My father snorted impatiently and repeated his question. “What m-m-makes… you special? ” I looked away, eyes roaming the study. “I don’t know,”|| murmured. This was no dodge; it was the truth. “No,” my father insisted. He raised his voice. “Think. “What makes you different? ” I shook my head, not knowing what he wanted me to say. I assumed the question required some kind of trick answer, but the only ones that kept coming to mind were stupid and embarrassing. How was I unique? Let’s see… I wear a size twelve shoe, extra-wide. I have brown hair, brown eyes.
I get tearyeyed every time I see Kevin Costner play catch with his dad at the end of Field of Dreams. And when I played in the high school marching band, I did a good job of butchering every note that came out of my trombone. Did those things make me unique? | guess, but I was sure that wasn’t what my father was after. “All right, all right,” I said. “I’ve got one. ” I took a deep breath. “I think I’m pretty easy to get along with. ” I paused and shrugged helplessly. “I’m sorry; it’s the best I can do. Is that what you mean by different? ” My father shook his head side-to-side, admonishing me. There is no right or wr-wr-wrong answer to the question. But you need to give this more thought. Your customers won’t b-b-buy you if you’re just another face in the crowd of sales people that… that are trying to sell to them. You need to know what makes you d-d-different and show them the difference. ” “I don’t follow. ” My father explained what he was trying to get across. To his way of thinking, he said, the cookie-cutter approach that dominates so much of our culture has a function. As a new product or trend become popular, everyone flocks to duplicate it, hoping to cash in on the profits.
But as profitable as some of these copycat ventures can be, almost nothing generates as much attention and excitement as the original one that was truly different and unique. “Why do you think that is? ” he asked. | shrugged. “I don’t know. Because it’s… different. ” My father winced for both of us. “No. People I-I-like things that are different… b-b-because it’s in our nature. ” Suddenly, he reached across the table that separated us and grasped both my hands, pulling me towards him. “Look,” he said. He turned my hands, palm-side up, and had me look at the tips of my fingers.
He said that our fingerprints are the proof of our individuality. The spirals and ridges of skin that make up out prints are completely unique, just like our personalities. Yet, instead of celebrating that uniqueness, most people ignore and forget what sets them apart, or they work hard to bury it because they want to be just like everyone else. They opt for the cookie-cutter approach. “In sales,” my father said, “this is d-d-death. Too many new sales people are trained and encouraged to model the approach of other successful s-s-sales people, which is fine. But they also need to be encouraged to b-b-be… themselves.
If not, pretty soon the light in their eyes goes out. They lose interest. They’re no—They’re no longer excited. And who can b-bl-blame them? ” The muscles in my father’s jaw twitched as he gave himself time to sort out what he wanted to say next. Looking deep into my eyes, he said, “It doesn’t matter if you f-f-forgot, or if you hid it away. What matters more than anything is… ” He took a breath, struggling to find the words that would complete his thought. “What matters is that you find it again.
You need to find what makes you different, and then share that difference -that uniqueness – with your customers. *** I remember the first time I paid a visit to StarCo. It was fall. Leaves were all over the ground, blowing and crunching underfoot as I came up the front sidewalk. StarCo was a big company that spent a lot of money each year on the product that my company sold. Unfortunately, it spent most of the money with two of our competitors, while only tossing a crumb of business our way. The owner of StarCo was a man named “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m busy. I don’t have any more time for this. ” The sales commission that I’d been dreaming of shriveled like spit on a hot grill. I did not take his hand.
I stood there, too dumbfounded to move. One minute I was in the middle of features and benefits, and the next thing I knew… Chess opened me the door, showing me the way out. I found my tongue. “What’s… What’s wrong? ” “What’s wrong,” Chess answered, “is that I don’t like being sold. ” I blinked stupidly, unable to put two coherent thoughts together. “No hard feelings, Ray, but you’re just like all the other people your company has ever sent to see me. You’re too much like a salesman, and that’s not how I work. ” I don’t remember much of what happened after that bombshell, how I ever got my legs to take me out of there.
Maybe I was too shattered to walk at all. For all I know, Bob Chess had someone get a broom and sweep what was left of me off the floor. Bob Chess, a legendary tough guy who had gone through quite a few sales reps at our company even before I came on board. For whatever reason, he treated us as a distant relative many times removed from his immediate family, and showed no interest in changing the relationship. I’d heard all the stories about how intimidating Bob Chess could be, a reputation enhanced, no doubt, by his stocky, six-foot-three frame and a weathered face that looked like it belonged on a North Sea oilrig.
But none of that fazed me. In my zeal to prove myself in my new profession, I was determined to be the one who would pull the sword from the stone and sell Chess on the wisdom of giving my company more of his business. In preparing for our appointment, I imagined his stubbornness being no match for my rookie enthusiasm. Besides, I’d been on a roll lately. My first sales were coming in. All the training I’d been getting at work about following the proper sales formula was beginning to pay off.
I felt certain that I was learning the tricks of the trade, and I wanted nothing more than to show my skill in using them to win over StarCo. Already I was envisioning the accolades that were going to come my way when I closed this account. Sure, I was scared. My nerves felt like exploding firecrackers when I was ushered into the office where the big man himself was working at his desk. And he was big all right. When he stood and gripped my hand, he towered over me, but my nervousness in his presence only made me even more determined than I already was.
After a brief exchange, we took our seats and I swiftly launched into the rapport-building exercises that I’d rehearsed just for this occasion, then skillfully maneuvered through the qualifying phase. Listening to myself, I was more than pleased with how well I was touching all the bases. By the time I made a seamless transition to my sales presentation, I was downright giddy with my performance, and I hadn’t even gotten to the main event where I was going to show off my real strength, product knowledge! All of a sudden, Chess was to his feet, cutting me off in mid-spiel. He extended a goodbye handshake.