Hippie Boy: A Girl's Story Read online

  “What about Rhonda and Natalie?” I asked. “Are they coming back out after Andrea’s feeling better?”

  Dad shook his head.

  “I think they’ll just stay put in Utah for a while. Rhonda’s more of a homebody anyway—and if I’m going to be back on the road selling tools, she’d rather be in her own house and near her daughters.”

  The next morning, we packed up our bags and drove to a wholesale warehouse in Fort Worth. Dad had equipped the back of his truck with a small camper where he stored the wrench sets, metric socket sets, screw drivers, hammers, and kitchen knives he purchased. By noon, we were on our way to Oklahoma.

  I had always envied Dad’s freewheeling sales life and now that I finally had a chance to join him, I wanted to make myself valuable. I’d been thinking about my role since the night before and decided I could be most useful in a support capacity.

  “I think I should be your sales organizer,” I announced as soon as we turned the truck onto the interstate. “I mean, you’re going to need someone to keep track of sales and map out where we’re going.”

  “You know what, Ingrid, I think you are exactly right,” Dad said, patting my leg like he always did. “I guess the first thing we need to do is figure out how much we need to make.”

  He pulled over to a McDonald’s so we could get something to eat and figure out some things. While we chewed on our Big Macs, Dad began working out the numbers.

  “I figure if I’m doing the selling, we can average a twenty-five percent margin. Assuming I can still count on a little commission from my sales crew, I’d say we need to make a profit of one hundred and fifty dollars a day to cover our expenses and my obligations. So if that’s the case, how much do we need to gross each day?”

  I quickly worked the math problem in my head.

  “Five hundred dollars.”

  Dad busted out laughing.

  “You’re going to be a good sales organizer, Ingrid. I know that much already. I’m wondering how I ever managed without you.

  “So that you have all the facts on the table, you should know that I only average about twenty-five dollars per sale, so we’re looking at twenty sales a day.” Dad let out a whistle. “That’s a lot of sales. What do you think, Ingrid? Think we can do that?”

  I could tell this talk was just what Dad needed to get motivated and I was determined to get us back on track.

  “Of course we can do it,” I replied in the most motivational voice I could muster. “You’re the best, right? But we’re going to need to keep track of our sales, so I’m going to need a notebook.”

  Dad laughed again.

  “Okay, boss. Let’s do it.”

  After finishing lunch, we drove a few blocks until we found a 7-Eleven. Dad grabbed our Sugar Free Dr Peppers while I picked out an orange spiral-bound notebook and a packet of Bic pens. Once back in the truck, I wrote the words “Tool Sales” in large bubble letters across the front of the notebook.

  As Dad drove, I started formulating our plan of attack. I knew from our conversations that the first one hundred dollars in sales was always the hardest to secure, so I decided we should make it a rule that we couldn’t stop for breakfast until we had reached that sales benchmark.

  “This way, we’re already a fifth of the way there,” I explained to Dad. “Plus, if we start early, we can knock out some sales before it gets so hot.”

  Dad shook his head.

  “You want to know something? I think you’re made for this lifestyle. And you’re absolutely right about getting started early. I always say the early bird catches the worm.”

  Since we had gotten such a late start, we decided to take it easy for the rest of the day and checked into a twenty-three-dollar-a-night roadside motel I had spotted. The next morning, we started a routine that would become our daily ritual.

  Dad, who never slept past 5 a.m., woke me up as soon as he was awake. To get the blood flowing, we spent fifteen minutes running laps around the motel and then finished our workout with a hundred jumping jacks and twenty sit-ups. Then I hopped into the shower so I could spend a few minutes blow-drying my hair and getting in a few curls with my curling iron while Dad had his turn in the shower.

  It was my job to pack up our bags and return the motel room key to the front desk while Dad loaded up the truck with the tools we’d carried into the motel room the night before for safe-keeping. By 6 a.m., we were in the truck and on the road.

