The Beige Rabbit

A relentless overnight downpour, typical for March in Baton Rouge, had refilled all of the puddles on LSU’s campus. Cars plowed through the deep pools of muddy rainwater as throngs of students fled from busy street corners to avoid the constant splashing. I loved these mornings. The sun began to break through what was left of the cloud cover; the Stately Oaks’ trunks and limbs were stained pitch by the moisture. The rich scents of wet earth and of blooming flowers saturated the air.

It was 1989. I was walking from a freshman class in the Quad back to Power Dorm, past the little parking lot behind the student union. In one of the spaces sat a beige Volkswagen Rabbit, its hood popped open. A guy stared down into the engine bay, looking over the motor. I had owned and learned all about two VW Rabbits in high school; I couldn’t help myself. I walked over.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah, wouldn’t start, but it was a loose cable on the battery. I think I got it tightened down enough, should be fine.”

He was a few years older than me, an average looking fella in a white polo and jeans.

“Cool, figured I’d asked. I’m a Rabbit guy and thought I could maybe help if you needed it.”

“That is sure nice of you. I’m Glenn.”

“Joe. Nice to meet you.”

We shook hands.

“Again, I appreciate your offer to help. Say, Joe, I’d love to repay your good intentions. Let me buy you breakfast in the Union.”

The Highland Cafeteria, where I had my meal pass, didn’t open for lunch for two hours. I was, as usual, broke and hungry, and would not have turned down a free breakfast from Satan himself. I accepted.

We walked into the giant Union cafeteria, grabbed a couple of omelets and coffee, and sat down at a table.

“You seem like a nice guy, Joe. Most people wouldn’t just ask a stranger if they needed help. That’s a character trait that most people don’t have, and one that I look for in my line of work.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m in sales. I recruit college kids like yourself to do summer sales programs for my company. It’s an incredible money-making opportunity. It involves free training, travel, and you end up meeting all kinds of interesting folks. We pair you up with another college student in the program and you spend the summer going door-to-door in the towns within a specific region. Like I said, the money can be surprisingly good. And the experience is worth even more.”

Vaguely intrigued, I was not at all ready to jump on board, but I was listening. And very much enjoying a free omelet and coffee.

“Vacuum cleaners?” (It was the only thing I could think of that was still sold door-to-door.)

“Good guess, Joe, but no, I’ll get to that. First thing to know is that all training takes place at our facility in Tennessee, two weeks, right after you’re done with school, then you’re paired up and on your way! We cover most of the expenses. You do need your own money for daily incidentals. Joe, this is an incredible opportunity, and I don’t choose just anybody. You’re just the type I’m looking for. Do you have a job lined up for the summer?”

“No, I haven’t really thought about it. I’ll probably get a job back in Shreveport.”

“Wouldn’t you rather have an adventure? Go on the road? Really help people?”

“Yeah, I guess, I…What would I be trained for? What would I be selling?”

He took a bite of his omelet and wiped his chin.

“Bibles!”

“Bibles?”

“We sell the finest Family Heirloom Bibles available anywhere. And these folks we’re selling to, good, Christian, small town folks, when you arrive at their door–a clean cut, enthusiastic, friendly young man like you—when you knock on that door, they’ll invite you in for a cool drink, you’ll tell them all about our customized Family Heirloom Bible, hand-stitched in quality American leather just for them, with their family name imprinted on the front, and they absolutely can NOT say no! The product sells itself. Truly.”

As he laid out his pitch, I thought of “Good Country People,” Flannery O’Connor’s caustic short story about an uncommonly wicked Bible salesman.

And now, I was uncommonly uncomfortable. I was not the man for the job. I had only wanted to see what was wrong with his Volkswagen and subsequently accept a free breakfast.

I shifted in my seat. My eyes darted. I could feel Glenn sizing me up.

“I don’t think I’m your guy, Glenn. I appreciate it, truly, but I don’t want to spend the summer selling Bibles.”

“Well, I understand, I’m hitting you with a lot right now. But I’m a salesman, Joe, and I’m not ready to give up on you just yet. Here’s my card, call me when you’ve had a little time to think it over. And give me your phone number, if you would, so I can follow up in a few days if I don’t hear from you.”

He offered the back of a business card and a pen. I wrote down my number. (I don’t know why. I was nervous. The pressure.)

We shook hands and he handed me his card. “Hate to leave you, Joe, but gotta make an appointment.”

I was then alone at a table in the Union, staring at a card for a Bible sales company. I fumbled for my cigarettes, suddenly feeling exhausted.

Glenn called our dorm room several times; I refused to answer the phone at all for a week (this was before Caller I.D.) My roommate eviscerated me for giving out our number to, as he put it, “another stray you had to make friends with.”

He was right. I had a history. I couldn’t help it if I tended to strike up chats with strangers. Glenn saw it as a strength, actually.

I saw the beige VW Rabbit on campus a few more times that semester. I made sure I wasn’t spotted.

***

I’m currently buried in learning all I can about what it takes to distribute and sell an independently published book. In a conversation with a buddy a few weeks ago about how I would get my book out there in the world, I said, “I’m going to push it like a door-to-door Bible salesman.”

I don’t know where that response came from. But it immediately brought to the surface my memory of that damp, beautiful morning on campus. How strange it is to have forgotten something from 33 years ago and have it suddenly arise and enter consciousness with such clarity, as though it happened yesterday.

I spent the summer of ’89 as a warehouse monkey at an auto parts warehouse in Shreveport, a job that I loved. But now I wonder if selling Bibles door-to-door would have better prepared me for the task at hand? I suppose we’ll never know.

In any case, I did get a free omelet and coffee.