It really sucks: A Kirby vacuum salesperson's story

As an HR major (update: former HR major - ed.) and generally distrustful person, I have learned over time how to recognize bogus job opportunities. The rule of thumb is, if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is. Work from home scams are notorious for this and usually the easiest to spot. Maybe it's the cynic in me, but anything promising a large payoff for minimal effort just makes me roll my eyes. Sure, in a perfect world we could make a thousand bucks a month by working a couple hours a day. And in said perfect world beer would be good for us and animals would shit diamonds instead of scented land mines. I can happily say I've never fallen for a work from home scam, but I did fall for something just as bad, if not worse. For three days I was a Kirby vacuum cleaner salesperson.

For those fortunate enough never to have encountered this bastion of corporate evil, here's a little background. Kirby is a manufacturer of vacuum cleaners and home cleaning accessories, based out of Cleveland, Ohio, with dealers in several countries. The product itself is decent. The vacuum is built solid (albeit heavy as fuck and looks like it should come with a flame-thrower attachment) and really does everything it's touted to do, everything from carpets and staircases, upholstery, mattresses, and wiping your ass for you. Wait, scratch that last one, but with a price tag in the range of two grand and half a kidney, it really fucking should.

Also it should be powerful enough to suck up even the most onerous of ghosts.

I should clarify at this point that the sales of Kirby vacuum cleaners are done through independent dealerships and not directly through the Kirby company, and thus the following rant really has nothing to do with the company itself. But someone had to authorize these numpties to besmirch the Kirby name with their fuckery, so my criticism still stands. And man oh man, do these guys ever make with the fuckery. Their sales pitches are nothing short of notorious. There have been countless articles and rants on consumer advocacy sites and blogs about the pushy and unethical practices of Kirby salespeople, but there is also a plethora of evidence that those who get sucked into the job end up just as burned as those on the receiving end of their pitches. Having met a few of these hapless suckers I can attest that many of them are indeed professional-grade douchebags, but even as heartless as I can be when someone wakes me before noon for something that doesn't involve bacon I always empathize in the end with anyone who is led down the proverbial rabbit hole employment-wise. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't enticed by the carrot of treachery more than once, but at least I wasn't alone.

The year was 2006. That was a rather trying year for me as it was, compounded in no small part by my roommate's chronic job-hopping, not to mention she had begun leeching off my already meager income long before that. Since neither threats nor the not-at-all passive-aggressive practice of leaving underwear in the kitchen curbed the bitchcraft, I had to step it up. So when my insufferable job at the auto parts store finally crapped out, I decided to cowgirl up and find another, hopefully more lucrative employment opportunity. Looking through the classifieds one day, I found an ad seeking persons for "demonstrations of home care products". It promised $500 a week plus bonuses and gave a phone number. What the hell, I figured. If it's bullshit I don't ever have to talk to them again. I called, and the man who answered, presumably the owner, gave me directions to his office and told me to stop by to pick up an application. It was right up the road from my apartment, so off I went.

After what happened when I arrived, I should have turned right around and walked back out, but I'm not known for making good decisions. A sign on the front office door read "Please use side entrance." I did just that. It's important to show a potential employer that you know how to follow directions, you know. I walked into a large room, empty save for a circle of folding chairs and a monstrous-looking vacuum cleaner. There was no one there so I sat down in a chair near the door to the front office and waited. After a few minutes people flooded into the room, all young college types save for a large, red-faced man.

"Hey, who the hell's that?" he barked when he saw me. "She's not with us."

I awkwardly explained that I was there to apply for a job, at which he brusquely whisked me into the front office area. When I finally sat down in front of a (I thought) normal person, he thrust a short application in front of my face and asked me a few questions. Are you a student, are you currently employed, yada yada yada. There was no mention of drug testing, background check, proof of eligibility to work in the U.S., my first-born child, or any of the usual stuff one must fork over for even a passing chance of procuring employment. That didn't raise any flags for me then as it might now, but the fact that he told me to show up at 9 the following morning for training should have.

