Some people in sales actually do fit these characteristics, while everyone else is slowly realizing that they shouldn't even be allowed to talk to other humans. People gather around the ones with real talent, hoping to snag even a crumb of excellence that falls from their lips. I consistently fell short of being one of the good ones.

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I would have cleaned the filth plate of excellence if I needed to.

I was functional in the same way that a warm soda is still drinkable, but not preferable. However, in a new city and more broke than I'd ever been in my life, I looked at a marketing ad like a wish fulfillment fantasy. "I am that kind of person!" I thought, with a generous dose of delusion and desperation. I wasn't just a regular guy who would go into an interview and get rejected. I was a "marketing" guy. I was the ultimate human, and by simply saying words, I could convince people to give me money that I assumed would partially get back to me in some way.

That's when I was smacked by the idea of a commission-based income, forcing me to actually be good at the job if I wanted to see positive results. And it's hard to be good at the job when ...

So few people excel in the world of sales because finding the balance between being an actual, empathetic person and being a robot is nearly impossible. I got the job, and the first few days of training were spent practicing pitches with the other employees. I would pretend to be doing something, and another employee would grab my attention with a pleasant "Excuse me. Do you have a minute to hear about this exciting new product?". I'd then pretend to be genuinely interested in whatever the person was trying to sell me, the way that nobody is in real life. I am truly Daniel Day-Lewis.

We'd run through the numbers and the prices, and I'd throw a wrench in there to see if the seller could remain cool when asked "Does this TV come with Xbox? If I come to find that it doesn't, I will demand a refund." About half of the people handled these questions with grace and fluidity. The other 40 percent sounded like they sort of knew what they were talking about. The last 10 percent panicked and would either pick up the reference pamphlet or bullshit their way through until they were mercifully told to switch partners.

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"Why, there are people trapped in that TV Box! WE GOTTA GET 'EM OUT."

I was never able to master the pitch, but after three days in that room, I was good enough to look like I was dropping prices on a friendly whim, instead of just telling them that I could have sold it at that price a long time ago if they had asked.

For the most part, I'd get to where a customer would ask me, "I don't like the FX channel. Can I get something that doesn't have FX on it, but has the same other channels?" and I'd look in the direction of the head salesman, hoping that he'd acknowledge my expression as an SOS signal and swoop in to handle one of the worst aspects of the job: dealing with the dumbass requests of unremarkable everyday folks who have been misled into believing they know how to negotiate.

If you think that sounds like I have a disdain for customers, well, here's something that may be shocking to you ...

Mr. Boat Dreams and I went into a Best Buy in the town adjacent to the one where our office was located, and he asked an employee in the back where our table was. The employee responded with the international sign that a conversation isn't going to go forward or well: "Uhh, what?" This was a common theme during my time in the crime-fighting duo of Annoying Man and BoatMan, the Boatless Wonder. Other employees who worked for the same company as us had been to the locations before us, and every time they put our setup somewhere, none of the people who actually worked in the building had any idea as to where it was. We were non-entities to them. Whenever we inquired about the location of our table and the logo-bearing sheet that covered it, they looked at us as if we had materialized there from another planet.

Our mere presence was a gigantic, completely unwanted pain in the ass to everyone around us. Such is that life of a salesman. At one point, a guy who worked in the computer section asked if we were going to be there all day with the tone of voice that you usually reserve for a child who's about to throw a baseball at a wasp's nest. We got a lot of that. We were moved away from customers so often that, eventually, we ended up sticking the table near the opening of an appliance aisle like we were the Gatekeepers of Microwaves -- a job title I could live with. The whole situation made me realize something about salespeople ...

I took this job during the holiday season, and we were assured that people would want to buy satellite TV packages for their friends and family. That, it turns out, was a lie. No one buys someone else a satellite TV package. That's a dumb thing to think people are giving each other as gifts. The act of getting it is just impractical enough to not want to do it for anyone other than yourself. That's clear to me now. But back then, Mr. Boat Dreams had me convinced otherwise. So I internalized our downward plunge into failure.

Was it the fact that my shirt was too big? Did I smell funny? Was I inherently unlikable? Was I somehow ruining these clearly amazing satellite TV packages, which I had been assured everyone and their dog was going to be trampling us to get their hands on, as they were the hottest gift of the holiday season?

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"When the s**t goes down, I will kill a man for water, canned goods, and Direct TV's NFL Sunday Ticket package."

If I had had any awareness at the time, I would have noticed how many people were baffled as to why I'd even asked them to come over to our table. It was only when they saw our logo that their fight-or-flight mechanisms kicked in and they'd make a quick excuse and speed walk away. Sometimes they'd even ask me why I was doing this, as if they were rocked with a jolt of sympathy for a poor salesman who had been thrown into Best Buy before he was ready to defend himself. That feeling got even worse when ...

The next day, I was fired in a Dunkin' Donuts.

I met a former co-worker at a bar the next year, and she told me that about three weeks after my departure, the boss announced that things were shutting down and that all of the employees should try to find jobs at another location. But I'd already had my closure.

At Dunkin' Donuts, my boss stared up at the menu and told me that I shouldn't worry about finding a job, as long as I didn't go into sales again. He then recommended that I try the egg and cheese croissant, because it was the best thing I could order for my buck and it wasn't as bad as people said it was. So I bought it. He sold me on a lame Dunkin' Donuts breakfast sandwich. I couldn't sell that sandwich to anyone to save my life. That's why I am no longer in sales.

Daniel has a blog.

A friendly tip for you, Daniel: Caffeine makes people easier to persuade, so maybe give out some free coffee, like in 6 Real World Jedi Mind Tricks Salesman Are Using On You. And for those of you who are looking to not get screwed, always read the fine print, as evidenced by 5 Insider Tips For Not Getting Screwed By Your Car Salesman.

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