It's a hard question to answer, because sometimes the effect has been virtually a hundred percent, and sometimes it's much less. I think I have had almost every sort of job, from manual labor in an aircraft factory in Hartford, Connecticut-which despite being fairly dangerous work, I actually liked-to working in the "creative departments" of New York advertising agencies, which I really hated and found much more homophobic (in the aircraft factory, if you did your work, people left alone).  

Most of your working life depends upon what kind of people you are around, and if they are decent and supportive. I have known many men who have chosen the work they do simply because they felt more comfortable as a gay man in it.  

When they tell me this, it always makes me remember one of the very first jobs I had ever had, and how being gay-and having to lie and cover it up-led me to question the work I was doing. Although I have had some really bad jobs, that "first worst job" has stuck in my mind as an example of what being gay on a job can do for you, and how you can see things from a "gay" perspective that perhaps others cannot. 
  
The beginning of this story is strange enough: at the age of eighteen, after a high school suicide attempt in Savannah and a year of constant hazing and harassment at a state university in Georgia, I ended up a gay refugee in San Francisco.  

It was in the fall of 1965, and I had heard about San Francisco in whispers. It was a city "crawling with queers," "anything went there." So I did. I hitchhiked across the country and landed in the Emerald City, almost penniless, living in a $15-a-week Tenderloin hotel room also crawling with rats and cockroaches.  

I had never been so happy. It was true what they said about San Francisco. The city had a fresh cosmopolitan quality that was exhilarating. It was, to a poor Georgia boy who had hardly been anywhere, like being in Paris in the 20s, or Berlin at the time of Isherwood's Berlin Stories.  

There was a real gay lifestyle, with dozens of bars, restaurants, clubs and hangouts. Although I was painfully shy, miserably repressed, terribly frightened of the newness of all this, under the drinking age, and alone, I learned it was possible to sneak into the bars, go out to gay coffee houses, and even meet other young men like myself.  

The only problem was finding a job; or specifically, the problem was that thousands of other young men like myself had done the same thing. My first job was as a mail clerk in the subscription department of the San Francisco office of the Wall Street Journal. I got the job through a gay headhunter who took pity on me.  

Since I had no real job experience, no usable education, and no skills, this was the best he could do for me. It paid something like thirty-eight dollars a week, just enough to cover my rent and keep me from starving till each Friday paycheck came along. I was there for six months, and with the help of generous older men who bought me dinner every now and then, I had managed to save about $50, which was the only thing between me and the sidewalk.  

I started looking in the Chronicle for another job. I was sure there had to be something I could do that would pay me at least sixty dollars a week. After several days, I spotted a small ad: "Young man, some office skills, some outside work. $60 a week." I dialed the number, made an appointment to go in, then the next day called the Journal and told them I was sick. 

The office was on the fringe of the financial district, in an old side building. I went up something that looked like a freight elevator, saw the room number, and a young woman behind the counter said, "Just go inside the door." There a slim, fresh-complexioned young man with round tortoise shell glasses in an expensive-looking dark suit said, "Hi, are you here for the office work?"  

I told him I was. 
  
"Sorry," he said. "That job's been taken. But we have another one. It will start you at ninety-five dollars a week. Are you interested?"  

If he had offered to pull gold out of my shoes, I could not have been more interested. I nodded my head. "Good. We'll go into another room." In the third room were a group of chairs with about a dozen other young men, mostly a few years older than I, but young all the same, sitting in them. Each had a legal pad and pen. The young man who had led me in and told me his name was Ralph Gibson, started talking. "We're in luck today," Ralph announced. "We have one more candidate. You'll all be in competition with each other for this job-but basically, your competition will be yourself. Now, I want you to write down every word I say, exactly as I say it." 

What he began dictating, I learned later, was what they referred to as "the pitch." He referred to it as "the Introduction," and it had to be  delivered word-for-word. 
  
"The most important thing here is honesty. We never want you to misrepresent yourself: 'Good evening, I'm So-and-So, and today we're doing an informal market survey for qualified families in your neighborhood. We're interviewing select families to see if they qualify for some important free educational material that we'll be introducing in this area. This material is absolutely free, but you must qualify. That is why we are doing a brief market survey. We are here this evening to find families who are interested in the future of their children and who can show us that they qualify for this important free material.'" 

I wrote this all down, then Ralph said, "You can put down your pens. That's all you'll have to memorize now." A guy's hand shot up. What was this material? Ralph smiled, "Most of you have heard about Collier's, the famous magazine, right? Collier's also publishes a world-renown encyclopedia. We're looking for families we can place free copies of this encyclopedia with, in order to introduce it into the San Francisco area. Every time you place a free set of books, you'll get fifty dollars. So, guys, if you place two sets in one evening, you've made yourself a hundred dollars!" 

A murmur rippled through the room. "Hundred-dollars-a-night . . .  hundred-dollars-a-night!" It started to sound like a mantra. "See," Ralph explained, "Colliers feels that getting these free copies of their books is so important that the company is willing to pay you fifty dollars just to give them out. Are there any questions?" 

We looked at him dumbly as the idea settled in: we give out the copies free, then get fifty bucks? The whole thing started to sound a little too . . . 
  
"Or," Ralph added, "If you're not interested in making three or four hundred dollars a week, we can put you on straight salary-that's the ninety-five dollars a week. It's simple. You give these encyclopedia's away, you make people happy, and you make money. Does anybody hate this idea?" We looked puzzled, but no one looked like he hated the idea, not yet.  

"Okay," Ralph said, "Now we're going to go into the second part of this-and I want you to listen really closely, because this will separate the men from the boys, which-" a smirk went into his face-"in San Francisco is never a bad idea!" Everyone laughed, and I tried to laugh as well, then Ralph went into the second part.  