Like many of the stupid things I do, I went to the training the next day because I had nothing better to do. There were maybe nine people in attendance, all of them around my age. When I saw all the shit lying around emblazoned with the Kirby logo I started to feel uneasy. This felt more like the set of an infomercial than a training session, and once the session actually got underway this feeling only intensified. At least the fat bastard who was so rude to me the previous day wasn't the one giving the presentation. This guy, a "senior sales manager", was young, good-looking, and energetic, decked out in crisp grey khakis and a polo shirt and bantering with the other trainees. He actually reminded me of the door-to-door salesman from Pee-Wee's Playhouse. And while there was no door handy at the time to slam on his dick, this comparison is made all that much funnier with what I would experience later.

The training kicked off with what I dubbed "Kirby salespeople are better than YOU". We were shown a video that was not at all propaganda-like, outlining the company's history, the product and its millions of "satisfied owners", and the OMG FUCKING SWEET perks of being a Kirby salesperson, including company-paid trips to Hawaii and other tropical locales in exchange for exemplary sales numbers, which would be easy to achieve because this machine is the awesomest awesome that ever awesomed and sells itself. I was already beyond disgusted but we were told there'd be pizza for lunch, so I stuck around.

After the satisfactory pizza lunch, incidentally the best part of the day, the second part of the training began. This entailed learning the ins and outs of the vacuum. Mr. Sales Puppet Guy demonstrated briefly how to assemble the machine, assuring us we'd be thoroughly trained in this task before our first real demonstration, and then it was the machine's time to shine. This involved baking soda, a special filter attachment with a clear plastic window and about 50 or 60 "dirt pads", little black paper things that resembled coffee filters, and one of about two dozen old, non-Kirby vacuum cleaners; trade-ins from past customers, he said. He poured the baking soda all over the floor and ran the old vacuum a dozen or so times over a small area of carpet. He then went over the same patch of carpet with the Kirby complete with filter attachment, and then pulled the filter, which was encrusted with filth and baking soda. He repeated this about ten more times, presenting us with filters that were still disgusting but slightly less so with each pass.

As an aside, I should mention at this point that I'm one of those people for whom even normal innocuous actions become about 145% more awkward when performed in front of an audience. As such, it goes without saying I was already wary of this job, since it is implied I would have to do exactly what he is doing in front of complete strangers who are likely already contemplating shoving a spork in my eye socket, not least of all because I'm sprinkling shit on their floor. Mr. Sales Puppet assuaged my fears, however, when he explained this demonstration was to show the customer just how filthy their carpet really was, how shitty their old vacuum was, and what disgusting pieces of lowlife trash they were for wallowing in such filth voluntarily. "100% of the time," he emphasized, "when I show people this and they have an infant crawling around on the floor, they immediately grab the kid." Probably because they're preparing to flee the house and run for the fucking hills, I thought.

 

Above: More hygienic than your living room carpet. You negligent bastard. 

It went on like this, with demonstrations of the shampooer and upholstery attachment and a heaping helping of even more dick-wagging about this miracle machine that would put us all on the fast track to BIG MONEY.

Or at least it damn well better. As mentioned before, the machines cost upwards of $2,000, and since purchases are financed through the dealership the interest rates are no doubt through the roof, jacking up the price tag closer to $3,000 when all is said and done. And the timing for such things could not be worse. Even back then the face of a global recession loomed large and, among other things, homes were (and still are) being foreclosed on right and left. So it makes sense to follow that few people would fork over that kind of scratch for a vacuum cleaner when so many are struggling just to keep their homes; keeping them dirt-free was probably a back burner issue.

