Jacob Ritteman Kevin Brooks Advanced Writing Workshop 10/10/11 Trials of the Writing Steak Salesman Selling steak

isnt what one would or should, for that matter consider an ideal job. Its countless hours, day after day, pavement to gravel to pavement again, of chaotic harmony. A week of bad sales is enough to drive a person into a padded room. Doors being slammed without acknowledgment. Cuss words uttered before a pitch is ever delivered. The meat business is a tough one; I knew this after day one. Actually, I knew it two months before my first day, when I was assigned a ride-along. I knew the job would offer its hardships, but I also knew itd offer its rewards to balance the equation; money and freedom. You like to eat steak, right? Over three months, I dropped that line a thousand times literally. Ive delivered it enthusiastically, timidly, bitterly, happily, drunkenly, and even morbidly. More often than not, a resounding yes would come from potential customers; that is, if theyre being truthful. Many times you run into the three-hundred pound farmer claiming to be a vegan. A laugh and nod to their gut would either make em smile and crack, or itd result in a Get the fuck out of here and a slammed door. Naturally, a thick skin is developed after the first week. Even if they admit to liking a good steak, dozens of excuses will roll from their tongues. So, in a black and white analysis, your hook either gets a yes or no. If a no, you can challenge or give up in defeat, retreating back to the meat van with your eyes poring holes into the tips of your shoes. If yes, then its time to grab the product and brochure.

Once the product is before the often annoyed customer, a barrage of numbers, facts, and other information is unloaded upon them. The product is showed, value built, and a commitment is strived for. Once that commitment is uttered, the close is implemented: Great, Ill go grab your receipt! Congratulations, cash in hand, check in hand whatever youre getting paid. Now you just have to factor in all the funds you blew on gas, food, cigarettes, what-have-you, and the truck charge and check processing fees. The life of the meat salesmen: bad food, disgusting amounts of cigarettes, and plenty of liquor to celebrate a good sales day. On average, those days end around midnight five days a week Naturally, coasting into Fargo on fumes, lights shimmering every which-way, pocket full of cash (if the day provided), one is going to be tempted into the allures of night. Thats how it was: load up a truck in the morning, hope to empty it by sundown, and let the vices thrive, consuming you until your head finds its resting place. Since my junior year in high school, Ive obsessed over writing. It feeds me. It seems like every time I go out, Im either thankful for remembering a pen, or regretting leaving one behind. Story ideas ransack my mind, enveloping me, leading me away from my education. In a sense, my education is merely a means to add fuel to the writing desire. Now, at 21 years old, bank account wincing by the end of spring semester, I saw an opportunity. I saw a job thatd give me money to coast through summer rent, cigarettes, food and alcohol. However, the biggest enticement was the inspiration to write. School wouldnt be overwhelming, overbearing with projects due every couple weeks. Itd be simple: writing, and selling steak.

In May I realized Id be traversing the countryside of North Dakota, Minnesota and South Dakota for the next three months. The majority of my story ideas come from experiencing something odd, something quirky. Whether it happens to me directly, or I observe it happening to another, an occurrence can strike up an idea thatd be otherwise undiscoverable. Ahead of me laid a variety of terrain and weather inspiration would hurl itself at me. Id be somewhere new every day, and each of those days would introduce a multitude of new experiences. I was right about the new experiences. Turns out, my expected inspiration was a dream; a sham. How can a person get inspired to write when spending 8-9 hours a day hopping in and out of a truck, running to and from doors, praying some lunatic would shell out hundreds of dollars to a stranger riding around in a white meat van? Writing aside, I quickly found I had more proximal problems. A week into the job, I had only but a few sales; my morale non-existent. I trotted up to doors, parent-instilled virtues in hand, and got rejected faster than I could slip my companys name. Rents due date approached mercilessly. The guys I rode out with marched up to doors, their personalities mutating as soon as the van door suavely shut behind them. Stoners would switch from monotone to charismatic, Hi! How are you today?!? I didnt know what to do. They were cut-throats, but the messed up bit was that the customers loved them. I even witnessed a 60 year-old, trailer house-bound bachelor buy three cases of steak thats one-hundred and sixty-two steaks! Id come back to the shop, barely breaking even, and hear daily stories of how this person and that person bought 6 cases! I couldnt believe it. Who eats that much steak?

Weeks flooded by. On a good day Id see a hundred bucks profit, where veterans would reel in $1,000 days. At Junes climax, I saw the light. I experimented with my approach. Id strut to doors a completely different person. Well, I got two of them packs left on board; think you could help me out with them? I evolved. I had created a new entity. People have called me Jake throughout my lifetime, but more-often-than-not, its Jacob. Before slinging steak, Ive never referred to myself, introduced myself, or even implied myself a Jake. But the job called for it, and the customers seemed to adore it. From 9:00am to 12:00am I was Jake. From 12:01am to 8:59am I was lost in a bottle of whiskey. This new entity disregarded the formers Catholic upbringing, the moralistic views reinforced day-after-day by worried parents. Kindness, courtesy and generosity evaporated. Slick, manipulative motives sprouted in their absence. Customers were swindled, lies were spun, and friends and family neglected. My new identity knew no boundaries, arrogance prevailed. Jacob would attempt selflessness, to be outgoing, but Jake only saw himself, and did for others only what he had to. Id return to my dark apartment, pour a glass, light the tobacco, and slurp my way into a slumber. Going out with friends became a rarity, and the only accomplished writing came in the form of customer receipts; Jake didnt see this as a loss, but rather a manifestation of success. I lost myself in a shameless shell that didnt seem to have limits. If desired, I couldve walked up to a door, cussed someone out, and carried on with my day no repercussions. Luckily, the persona was channeled towards selling steaks not making a mockery of innocents. Trickery, deceit and greed flared.