  “What’s our saying?” Dad yelled, letting his voice carry into the still early morning hour.

  “The early bird catches the worm!” I shouted back.

  To kick off the day right, Dad and I grabbed a Sugar Free Dr Pepper from the gas station where we filled up the tank and checked the oil.

  Then we were on our way.

  Within a week, I had our sales routine down pat. And our early morning start became the most important component. It didn’t take long to learn that the midday heat made people cranky and that our prospects were in much better moods and were much more likely to buy when the air was crisp and the day was still fresh. This was important because the first sale of the day was always the toughest and Dad needed an early success to give him the lift and confidence to keep going.

  Our first few sales stops always set the tone for the day. If Dad made a sale to the first or second guy he approached, I knew it was going to be a good day and that we stood a reasonable chance of wrapping up early and treating ourselves to an afternoon of lounging in our motel room, watching TV, or just relaxing while the cool air from the air conditioner washed over us. If Dad encountered three “nos” straight out of the gate, I mentally braced myself for the long hours ahead.

  Our sales strategy consisted of driving the secondary roads throughout Oklahoma, Arkansas, Kansas, and Iowa, looking for prospects. We kept our eyes peeled for the lone gas station attendant or the do-it-yourself mechanic working on his car. But what we were most interested in were the oil rig job sites where, at any given time, a group of two or three migrant workers could be found taking a smoke break or digging into the sandwiches they’d brought from home.

  “These guys have so much money in their pockets they’re just waiting for an opportunity to spend it,” Dad would say as we pulled up to a job site. “Well, they’re about to get their chance.”

  Whenever Dad or I spotted what looked like a good prospect, Dad parked the truck, hopped out, and initiated a conversation.

  “Is it hot enough for ya, today?” he would ask, or “I think it’s quitting time, don’t you?”

  If the guy responded in a positive way, Dad would make small talk for a couple more minutes to warm him up and then casually mention that he was liquidating some tools and ask if the guy would like to take a look.

  I always waited for the signal to bring out some merchandise. Sometimes Dad just looked over at the truck and gave me a quick nod. Other times, it boiled down to time.

  “If I’m still gone after five minutes, bring me a wrench set,” he would say as he left the truck.

  When it was time, I grabbed the agreed upon tools out of the back of the truck, ran to Dad’s side, and flashed my warmest smile. When our prospect saw that Dad had his daughter with him, it usually softened the guy up, and he was willing to spend twenty dollars, even if he didn’t need a wrench set.

  Our truck didn’t have air conditioning and by mid-morning, I was always covered in sweat. My legs stuck to the vinyl seat of the truck and I was constantly shifting positions to get comfortable. Dad caked on his Old Spice aftershave each morning to hide the sweat-induced body odor that kicked in after a few hours in the baking heat; by the end of our day, we were both sweaty and dirty from the hot dust that kicked up on us when we stepped out near the oil rigs to talk with our prospects. But despite the discomfort, I loved life on the road with Dad. It felt natural to me, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged.

  When we did reach that first one hundred dollar mark each morning, Dad and I celebrated with a
trip through the drive-through window at the first McDonald’s we came across for a quick Egg McMuffin and orange juice. Lunch usually consisted of a Hostess CupCake and Sugar Free Dr Pepper from a 7-Eleven or gas station.

  “This is the life, isn’t it?” Dad would say with a grin as we kicked back in the air-conditioned room for a few minutes with our ice cold drinks and sugar treats.

  Each time Dad made a sale, I carefully noted in my orange spiral-bound notebook what tools he had sold and for what price. Then I calculated our profit and recorded that number in a separate column. I also kept a running total of the sales so Dad would know how much more we needed to sell to reach our daily goal.

  “So where are we at?” Dad would always ask a few hours into the day. “Have we hit our halfway point yet?”

