My tension rose as we turned off Interstate 5 onto the long bridge that leads to Myrtle Creek. Arrival in town meant a psychological battle — with prospective customers and with myself. Battison, my boss, radiated enthusiasm, which was part of his job. On this road trip he got a cut off of any sales I was able to make.

         This was my second road trip for Collier’s Encyclopedia. Four of us had left Everett, Wash.: Chuck, 18, tall, athletic and pumped-up with attitude; Mel, 17, pimply-faced, earnest and fumbling; and myself, 18, a “veteran” because I had sold a set of encyclopedias. Battison was a worldly 24, able to go into bars, pick up women, take them home and bed them. In Anderson, California, he came back to the hotel in the morning, sporting love scratches on his back. I was in awe.

         I had almost not made it to Myrtle Creek. Earlier in the trip, I was working some tract housing in Reno when people started asking for my solicitor’s badge. I didn’t have one. The first time, I shrugged it off and went back to knocking on doors. The second time, they said I faced a $200 fine. I spent the rest of the evening sitting in a park, trying to visualize the coming scene with Battison.

         I had visualized it about right. Battison was pissed. “Didn’t I tell you the company would pay any fines?”

         “Yeah, but I didn’t want to risk—”

         “You let me judge the risks. Your job is to sell books, not worry about fines.” I didn’t like his cavalier attitude about me getting arrested, but I said nothing. His eyes bored into my skull. Then he softened. “I would’ve got us licenses, but today’s Sunday and city hall’s closed. We’ll get ’em tomorrow morning. Now don’t say anything about this to Chuck or Mel.” He nodded toward the car and the two wooden figures inside.

         That evening Battison confined the three of us to our cheap motel because we hadn’t written any orders. He went out to the casino — and when he was gone, I told Chuck and Mel about the $200 fine hanging over us. They knew about it. Mel had been arrested and taken in to the Sparks, Nev., jail —and Battison had ordered him not to discuss it with Chuck or me.

         The next morning Battison was pumping us up — “It’s easy to sell these books–” and Chuck contradicted him. “I don’t think it’s easy,” he said. He had never made a sale, and his enthusiasm had run out.

         Battison fired him right there. Battison made a phone call to the boss in Everett, and in a few minutes Chuck was walking down the street with his bag. Just like that.

         One day later Battison took Mel aside for a man-to-man talk. Mel was too young, not ready for this kind of work. He had to go home. When Mel protested that he didn’t have enough money for a bus ticket, Battison said it wasn’t the company’s responsibility to pay the expenses of former employees who’d been terminated, but that he’d stretch the rules and give him five bucks.

         Mel picked up his bag and was gone. Later I heard that he ran from Reno to the California border, puffing along Interstate 80 in his business suit. He hitchhiked back to Lynnwood, Wash., in four days. His parents were furious at Collier’s for taking their under-aged son out of state without their permission.

         The night after Mel was fired, Battison took me out to casinos, where I sneaked a few games on the slots, and to cocktail lounges. I was more than two years underage, and was kicked out of every establishment. For me it was an ordeal: I didn’t want to go into any of those places and face the embarrassment of being ejected. Battison felt no embarrassment. He was playing the odds, like the salesman who braved 20 people saying “no” just to reach the one who said “yes.”

         Battison thought I might be able to start making some real money. I had sold a set of books on the way down, at Shasta, Calif., and with luck might do it again. But by the time we rolled into Myrtle Creek, I hadn’t written any business for five days, so I had to go with Battison as an observer. This relieved some of my stress because the rejection would be directed at him.

         As Battison’s car crossed the bridge into Myrtle Creek, I saw the little blue sign: Green River ordinance. No soliciting without a city license. Neither of us said a word about it. Beyond it were the tired brick buildings and run-down shops of a town that had been bypassed by the freeway years before. We ate hamburgers in a cafe, then headed to the new part of town, a tract of cheap, one-story houses.

         We started knocking on doors about 3 p.m. It was usually women who answered. “Hi,” we’d say (and this is exactly what we said, word-for word), “We’re in the neighborhood finishing up a series of special student interviews. We’d like to talk to you and your husband together. Is he home?”

         In the afternoon he usually wasn’t. We’d make an appointment to come back in the evening, promising that we’d explain everything. We didn’t say a word about encyclopedias. We made some appointments in this way, canvassing the one-story boxes on the edge of town.

         Sometimes we’d catch both husband and wife at home. It was usually teachers on summer vacation, or some guy who worked the graveyard shift. When that happened, we’d go in and begin the small talk. “Be friendly,” Battison said. “Get ’em to like you. Butter the bastards up.”

         We’d ask them where they were from, how long they’d lived there, and what their occupation was — always with the thought, Can these people afford a $500 set of books? We’d look to see if they had a phone, because anybody who wouldn’t pay a phone bill probably wouldn’t make payments on books.

If the people didn’t measure up, we’d wrinkle our foreheads and ask, “By the way, did the company give you a call informing you of our visit?” The company never made such calls. “Oh. Well, I’m very sorry, but I’m only supposed to talk with people who’ve received a phone call.” Then we’d get the hell out of there.

         If they did measure up, we’d begin the sales pitch, 45 minutes memorized word-for-word. I can still hear the guy at the training session: “All you gotta do is repeat it just like it is here—enthusiastically—and you’ll sell ’em.”

         We only pitched one couple that afternoon. Battison did his damndest, but the people wouldn’t buy. We drove back into town for another greasy burger, and returned for our evening appointments.

         Disaster struck on the first place we hit. A wiry man about 40 opened the door. We sat down and small-talked him while his wife was finishing up in the kitchen.

         His name was Jim Ellinger. “What sort of work do you do?” Battison asked.

         “I’m a policeman.”