Enter Kirby. Being the bastardly shitfucks that they are, the subject of widespread financial hardship and its consequent influence on sales was not even mentioned once. What was, however, was that people always appreciate a quality product, even if the astronomical price of said product ensures they would be living on cream of cud and ramen (eww ramen) for years. As if anticipating this concern, it was explained to us that our "sales territories" were carefully chosen. This was a nice way of saying that the canvassers, whose sole duty was to find victims potential customers, did so through extensive research on various areas of town; that is, they drove around looking for the neighborhoods with the nicest and most expensive-looking houses. These people seem to be doing pretty well for themselves, they can surely drop three grand on a vacuum cleaner. Trailer parks, apartment complexes, et al. were avoided. These people obviously suck at life. They probably shit in the yard and drink out of the toilet, so how the fuck could they possibly afford something as sublimely awesome as the KIRBY? I understood the logic behind this (since I too shit in the yard and drink out of the toilet) but couldn't help being offended.

Day two was more of the same. I think the only reason I went back, knowing full-well I wouldn't do this shit, was to see how utterly ridiculous they could get. They did not disappoint. Each of us were given ample opportunity to get a feel for assembling and disassembling the contraption, and we were made privy to warranty information and other paperwork to give to customers. We were then briefed on how our demonstrations were to go down. We were to do fifteen presentations per week; ideally three per day. They were to last no less than 90 minutes and we had to use no fewer than 30 of the dirt pads or the demos did not count. In other words we would not get paid for them. At least the canvassers had already set up appointments with customers so they knew we were coming, though this did little to alleviate my unease.

Day three was SHOWTIME. Mr. Sales Puppet was there, as was Fat Bastard, the gent who greeted me with such austerity at the beginning of this diatribe. We were also met with half a dozen new faces, the canvassers who were kind enough to set up our appointments for us; ambitious young go-getters who happily peddled vacuums to get to their current lofty station in life, or so they claimed when each of them got an opportunity to speak. To hear them talk this was a place to find a stable future. I took it with a 25 lb. grain of salt. Everyone knows salespeople are professional assholes, the type who would endorse sweet-talking elderly people out of their pensions for fun and profit. I felt what was surely the annihilation of the last vestiges of my mortal soul during the rundown of the previous week's sales figures, which were good but we can do better! To wrap things up we were led in a special Kirby cheer, not unlike the notorious Wal-Mart Cheer, only none of us newbies had fucking learned it.

This was all well and good, but the best part came when we prepared to set out for our "territories". The canvassers/sales veterans we would be shadowing on our first day snagged up the piles of demo machines lined along the back wall, with Fat Bastard not far behind to motivate them, and us, to victory. And by motivate I mean he screamed, "Go go go fucking go. God damn fucking shit bastard, there aren't enough shampoo attachments. Motherfucker. Don't just stand there fuckers, MOVE." I only wish I were exaggerating. He really did give me a run for my money in terms of frequency and creativity of his profanity and capacity for childish tantrums.

Once the debacle was settled, which I assume was accomplished by pistol-whipping last week's lowest seller, we were all herded into several minivans. They were all older vehicles and I'm not sure if they were all completely rancid, but the one I was crammed into certainly was. It smelled like ass and stale cigarettes, no doubt due to being used to haul around vacuums that had sucked up detritus from countless different homes. At least we were allowed to smoke inside, unlike most company vehicles.

On the way to our territory the wizened vets regaled us with tales of how they got to their esteemed positions, as well as some last-minute tips. Be sure to mention bedbugs when you clean the mattress; that always freaks people out. A little spiel about air quality doesn't hurt either. Speaking of air quality, I was dying. Fortunately we'd arrived at the neighborhood. The van slowed and the girl sitting in the front passenger seat started rummaging through a Wal-mart bag at her feet. She then fled the van like it was on fire and raced to the nearest house. The driver explained that each potential customer was given a free gift just for agreeing to view the demonstration. No one asked because I'm sure not a single shit was given anymore at this point, but the question remained: what the fuck happened to those "pre-arranged appointments"? I suppose this technically counted as such, since we were not yet inside and the sales pitch had not officially begun, only now we had the added bonus that whoever did eventually take the bait would be freshly pissed off by the time we got in there.

We watched as the girl stood on the front step and someone answered the door. She spoke briefly and darted forward just as the door was slammed in her face. Just like the Sales Puppet from Pee-Wee's Playhouse. I smiled. Sometimes it really does all come out in the wash.

