The Black Hole

We called him “The Black Hole”. This was because if a customer got anywhere near him, they were owners. No one talked to Bill Jenkins without driving away in a new car; buried in a five-year lease they would never completely understand.

Bill was the only salesman I ever met who had a stage name. His name was Bill, but his last name was not Jenkins. He was by any measure a true superstar. The Babe Ruth of closers. He even looked like the Babe a little. Big guy, full head of curly brown hair. When he would look at you with his intense green eyes, winked as if you were a co-conspirator, you were trapped. You would do what he told you to do, and you would do so gladly. Because if he made money, you made money.

Bill was a high roller. He always carried a few grand in his pocket. He played the horses. He played the lotto, and damn he won it twice! Once for about $300,000, the second for $150,000. Everything he touched turned to gold. But Bill had one big problem: he was a drunk.

What do you do with a drunken Babe Ruth? You can’t fire him. Twenty years ago he was making about thirty grand a month, and if he was making that much money, how much was the dealer making? No, you couldn’t fire Bill Jenkins. He had you by the balls.

Bill had an office across the street from the dealership on an old pot-lot where we sold over-priced van conversions. He would usually arrive at work sober, but by early afternoon, he was pretty well toasted. Bear in mind that a toasted Bill Jenkins could still out close anyone. And he hardly ever made a fool out of himself. He was a drunk, but boy, he had style. Well, there was the time he slapped the sales manager, but that’s a story for another time…

We searched his office continually, trying to find his stash of pre-mixed cans of vodka and orange juice and other intoxicating delights. We suspected he was buying it in bulk from the liquor store down the street, but once the loot was secreted in his office, it vanished. What the hell could you do?

One day the mystery was solved.

Plans had been made to demolish the old building. A new showroom would be built for our ever- expanding automobile empire. Van conversions would give way for new Nissans. One morning the bulldozer came to lay waste the now empty sales office. We all stood soberly across the street watching like gawking little boys. What could be cooler than for a bunch of guys who did nothing but bullshit for a living than watching a demolition?

The bulldozer had just started in on the roof when there was an enormous crash from inside the building. The ‘dozer’s operator turned and looked at us, started. We rushed over wondering what the hell was going on. We peaked into the cracked front window. The false ceiling had collapsed, and with it it’s hidden treasure: three years of booze bottle and cans! Hundreds of them!

We turned away, and there was Bill Jenkins. Drunk, of course. But he had a smile on his face. “I fooled you,” it said.

Eventually Bill’s magical ability to maximize the profit on every deal caught up with us. Business dropped off, and off went Bill to greener pastures. Years later, he got in trouble with the DMV. His sales license was suspended. The Babe could no longer play ball.

Bill Jenkins left the state for a while. God only knows what he was doing! When he returned he settled in a large retirement community. The last I heard he was selling Reverse Mortgages to his white-haired neighbors. I feel sorry for them. They won’t see it coming.

I wonder. Do they have a false ceiling in the recreation room?

Talk to you soon,

David