It was an upgrade for the five of us when my friends and I moved in to a condo in Surrey in 1986. Although the unit was run down, the complex had a pool and laundry facilities and we were excited about the change.
We got our first month rent-free because the condo hadn't been vacuumed in months. The shag carpet had once been an orangey-yellow but now had the colour and texture of dry dog food. Since none of us owned a vacuum, we decided to wear our shoes inside until one could be commandeered.
One evening we answered the door to a vacuum salesman, who wanted us to take a demonstration in exchange for a free box of laundry detergent. A vacuum demo? Why yes!
We whisked the vacuum guy in to the condo and sat down, giddy with anticipation, as the he dutifully paced through his demo. (Who knew a vacuum could pick up rice like that?) Next he inserted a white demonstration filter in to the machine which would show all the off-coloured cooties sucked up from our carpet. (Hmm... disturbing.) Then he asked if any of us wanted to try the unit ourselves. (Insert evil laughter here).
I wasn't a clean freak, but I was a poor student, and truly, deep-down-in-my-soul cheap.
Barely restraining a smirk, I picked up the vacuum and worked over the entire living room with it, then moved to the hallway, gesturing approvingly to the salesman about his machine's performance.
Next, a roommate took over, working it up the stairs and in through our bedrooms.
Once the entire condo was vacuumed, we took the machine back in to the living room, patted it lovingly, like a good dog, snatched the box of laundry detergent from the salesman and sat on the couch, satisfied.
Then I looked up at him, unable to restrain myself, and blurted out: "I don't think we'll be buying today, but thanks very much."
Then it got ugly. He refused to leave, citing some sort of "rule" that once a demo had been completed, only his district manager could sign off on his departure from our home. He pulled out a cell phone the size of a small piano, and called in his manager, who was working nearby and showed up promptly.
Standing in the middle of the room, the Vacuum Boss then lectured us for 10 minutes without breathing.
Among my roomies was a six-foot, four-inch, 250 pound junkyard security guard, who sat quietly throughout the episode, looking deceptively harmless. He had been curled up in an armchair in the corner, wearing gym shorts, methodically squeezing pimples on his thighs with a pair of blunt-nosed pliers.
When the officious district manager attempted to take back the laundry soap, my largest roommate quietly uncurled his massive legs, stepped across the room and picked up the $2,000 vacuum, gently walking it outside to the front porch.
Then he came back to the manager, towering over him by more than a cubit, looked down at him, and menacingly breathed: "Maybe you two should go."
They left. Quickly. We kept the soap.
Here's the thing. There was barely enough cash flow in that condo to finance a vacuum filter, let alone an entire machine. There are some excellent salespeople in every industry, but these guys were idiots.
In finance we have some wonderfully dedicated sales professionals.
Unfortunately we also have our share of "vacuum guys" who suck the life out of an industry where trust and credibility are everything.
In the coming weeks, I'll provide tips on how to separate the good from the bad, and hopefully keep you from getting... "hosed."
Sorry, I'm a sucker for a pun.
Mark Ryan is an advisor with RBC Wealth Management, Dominion Securities and can be reached at [email protected].
