Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Iconoclast Hucksterism (The Fast Gab)

I got a gift, a gift for fast gabbing. The Fast Gab. If pressed, I could sell McNuggets to a chicken, a Whopper to a cow. Take an intrinsic interest, and I can con you into going against it. Quick.

So it's no surprise that I can talk people outta their freedom. Somebody nominated you to be locked-up on such-and-such a date at such-and-such a place so we'll be picking you up at such-and-such a time. There is no question. I get an immediate Never Happen, I move on. I get a pause or a laugh and you're going away.

For Good, as they say. That ol' Good Cause.

Yep, huckstering for Jerry and his kids is a cinch and I talk knots. Only the knot feels like a noose cinched around my scrawny neck. The faster I talk, the better I am at persuading, the tighter it gets.

Yesterday I almost strangled myself with knottedness. Fake cheer and a little white lie. Over and over, again and again. Till I was literally pale in the face. My pulse quickened to a stampede, my breath shortened to a single syllable gasp, and the sweat on my forehead sheened like the slime I'd become. So bad were the effects of my jive, I thought I was gonna pass out.

No one nominated anyone for anything – the names come from a list. And I am decidedly not happy to be conning to you.

Maybe it was the sugar. One of the office's women (and they all are women) brought in a bucket of Halloween candy and I indulged copiously. Maybe it was the coffee, I made a massive pot of extra-strong and slunk it down thirstedly. Maybe it was that fact that I hadn't eaten anything but a mega vitamin all day. Maybe it was all three. And maybe, just maybe, it was my conscience reaching up from my gut to prey upon me for preying upon other people's consciences.

I mean, who am I to fast gab people into giving to charity? I don't give. And I wouldn't want some slick in a suit telling me to do so. When I give, it'd be because I felt giving, not guilted into giving. Why should anyone else be any different?

I would welcome a position that called for marketing angling, something akin to the gentle art of persuasion. But this isn't it. Not even close. This is angling the telemarket, the hard sell of the cold call, and no matter who it benefits, it is not nice. I get people on the phone and lie, and at this point in my half life, I wanna be past that. Well past that.

This morn I bussed myself to Taylor, a town that exists in name only (there truly is no where there), and tendered my resignation. I can’t do this. I won’t do this.

I am cleansed.

This Saturday I restart the slog.