  Although my official job was smiling at prospects and keeping track of our sales and profits, I quickly realized my most important task was to keep Dad on target. If he got tired and needed rest, it was my job to make sure he napped for only twenty minutes. If he got discouraged, it was my job to cheer him up. And if it was getting late and Dad was still one hundred dollars short of our daily goal, it was my job to push him along, coaxing him into making one more stop so that we could reach our five hundred dollar goal.

  My words of encouragement usually encompassed some sort of a deal.

  “I’ll tell you what, Dad. Let’s just make three more stops and see what happens. I’ll bet the next guy you talk to buys something. We only need to sell four more sets of wrenches to meet our goal.”

  This was all it ever took. A tired smile would creep across his face. I knew he was in when I saw his hands grip the steering wheel with renewed determination.

  “Really, that’s all we need to sell? Just four more wrench sets? Okay, you’re the boss. Let’s do it.”

  My emotions mirrored Dad’s. When he scored an easy sale and doubled our usual profit margin, it put us both on a high. When he encountered a string of “nos,” I shared his disappointment. A rude comment to Dad could deflate me or send me into an angry rage. Most of the time it wasn’t what our prospects said, but how they said it—and how they looked at Dad when they talked.

  “Look, if I want to buy something, I’ll just go to the store,” a guy would say, eyeing both Dad and me with disdain. Other times, guys would tell Dad flat-out that they weren’t interested in buying “hot” merchandise, implying that Dad was some sort of a criminal.

  “Well, Ingrid, he was a first-rate bastard,” Dad would fume, slamming the truck door closed and pushing down hard on the gas pedal. “There’s just no reason to treat people like that.”

  At these times I would reach for Dad’s hand and squeeze it to show my support. I fought back the hot humiliation that surged through me as I worked to comfort Dad and rebuild his spirits.

  “They’re just jealous, Dad. That’s all. They’re just pissed off about being tied to a nine-to-five job.”

  THOUGH DAD HAD said we could keep the Texas apartment as our home base, I knew he was struggling to keep up the rent. The next time we were in Dallas to stock up on tools, Dad told me to pack up the dishes and bedding from the apartment so we could store it in the office.

  “Why do we need an apartment when we’ve got the open road to call our home?” Dad said after returning the apartment keys to the office manager. “Apartments just confine us.”

  I couldn’t help but feel bad because I had started fantasizing about living with Dad permanently, and I knew that without a regular place to live, that was out the window. But I also knew that money wasn’t flying the way Dad had said it was.

  We nearly always reached our five hundred dollar daily goal when we were working, but it was becoming clear to me that one hundred and fifty dollars a day wasn’t enough. If the truck broke down and Dad had to spend the day fixing it, or any other unexpected expenses came up, it immediately put us in the hole. Along with covering the office lease and gas and living expenses on the road, Dad was also supposed to send money to Rhonda, who had quit her job as a grocery clerk when she and Dad married. Then there was the mounting child support he owed Mom.

  Every time Dad called home to talk with the other kids, Mom grabbed the receiver and berated him for not paying child support.

  “The next time your mom mentions something about child support, tell her that she ought to be sending me child support during the summer to take care of you,” he would rage after slamming down the phone.

  I knew Dad was just blowing off steam but I hated feeling caught in the middle between him and Mom. I understood now that despite Dad’s argument of not wanting to support Earl, the truth was that he rarely had the money to cover his child support obligation. But I also knew how desperately Mom needed the child support, and I started panicking about all the money I was costing Dad—which in turn made it harder for him to pay Mom.

  Though we ate cheaply, I estimated that the cost for my food alone came to nearly fifteen dollars a day, and I knew that if it weren’t for me, Dad would be spending more of his nights sleeping in the back of the truck instead of renting a room at Motel 6, which cost us between thirty and forty dollars a night. Dad had fired what he referred to as his “piece of shit” sales crew when we started selling ourselves in mid-June. But by early August, the money pressure was getting to be so great that Dad decided the only way out was to find guys to sell for him again.

