'You don't shoot salesmen, do you?': A True Life or Death Tale

By Darrell W. Wood

The following first-person account is a true story of my experience selling Bibles and books for the Southwestern Co., Nashville, Tennessee. This particular incident occurred my first year on the field, 1963. No. 2 first-year salesman and No. 5 overall, I went on to sell for another two summers before graduating from seminary. In 1964, after a successful summer of sales in Alabama with a sales team I recruited, trained, and managed, I was named a Top 20 Crew Leader. In the article below names and places have been changed for confidentiality to protect the identities of those involved.

As a seminary student, I spent my first summer in 1963 selling Bibles and books in Loudon County in northern Virginia in and around Leesburg and Jefferson County of northeastern West Virginia in Charles Town and surrounding area. I delighted to drive through the lush countryside dotted with dairy farms, apple orchards, rustic barns, and split rail fences in northern Virginia. Even more inviting were the drives across the state line into the verdant, legendary Shenandoah Valley of West Virginia.

In sales school the 1,000 plus college and seminary students making up the summer sales force (no Bibles or books sold in retail outlets) learned the techniques of successful door-to-door selling. Among the many ploys presented to help establish rapport at the door or to overcome objections, one of the more humorous was--"You don't shoot salesmen, do you?" I didn't have the slightest inkling that this tongue-in-cheek saying would become a lived reality a little later as I plied my door-to-door practice of American free enterprise as a first-year salesman. (Colporteur was the fancy word from a bygone era for one who peddled religious books.)

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The quiet calm of that hot, humid August morning was broken only by the raging storm within the innermost depths of the soul of O.K. Ferguson, a World War II veteran.

As I drove up the long driveway off the county road in West Virginia, I saw a tall, lanky man leaning against his car drinking a can of beer with empty beer cans scattered all around. I immediately became enmeshed in the maelstrom of a tormented vet who was bent on committing suicide. Selling a Bible or any other book was the last thing on my mind as I got out of my 1957 black Chevrolet Bel Air and was caught up in a life-or-death struggle.

As was my customary practice, I bounded out of my Bel Air and introduced myself with a friendly handshake. From that moment, everything took on a sense of the surreal as I tried to size up the situation. O.K., the veteran, was obviously under the influence after drinking all morning. I quickly found out that his wife, Eleanor, had taken their teen-age son, Skip, an ace pitcher on the local Little League baseball team, to a nearby town for a game that day. O.K. had been planning how to end it all for a long time. Today was the day--he thought, "Just do it!"

The troubled veteran was suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) from being in combat in WWII. This led to his addiction to alcohol in trying to cope with life and its pressures. (During WWI such a condition was called "battle fatigue" and in WWII "shell- shocked" described combat fatigue.)

O.K. had planned everything out completely, he thought. However, he hadn't expected someone like me to come along and spoil his plans. In alternate fits of anger and cursing, he kept bellowing out to me, "Why did you have to come?" I felt the timing was providential and a case of God's divine intervention. It must have been a "God thing" because I responded in ways quite out of character for me. First of all, I related to O.K. as if he were family or a lifelong friend. I wasn't there to try and get him to buy a Bible, but I desperately needed to "buy some time." I knew that I needed to stall for as long as I could.

In his drunken stupor, O.K. went into the house. And I followed him. On the kitchen table was a scribbled note he had written telling of his intentions to commit suicide. He wrote the note after calling a neighbor and friend of the family. After she refused to write the note, he scrawled it himself. Uncharacteristically, I asked if I could fix myself a sandwich. Normally, I would never use this sales school tactic as an "icebreaker." But O.K. said it would be okay. After fixing a cheese and mayo sandwich, I slowly munched on it but was really not all that hungry. Still stalling for time, I drank a glass of water. (Asking for a drink of water at the door was another technique learned in sales training; however, under normal circumstances, I never used this ploy because it was quite out of character and made me uncomfortable.)

Then O.K.--between cursing and lashing out at me as an unwanted interruption throwing a "monkey wrench" into the works--said that he was going to go ahead and do it. He walked into the bedroom and got a .22-caliber rifle out from underneath the bed. He walked to the chest of drawers and pulled out a box of 22 shells. Taking a single shell out of the box, he put the bullet in the chamber and locked the bolt. At this moment, for the first time, I began to fear for my life. I really didn't know what to expect.

O.K. staggered into the living room and sat down on the sofa. I followed and sat to his left. He had put the rifle at his feet on the carpet at about a 45-degree angle. My mind was working overtime trying to figure out what to do next. I noticed on the wall above the sofa were pictures of family members--his wife, Eleanor; his older son, Tim, in his Air Force uniform; his younger son, Skip; his daughter-in-law, Miriam; and little grandson, Frankie. I recognized these loved ones because I had sold Miriam a children's illustrated Bible story book for Frankie just that morning down the road. Sales had been slow, and I was grateful to sell something. Again, in hindsight, I believe God was working in this situation and He enabled me to help at the right time--God's kairos moment.

As I talked with O.K. about his family, it helped get his mind off what he was intending to do. In fact, I knew two things were in my favor: in his inebriated condition, his reflexes would be slower; also, I had the advantage of the element of surprise. So, I reached down and grabbed the barrel of the rifle and rushed out the screen door to the porch and slung the rifle as hard as I could--as it went sailing into some tall Johnson grass over the fence in the front yard.

I walked warily back, peered through the screen door, and said, "O.K., are you okay?" With head in his hands he muttered, "Why did you do that? I've got another one!" I thought, "Oh no, here we go again!"

About that time the telephone rang. O.K. picked up the phone, and I asked for it. (I knew it was the only contact with the outside world.) On the other end of the line was the friend who had earlier refused to write a suicide note. I told her briefly of the situation and asked if she knew Miriam, the daughter-in-law. She said yes. I told her to call Miriam and tell her to come to the Fergusons as soon as possible. After what seemed an interminable wait for help, the son Tim and his wife Miriam finally arrived.

After being united with family members who loved him, O.K. broke down and sobbed uncontrollably. He realized how close he had come to making the worst decision of his life--worth living after all.

As an aftermath to this harrowing, but true, tale, a few weeks later I was in the area making my final deliveries for the summer. As I drove up the Ferguson driveway, I saw Skip, star pitcher, mowing the front yard. O.K. walked over to my black Chevy Bel Air, and I rolled down the window. The rangy West Virginian reached out his hand and shook mine, thanking me for what I done. He smiled and said he was undergoing treatment for his addiction in the rehabilitation unit at the Veterans Affairs medical center in Martinsburg, West Virginia, and was getting his life back on track.

O.K. finally was going to be okay! This ended my first-hand experience of living out the real-life drama of what earlier had been just a hypothetical question: "You don't shoot salesmen, do you?"

Sidebar: That first summer selling in 1963, I became the first salesman to make the Two Thousand Dollar Club. The week my sales totaled more than $2,000 I sold 52 Family Bibles (12 in one day), and miscellaneous study Bibles and other books. In 1964, selling in Alabama with a crew I had recruited, trained, and managed, I was the No. 3 salesman in the company and named a Top 20 Crew Leader. The summer of 1965 I sold Bibles and books in York, Pennsylvania. With my summer earnings (with rebate from my sales crew), I and my wife, Priscilla, were able to finish seminary the next year without having to work for our support.

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