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Death
of a Salesman
Door-to-door sales in the internet age
are going the way of the dodo. (Or are they?)
By Linda Besner
HE NAME on his badge is Liam Mackenzie, but Fozzy Bear—the
code name he uses to pep-talk the rest of the crew on
his walkie-talkie—is more fitting. Liam’s
24 and, despite a discoloured front tooth and the scruffy
remains of a mohawk, he looks as cuddly as a child’s
toy. Especially when he smiles, which is often. It’s
a good idea to smile when you’re bothering people
at dinner.
“Okay, so your callbacks are on 44th,” he
says on the walkie-talkie, “and I’m here
if you need me. Roger? Have fun!” He pulls on
his blue UNICEF vest—like many charities, UNICEF
contracts its door-to-door fundraising to Liam’s
company—tucks his cigarettes out of sight, and
strolls off to confront the trimmed hedges and shady
front walks of Sophia Street, just east of Main.
It’s five o’clock, and the first few houses
are empty. Par for the course: on an average night,
Liam knocks on 75 doors and finds maybe 35 people at
home. Of those, maybe a dozen will talk; perhaps four
will donate. “Some people definitely don’t
want to open the door,” he says. “Matt,
he knocked the other day and this sketchy guy said,
‘What are you doing knocking on people’s
doors? You’re in East Van! You’re gonna
get shot!’”
Liam isn’t worried about getting shot, but he
does peek cautiously over the next wooden gate. “Dogs,”
he says. “They stress that in training. There’s
nothing like knocking on someone’s door and having
their dog run out into the street and having to chase
it. And then you’re like, ‘Sooo... perhaps
you’d be interested in our monthly giving program?’”
The coast is clear, and Liam hums as he knocks. An Asian
man answers and motions for Liam to wait. Liam can hear
him hollering in Mandarin. “I love these ones,”
he says. “I’ve gotten really good at pitching
to kids.” The man’s English-speaking daughter
is too busy to come downstairs, so he and Liam engage
in a short pantomime of apology before Liam heads off.
“This would never work if I were selling vacuum
cleaners,” he remarks.
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Charities make
up a large chunk of the door-to-door sector and
people do still sell vacuum cleaners this way;
in Vancouver, Kirby Vacuum representatives still
make the rounds.
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These days, door-to-door shouldn’t work at all.
Technology has transformed the way we interact, people
are more cautious than they were during the heyday of
door-to-door in the 1950s, and websites such as eBay
and Craigslist should have sent door-to-door the way
of the icebox and the telephone party line.
Yet the trade isn’t quite dead yet. Charities
make up a large chunk of the door-to-door sector, and
people do still sell vacuum cleaners this way; in Vancouver,
Kirby Vacuum representatives still make the rounds.
This city is also one of Avon’s fastest-growing
divisions. And it’s where Southwestern, a Nashville-based
company, recruits salespeople to go door-to-door peddling
educational software and books.
Knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock-knock!
“Now that’s a good solid knock,” Liam
says, stepping back from the door of a brick house.
“One like this,” he says, using his binder—knock-knock-knock—“that’s
no good. People are going, ‘Did someone knock?’’”
He raps the binder again, the regulation seven times,
“and now people are going, ‘Who’s
banging on my door?’”
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