Business was good, but not ideal. Money was finally feeding my bank account, but it only gave me a slim padding from what I had before. However, this new entity confirmed it as an improvement. Unfortunately for Jake, after a few weeks of the swindling, the money stopped coming in. Customers offered repulsed looks, ignited fabrications and even delivered threats. The flaring greediness of Jake struggled to stay above water, coughing and grasping for a grip. Days were spent in depression. When sales werent flowing, images of rabid farm dogs ripping through red, pulsing arteries flickered through my mind. Depression and despondency prevailed. After four sales-less days, the remnants of the rent fund filled up a gas tank, which turned out to be in vain. Jake checked out for the day, I went home, grabbed the Black Velvet and a cigarette, and drank towards a solution. Summer had already reached its midpoint, rent due in a couple days, bank account dry. Ice tinkled against the glass as I sipped my way to purgatory. Smoke billowed from my nostrils, a nice homage to the destination Jake had been leading me toward, when the memory came screaming back; a piece of advice. During my first week, sales minimal, my boss had recommended selling in my hometown for practice and confidence. I had brushed it off, thinking itd be a wasted trip. Business on the brain, I immediately grabbed a pen and pad the only writing in weeks aside from receipts and crafted a list of potential steak eaters. Im from an extremely small North Dakota town population 850 so 30 names was a big deal. We loaded about 12 cases a day, I Jake knew this wouldnt be a problem. However, returning home meant seeing my parents; the very ones who equipped me with deserted, respectable fundamentals. If I still wanted parents whod acknowledge me, they couldnt be introduced to my new personality.

Parents aside, I had a reputation known to every one of those 850 citizens. To them, I was the nicest guy on the basketball team a technical foul? Get real. I scanned the list, family friends, parents of friends, old teachers and sports coaches, etc. I couldnt very well roll into town and lie my way to an empty freezer without word getting back to my parents before escaping town limits. I decided to finish the glass, get some sleep, and hit the hometown come daylight. Jake fought for prevalence the whole morning; while in the shop, at the gas station, and for 90 minutes of the two hour drive. At the 90 minute mark, half an hour from home, I caved. I found myself minutes away from my high schools rival headquarters; a quiet, nosy, snobby town with fewer folks than my destinations. Naturally, I pulled in. I knocked three doors, lied my ass off, and left town 2 cases lighter. My parents greeted me warmly, and I greeted them awkwardly. After they exchanged strange looks, we talked for a bit, and then I got to work. I managed to return to my roots that day, and only summoned Jake for technical issues. Steak wasnt pushed on anyone, but if someone was actually interested, I made an honest offer. I didnt sell out the truck, but I came closer than I ever had. My confidence flared. I stopped back at my parents house, said goodbye in a graceful, natural manner and cruised on back to Fargo. I met the close of July with a new identity. My confidence was up, and my numbers acted accordingly. I designed a template thatd incorporate Jake and Jacob; a hybrid. I continued to introduce myself as Jake, and retained that personas qualities as a means to jolt tough customers into happy pastures, but I also enforced my former qualities.

Customers would buy because they wanted to. Jacob charmed them while Jake showed them how they could use such a quantity of steak. I didnt swindle, I bargained. The money didnt come in avalanches, but spurts came here and there that kept away eviction notices and allowed me to maintain the clichd props of a young writer. Once familiarity came with the new persona, my inspiration like the French finally showed. One week after my rebirth, I jotted something down on the drive back into Fargo. The sun was desperately trying to finish its shift, and its final beams cast across the clouds on the approaching horizon. A beautiful, blood-red portrait provoked a particular tale Ive been working on since. I flipped open a graffitied Minnesota atlas and penned an outline. Jake, what the fuck are you doing? The car was flying down the interstate, but I had forgotten about my driver. I didnt bother returning his stare. Ah, you know man writing. The first writing in nearly two months, and I didnt stop until I passed out later that night. The writing came out edgier than ever, more daring. It matured, as though experienced eyes translated thoughts to words. Before, my product seemed to tiptoe through chapters, carefully addressing certain topics. The outline became the beginnings of a screenplay titled, The Trials of a Steak Salesman. I fell into a realm of despondency and depression, both of which can be viewed as ideal writing conditions by some; sadly, that state of mind hampered my abilities. Fortunately, the booze has slowed for me since that evening in the truck and, hopefully, the cigarettes will follow suit in the near future. In gaining time, experience, confidence, drive, and discipline, I hope

those clichd props will dissolve entirely. Last summer helped me grow in many ways, namely in maturity, and the writing hasnt faltered since.