We saw this happen three more times, one which resulted in the girl limping back to the van because she'd tried to stick her foot in the door as it was slammed shut, before someone finally let her in. She came scrambling back to the van, and the driver was barking, "We're in, go, go, go!" It felt like an elaborate bank heist. One of the other guys jumped out to help the girl unload one of the vacuums from the back of the van. I was shoved out onto the street and told to accompany her while she did her demo. Fine by me. I had a lungful of ass particles, it couldn't possibly get any worse.

The person who finally took pity on our intrepid door-knocking heroine was a young woman in her early twenties. She was home alone with a small child. I couldn't help thinking this was probably some ideal scenario to these fucking maniacs. I didn't have to do anything aside from observe and learn, but I still didn't do it, at least not in the way they intended. I watched the customer intently. She made only the barest of effort to be engaged, nodding and uttering the occasional "mm-hmm", and her facial expression screamed "kill me now". I could relate.

Surprisingly, I found I felt for the girl I was shadowing as well. It was obvious she hated this shit and felt as ridiculous as she looked, vacuuming up baking soda and placing rows and rows of little black coffee filters all over some stranger's floor. I realized that even as douchey as some of the sales veterans were, at least a few of them possessed a trait that perhaps ensured they'd never find true success in the realm of sales: they empathized with the customer. They knew they were annoying. They knew most customers were just humoring them. But like the stripper putting herself through college with g-string stuffin's, they soldiered on, knowing in their heart something better had to be around the corner. I never spoke to any of these people again, but I've since learned the nature of such jobs and I know they didn't stick around. I imagine even the gungho die-hards saw the light eventually. At least I hope so. Hell will be pretty full soon if not.

I accompanied my mentor to one other demo that day, in the home of an elderly lady who was the sole caretaker of her disabled thirtysomething daughter. Neither of us wanted to be there. The lady even told us that she wasn't in a position to buy, but would watch the demo anyway. I wanted to shoot myself. And apparently so did my companion, because fifteen minutes into the demo she cut it short and apologized profusely to the lady for wasting her time. Unfortunately we had to stay put because the van was still circling the neighborhood in search of new marks. I wouldn't have been at all surprised if they'd leave us stranded or worse if they found out we aborted the demo, but as far as I'm concerned that was a need-to-know basis, and seeing as we would likely slip up at some point during the demo and end up not getting paid for it anyway as a result, they probably did not need to know.

Thankfully they showed up about an hour later, and we left. I told them I had to duck out early to get to class, which they reluctantly allowed. For once I actually was telling the truth in order to get out of something, and thank God for that, seeing as I probably earned myself a lifetime pass to the seventh circle of Hell with this ill-fated endeavor.

I would later learn from various eyewitness accounts and blog entries that the company not only advocated but expected its salespeople to stay out well past dark to meet their quota of 3 presentations a day. There is also no shortage of stories from customers who, after enduring insufferable four-hour-long sales pitches, genuinely feared for the mental well-being of Kirby salespeople who broke down in tears in their homes, claiming their bosses would kill them if they didn't make at least one sale. On the flip, other accounts tell of the asswipes who just straight up go for the jugular and say that a vacation to Hawaii is on the line.

After riding in those trifling ass vans, a visit to the Electric Needle Room will probably be first on the itinerary.

I never got paid for my three days of "work". I really don't care. It was not for me, and that's okay. I'm not going to rule out that there are individuals out there who would have found nothing at all untoward about anything I witnessed during those three days. I'm also pretty sure those people can be found here, helpfully detailing their fast food orders for future reference for every other loser just like me who just didn't have the chutzpah to hawk overpriced vacuum cleaners. But if anything this experience taught me that these dickholes are very much in the minority. There are far more accounts from other individuals who also bore witness to dubious hiring practices and scummy sales tactics and wisely walked away. In short, if a Kirby salesperson comes knocking at your door, there is a very good chance they'd rather be anywhere but there at that moment. If this is not the case, however, you should know that you are obligated by law to set them on fire.