  “I just need to multiply what we’re doing sales-wise and we’ll have so much money coming in we won’t know what to do with it,” Dad said, explaining his plan to me. “Yup, Ingrid. That’s the answer.”

  Dad decided to act immediately by placing a Help Wanted ad in the newspaper in Oklahoma City. We headed to a McDonald’s so I could help him write a “Make $1,000 a Week, No Experience Necessary” ad. But before we could run it, Dad said we had to rent a motel room so he had a place to receive calls and conduct interviews. He decided to book a room at a Red Lion for three days.

  “We’ve got to have a nice room to impress the sales guys who turn up for an interview,” Dad explained when I questioned the wisdom of spending so much for lodging.

  I understood Dad’s reasoning, but I was worried. The room at the Red Lion was costing us more than twice as much as a room at the Motel 6, and I knew that each day we took off from selling meant going further into the hole financially.

  After thinking about it for a few hours, I decided the only answer was for me to do some selling on my own.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” I told Dad the evening we ran the ad. “While you’re in here finding guys for your sales crew, I’ll set up a table at the stop light across the parking lot and make a few sales.”

  Dad looked relieved. “Now why didn’t I think of that?” he said as we carried in our merchandise from the truck for the evening. “That’s one of the best ideas I’ve heard all day.”

  The next morning, I put on my favorite shorts and tank top, and then spent an hour curling my hair and carefully applying layers of mascara and eye shadow. I knew I needed to look good if I wanted to get guys to stop at my table. I also hoped it would make me look older than fourteen.

  Dad whistled when he saw me. “Well, I think you are going to stop them in their tracks.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Just doing what it takes,” I said as I walked out the door.

  I headed to the front desk and talked the desk clerk into letting me borrow a card table and folding chair from the motel conference room. Then I dragged them across the hotel parking lot to the corner of a busy intersection. Dad followed behind me with a box full of wrench sets, screwdrivers, and several sets of steak knives.

  I arranged them on the table and then took a seat, ready for business.

  The four-way intersection was packed with cars, and men whistled and yelled as they drove by me. I always smiled sweetly and waved, hoping it would get them to stop. Mostly they just kept on driving. But every once in a while, a guy would pull his car over to the side of the road and walk up to my ta
ble.

  “Well, hello gorgeous,” he would say, eyeing me up and down as he spoke. “What you got here?”

  “I’ve got what you need,” I always replied, offering my prospect a flirtatious smile.

  “Everyone needs an extra tool set for their car or truck,” I continued. “What happens if you break down on the side of the road? And these knives have a lifetime guarantee. You don’t even need to sharpen them.”

  By this point in my sales pitch, my prospect usually had an odd grin on his face. It must have been funny to see a teenage girl who barely topped five foot one and weighed ninety pounds standing at a busy street corner hawking tools. Just the experience was probably well worth the twenty dollars he would spend on the knives or tools. But I was convinced that I had inherited Dad’s knack for selling and was certain I had my prospect eating out of the palm of my hand.

  I always saved my ace for the end.

  “I can give you a great deal on anything you see here,” I would tell the guy, gracefully sweeping my arm across the goods displayed on the table like I had watched the models do on The Price is Right. “And it would really help me out. I’m here working with my dad, trying to earn money for college.”

  If I could get a guy to stop by my table, I was usually successful in making a sale. But when he followed up by asking me on a date, I quickly passed.

  “My dad won’t let me,” I would respond when pressed.

  “Why do you need your daddy’s approval, honey? How old are you anyway?”

  “Sixteen,” I would lie. “But my dad is very protective.”

  I operated my business for the next three days. Every few hours, Dad would take a break from his interviews and cross the parking lot to see how I was doing. He would bring me a cold Sugar Free Dr Pepper and cover me for a few minutes here and there so I could take a restroom break or grab something to eat. By the end of the three-day period, I had sold three hundred and ninety dollars’ worth of merchandise. It was well short of our daily five hundred dollar goal, but it felt good to know that I had helped offset our expenses.