The Window Salesman

For some time now we have been discussing the porch remodeling. It was my wife’s idea to renovate it for three-season use. We have been here for three and a half years. Our house, a tidy brick and siding Cape Cod, was built in 1956. The screened porch addition was probably an afterthought. It was done on the cheap, with thick, fuzzy screening material you could barely see through, mismatched lumber, and a crudely poured concrete slab that was covered in Astro turf. There is one door, and it leads to the lawn instead of the small, homely concrete patio where we have our grill and some outdoor furniture.

It is a conundrum, but more than that, it is a vast inconvenience, especially in the winter when the yard is full of snow, and we grill out anyway. The only time I have ever been thankful for it was last winter. I was bringing in a couple of steaks in a chilly rain, when I hit black ice on the top step. My arms went up in the air as though I was trying to fly. I lost sight of the plate when it passed my head. My body leveled out sideways and I hit the ground hard. It is the one time I was glad the patio was on the wrong side of the house. And yes, the steaks were retrieved. I picked the grass off them and served them. ?

I kind of wished my wife would have forgotten about the whole porch thing, but it kept coming up. She began to conceptualize, looking at magazines, perusing internet sites about porches, and talking to friends about it. I had to admit, it was getting unsightly. The screen was filthy; it was flapping in the wind, and it had potholes in it big enough for birds to fly through (they did). Boards were rotting. The paint was peeling. A chunk of aluminum siding fell off in a windstorm. It was beginning to look like a shack. ?

I could say I decided to do the project, but that train had already left the station. I called a builder friend and asked for a quote. He said all I needed to do was give him the dimensions, and a notion of how many windows and doors we wanted. He never called us back. It was at the beginning of the pandemic, when people began settling in, nesting. All the trades were busy. I tried a couple of other contractors. Two didn’t come back with an estimate. One came over and stayed for an hour and half late on a Friday afternoon, talking to us as though we were long lost friends. He never quoted us, either. We finally got estimates; one, then another. ?They were expensive, out of our budget range.?

Enter Anthony, my step-daughter’s boyfriend. He is handy, and fearless. He has a full-time job but was game to do the work on weekends and evenings. If we bought the material, we could pay him for his labor.?

That is how we found ourselves at Home Depot on Sunday morning. My wife, Sue, had mentioned that she wanted to go before it got too busy there. When I said I wanted to go with her I think she was thrilled. It made me happy, too. Sometimes if you suspect you are about to be conscripted, the best thing to do is enlist.

There were two men at the window department. One looked to be about 50. He was gray-haired, tall, and seemed to be good natured. He had a white-blonde Van Dyke beard that made him look like General Custer.

I did not know what to expect. Window salesmen have a certain reputation for selling blue sky and sunshine. It is because windows are ostensibly a commodity. They are glass and have a frame. But they are not a commodity. Windows are complicated.

“Windows?” he intoned, from behind the glass partition. “You wanna talk to this guy here.”?He turned to face his partner in the cubicle.

“Allan?” he asked. “Wanna take care of these folks?”

On the stool next to him sat a small, stolid man, with a smooth round face. On his head was an ornamental purple bandana, there for sweat, tied askew with the knot in the front, and the tails spilling onto his forehead. ?He was wearing a long-sleeved blue and white flannel shirt so attenuated it looked like it might disintegrate at a touch. He had on cargo shorts with white socks and low hiking boots. ?He looked like he had stepped off the assembly line at the Brookpark Ford Plant.

What is the difference between cheap windows and expensive ones? What is the difference between single and double-hung windows? How do windows attenuate sound and why are some so much better than others at doing so? How much do good windows help with insulation? What does the R value of a window mean, and why is it the inverse of the U? Which windows have enough strength to take a hit from a small stone the mower throws off. What is the difference between a muntin and a mullion? And what are casement windows, anyway?

Which windows should we buy? How is anybody supposed to know all these things?

He asked us a series of questions about the use of our porch. He told us, proudly, he had been selling windows at Home Depot for 20 years. Then for the next half hour or so he gave a master class on them. As he spoke, he became animated, a twinkle in his eye. We were rapt. Windows, hitherto a bland topic, suddenly became fascinating. By the time he was done we knew exactly what windows we wanted and why. He gave us prices and they were below what we expected. It was a foregone conclusion; we were buying the windows from him. We could hardly wait to buy the windows.

The entire project is now possible because he had told us everything we needed to know to make a decision. He was not a commissioned salesman. He had been generous with his time and his knowledge. He did not condescend. He did not take advantage of our naivete. There was not a trace of smarminess about him. He did not care if we liked him or not. He was not glib, not conniving, not a glad-hand. It was obvious he loved his job; talking about windows and helping people decide what window was right for them. He was nothing like any salesman I had ever met; he reminded me more of the kindly teacher I wish I’d had in school. And yet he was the consummate salesman.

I don’t know what fool said that it is not what you know, it’s who you know. It is simply untrue. What you know is everything---that and how you tell your story. It occurred to me then that everything I had ever learned about salesmanship, or at least our American version of it, was flawed. It is decidedly what you know, and whether you give a tinker’s damn about the product and the person to whom you are selling it.

I grew up in the 1950’s.It was a time when a person could hold a decent paying job for 40 or 50 years and retire with a pension and a gold watch. Money was important, but it wasn’t everything---at least to most people. The ensuing years have made a mockery of the post-war golden age. Life got tougher, then tougher still.

It seems that in the quest for the almighty dollar so many of us have learned ways to be less reputable, to make the most money, in the quickest possible time, with the least amount of effort. We disengage from others as soon as we have claimed the prize. Long after the pandemic bubble has burst, and the closings, the associated shortages of materials, inflated prices, and the culling of the work force, have ameliorated, one thing will remain. There is dignity in work, and fulfillment wherever we find it. Those unfortunate enough to have been raised to think that money is all that matters will surely find this out the hard way.

The world needs teachers, artists and architects, poets and painters, engineers, and tradesmen; electricians, and plumbers, and carpenters, and masons, people who install tile and drywall, waitstaff, and yes, honest window salesmen---every bit as much as it needs doctors and lawyers. On the cusp of reopening, many businesses are finding that those workers who have been derailed or furloughed by the pandemic, may or may not return depending upon their subsidies. Some, after enforced reflection, will resign, and move on to other things.

This we know: there is good and honest money in the trades and the services allied to them. There is opportunity for those who do not mind doing a day’s labor to rebuild and sustain ourselves and our country. We cannot all be silver-spoon children, trust fund babies, barons, venture capitalists, startup geniuses, day-traders, sharks, or financial brokers. Most of us must sweat, must build; and ultimately, get out there and sell something.

When the porch is finished, I will raise a glass to all of them, to all of us picking ourselves up, dusting off our backsides, and shaking a fist at this horrific, modern plague. May we live and be well.

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