Congratulations Sandwich Board Salesman!

Many salesmen take the easy route, losing their sandwich boards by doffing them to homeless people or teenagers, undesirables that society has long since cast-off and never hopes to find a meaningful place for. But not you. You don the heavy burden of your sandwich boards each day, stepping out of your office and into the streets where the real action is without fear of reprisal or reprimand.

Many have called you mad over the years, but they’ve always been competitors, competitors you’ve buried. But of late your esoteric business practices have come under fire from within. Your protégé, William Wutherfort, will take you aside at the end of business today for a brief discussion.

“Frank,” he’ll say, because you tell people in the office your name is Frank so that they can’t find you in the phone book. “You’re a great businessman, no question.”

You’ll nod solemnly, your sandwich board clearly declaring a ludicrously low price for i-Phones available at one of your electronics stores rocking with the gesture. You’ll have been wearing it for the entire day in the office since removing it would compromise your values and sow that you have no more dedication to your bargains than the next man.

“But lately we’ve been talking,” he’ll continue, eyes falling to the ground. “We think you should retire.” You’ll look him up and down and realize for the first time that he is no longer wearing his sandwich board.

“You’re not wearing your sandwich board,” you’ll say, speaking the words as if they were vomit in your mouth.

“No,” he’ll say, shaking his head. “I’m not.” There will be a pause, a long quiet heartbeat between the two of you as you wait for him to finish his explanation. Once he’s convinced you’re not going to hit him he’ll begin speaking again. “Sandwich boards are a thing of the past. These are the future.”

He’ll hand you an LED belt which flashes off the name of a product, as well its price and the location at which it is being sold. You’ll be taken in for a moment by the violent movement of the device, the manner in which it implies the flight of the product it asks you to purchase, but then you’ll realize that it doesn’t have the ability to display cool pictures and you’ll hurl it against a wall, shattering it.

“We’re salesmen,” you’ll tell him. “We live and die by the sandwich board. You respect that or you don’t. And if you don’t you can get the fuck out.”

He’ll shake his head in response. “That was how it was. This is how it will be.” He’ll cluck his tongue. “Change or die, old man. Change or die.”

His eyes will glance around the office, and you’ll follow his glance to his many co-workers, standing around wearing LED belts displaying various messages. Some of the female office workers will have put cute messages on them in an effort to make their workplace more lighthearted and pleasant. Some will have even discovered how to make their belts display smiling faces constructed out of punctuation.

It will make you physically ill.

“You’ve made your bed, then,” you’ll say, slipping the sandwich board around your shoulders and swinging it closed at your side in one fluid motion. Then you’ll heft it with arms strong from decades of bearing sandwich boards and strike him across the face. He’ll go down, a trail of blood arcing from his mouth. You’ll strike him two more times to make sure everyone knows where you stand.

“Choose a side,” you’ll tell the office. “There are no neutral parties in this matter now.”

The LED belts will clatter to the ground and your various employees will clamber for their sandwich boards, concealing their hideous bodies as quickly as they can within those planks of cardboard.

You’ll nod with satisfaction after the last worker has returned to their cardboard garb and trudge off to your office, once again wearing your sandwich board like a knight, nay, a king secure in his armor.

Congratulations Sandwich Board Salesman!