make it cabbage rolls for three, Maxi,” I said.

“I put an extra one in there for you, Davey. Say hello to your Dad, OK?”

I was about to thank Maxi for his kindness when I was slapped on the back by Mr. Krulak.

“How’s tricks, Davey?” he said. Ole Krulak ran the shoe store above the bowling alley. I saw him every Saturday standing in front of his store smoking a cigar. He was big and tall with a million red freckles on his face.

“How’s business, Davey, your Dad doin’ OK?”

“Sure is, Mr. Krulack. I sure liked your window display today,” I said. Ole prided himself on his windows. It was hilarious; I would stand outside watching him as he moved his 250-pound frame ever so carefully in and out of precarious positions inside the narrow window. One false move and hours of work would be ruined.

“Remember, Davey, soon as you turn eighteen you’ll come to work for me, OK?”

“OK, Mr. Krulack, I said, “as long as you’ll show me how to do the windows.” A few more years passed; I’d grown out of the Saturday bowling league altogether. Dad had sold the store to pursue a manufacturing opportunity so there was little reason to visit Granville Street again; that was until I needed a job.

“I’m going to teach you how to sell more shoes than anyone has ever sold before, Davey,” Ole said as he handed me the training brochure. “You just memorize the stock system and watch me and the boys for the first week,...