Selling Fridges to Eskimos
Author:
Donal O'Mahony
[Excerpt] In the early 1900s, while Hollywood was still in its infancy, the two young Cohen boys, Jack and Harry, set their minds athinking how they could make themselves some real Shekels. What could they get into that was legitimate and likely to have mass appeal? The new moving picture phenomena was ripe for plucking so they set off renting halls around the neighbourhood and turning them into bioscopes bringing the culture of the Golden Screen to the deprived local yokels. With sufficient outlets under their belt, they went one better, moving to Hollywood itself and setting themselves up as film producers under the banner of Columbia Picture Corporation. Before long they were churning out the celluloid as quick as one could say "Action" and soon they became leaders in movie production, distribution and screening. To retain this position, they boasted of having a sales force that could "sell fridges to Eskimos". By the beginning of the 1940s they had broadened their range of product from "Cowboys and Indians" and "Who Done It" melodramas and signed up that sultry temptress, Rita Hayworth.
It was at this time the Cohen Brothers came upon me and took me under their wings as one of their fledgling salesmen. I was signed up to cover the parts of Ireland that Cromwell had stayed clear of. My job training lasted half a day and I was then let loose clutching my school atlas, an ample supply of order books, a bunch of film adverts, and a list of cinemas that I was told were champing at the bit to buy the product. For the life of me I couldn't figure out how my accounting background could stand me in this task but that didn't seem to bother them.
My first port of call was to a parish priest in Donegal who ran a local bioscope. I was not to know that he had suffered a deeply distressing experience after receiving in the post, unsolicited, a promotional handout of the bold Rita Hayworth showing her in all her splendour wearing little more than a smile. As a result, Columbia products had been placed at the top of his banned list and those responsible for producing and disseminating such filth condemned to eternal damnation or worse.
Nothing I had learned from my days as an articled clerk had equipped me for such a meeting. On a wild winter's day, buffeted by Atlantic gales and fortified by a quick burst of Ave Marias and a nip of brandy, I presented myself to him unannounced. At first, I think he thought I was a travelling Church accessories salesman flogging candles, altar wines, and the like. Soon, however, a look of wrath spread across his priestly face that would have done credit to Michelangelo's "Last Judgement". I could only think of one way out - lie through my teeth. I proceeded to inform him that it was not widely known that Rita was a pillar of the Church in Hollywood, a daily communicant, and really did it to cover the medical costs of her poor, sick, saintly widowed mother down in Buenos Aires. It worked like a charm. From then on, they couldn't produce enough of Saintly Rita's films for his hall and the delectation of his parishioners.
On another occasion the same Mr. Black took me for a proper idiot recounting the tale of Garcia and his heroic efforts in the Mexican Civil War. Apparently this Garcia character was given an important letter to take to his embattled Commander out in the wilds of Mexico and, after overcoming appalling hardships, he finally struggled through to achieve his goal. Suffice to say I was not all too clued-up on Mexican affairs and had never heard of Garcia before but thought it wise to look impressed by this thrilling exploit. Black then suggested that I nip out and buy a copy of this tale which would be available in Abbey Street and would inspire me in my budding Columbia career. After traipsing around every bookshop in the city I finally gave up and returned empty-handed to explain to him that none of the Irish literati had ever heard of Garcia or of any of his letters. At this he excused himself, left the office, and returned some five minutes later with the booklet in question saying that he had just bought it. I never felt so mortified nor inadequate in all my life. It was some time later that I discovered he kept a supply of these booklets printed by and solely for Columbia to motivate its taskforce by showing that nothing was impossible to the dedicated!
The big event of Columbia's year was their annual International Sales Convention - a time to meet the mighty moguls and rub shoulders with the stars. Previous locations included Miami, Honolulu, Bermuda, and so we figured that 1951 would see us basking in Bali or Tahiti or some such exotic place, and doing a bit of couch-casting with South Seas beauties. We couldn't believe it when the invitation arrived - Margate, Kent. It probably was a dream place for day-tripping, war-weary Londoners and I'm not saying anything against it, but it was hardly the place in the middle of November for globetrotting, sex and sun-seeking movie executives from Dublin!
Our flight from Dublin to London was on a Bristol Wayfarer, a broad-nosed, fat-bellied aircraft, which belied logic as it lumbered its way down the runway and groaned into the sky. To settle our nerves we were plied with copious supplies of complimentary drink, so much so that by the time we landed we were more ungainly than the aircraft. The Mayor of Margate gave us an official reception and his regalia were the subject of much mirth among the American contingent.
The week was one presentation after another until, finally, there was a face-to-face meeting of branch reps with the boss men. I will admit that I was shaking in my shoes as I face the inquisitors but, using my thick Dundalk accent, I parried their searching questions and got away with it since they could not understand a "ting" I said.
Before returning home, my colleague, the other Irish rep, and I went shopping for souvenirs. He dragged me into a chemist shop on the High Street. With a furtive glance and barely a whisper he enquired of the shop assistant the price of the top range of things I had never heard of. The assistant, noting that he came from Southern Ireland, gave him a quote per gross saying he could arrange postal delivery under plain cover. I remember thinking to myself that rubber gloves must be in short supply in Ireland and import duties excessive and how pleased his poor wife would be protecting her gentle hands from all that scrubbing and washing.
I finally reached the conclusion that life had more to offer than selling my soul to these Hollywood moguls who were causing such distress to the faithful of Ireland and so I refocused my sights once more on becoming a Chartered Accountant. Turning my back on Rita Hayworth, I applied my mind to the mysteries of double entry, trial balances, balance sheets, and tax matters in the happy knowledge that if some of the other types I had come across in my auditing days could qualify, then there would undoubtedly be room for me.
Accountancy Ireland Vol 32 No 6 December 2000