"'Now, we know that you're thinking there has to be a hitch someplace but there isn't. These brand-new editions of the famous [he underlined "famous" with his voice] Collier's Encyclopedias are for you to keep. All we ask is that 'qualified' families keep their Collier's in a prominent, proud place in their households, so that all your friends and neighbors can see them and ask you how you got them. So we'll even throw in a brand new simulated oak-wood bookcase made especially for them. The only thing we 
ask-and this is just for the sake of your children's education-is that you keep your encyclopedias up-to-date with the famous Collier's Encyclopedia Year Book!'" 
  
Ralph produced from a desk an example of the year book. It was thick, leatherette-bound, and filled with news photos. He fanned through the pages to show it.  

"'And, just to keep the publishers at Collier's happy, to show that you are committed to these good folks, we ask that you reserve your copies of the yearbook in advance. That way, Collier's knows how many to print. The cost of each yearbook is twenty-nine 
dollars, but because you'll be part of the Collier's family, we're going to give them to you at the unbelievable price of just nineteen dollars and ninety-five cents." 

Ralph slapped the yearbook shut. "And that's it," he said. "That's the whole deal. For just nineteen ninety-five, they get a set of these gorgeous free encyclopedias." He brought out several sample volumes, flipped them open in front of us, and passed them around. "But the families have to qualify. They must be committed to having them." 

At that point, somebody asked an inevitable question: How would they "qualify"? Ralph smiled. "Well, they have to be married. They have to have kids, or be expecting to have kids. We don't give out books to single guys, if you know what I mean?" He winked and another round of titters went up. "And," he said, ". . . they have to agree to reserve twelve editions of the year books." 

I nodded my head. Twelve years? Everybody else must have been thinking it as well, but Ralph said, "I know, a lot of couples would like to have twenty years of the books-to see all their kids straight through college, but at this price we can only guarantee twelve. It comes out to about a nickel a day-not much money to spend on the educational future of your kids, right?"  

A very quizzical look ran through the room, and some guys, already smelling three-day-old fish, walked out. Ralph smiled, joked that there will always be guys you just can't give away money to, and then told us that our first order of business was to learn the Introduction. He would give us exactly an hour to learn it, and then told us that his first month working for Collier's, he had made . . . well, it was an amount that stunned me: two thousand dollars. "And I'm no different from any of you," he promised.  

I looked up at him from my chair. No: Ralph did seem different from me: not just that he was a couple of years older. He had a quality that me feel that he understood money; he was on first-hand terms with it; he knew how to make it. That was as evident as the sharp suit he was wearing. (And, also, he was, to my eyes, "straight"; but this was a difference I did not want anyone else to know.)  

Ralph left the room, and I began screwing my brains into the Intro, going back over it, trying to make it feel like it were something I could say without being embarrassed. I rehearsed it with one of the other men. We pitched it back and forth to each other, and the back of throat went dry with nerves. I had no idea what was going on-how a free set of encyclopedias (something that as a kid I had not been well-off enough to own) even at $19.95 a year could turn into fifty dollars for me. But the idea of a basic salary of ninety-five dollars a week I could\ count on, kept me there. 
  
Ninety-five dollars a week seemed impossible. I had only wanted sixty, but ninety-five . . . it was like jumping over the moon! Ralph returned, and asked us each to start the pitch. Three men looked up, panicked, then walked out. Ralph laughed. "They must have thought I was joking about the test!"  

One by one we all got up. Most fumbled their way through it, but I, the last one to speak, managed to say it word-for-word. Ralph told me I was good. My Southern accent came out, and I did it slowly, full of nerves, but managed to pull it off. At that point, towards the end of my Intro, a massive, puffy-faced man in a very expensive,  double-breasted suit-the suit was deep blue and cut so sharply that it seemed to spit money right at you-walked in. His eyes went over to me, and my throat got even dryer. "Yer doin' GREAT!" he shouted. "I like the way YOU talk!" 

"Perry!" Ralph beamed. "You've just had the honor of saying your Intro in front of Arnie Berlin. Arnie is from New York City. He's the regional director for Collier's San Francisco. Arnie, meet our new star, Perry Brass!" 

I blushed. The other new guys looked as embarrassed as I did, but we all pretended that this must be the way these people who made so much more money than we did behaved. Arnie strode up to me. "You're going to go far in this business, boy! I can tell. You have an interesting accent. In this business, lemme tell you, interesting is better than nothing! Your accent, it's says sincere. I like it!" 

He then slapped me on the back, gave me a gorilla handshake, and stared me straight in the face. I looked right back at him, and he squeezed my hand even harder, until Ralph announced: "We're going out in the field now. If you're ready, great! If not, we want you guys to have a great day!" 

Arnie let go of my hand, and more men in expensive-looking suits flooded into the room, while many of the other recruits found ways to sneak out. Only four of the new guys, including myself, remained. We were joined by nine others, all in suits-I was wearing slacks, a tie, and a sweater-and then down on the streets we got into several waiting cars. It had all happened so quickly that it was like being drafted-or possibly kidnapped. One moment I was working for the Wall Street Journal for peanuts, the next moment I was going to be making a lot of money placing free encyclopedias for "qualified" families.  

The cars were all big and impressive, like Arnie's suit: black Cadillacs and sapphire-blue Lincoln Town Cars. In Ralph's big black car, he told me that he would be my personal trainer, and that as a "tenderfoot," I would be bought dinner. I smiled. That seemed marvelous, ninety-five dollars a week plus dinner: who could beat that? We drove out into the suburbs, parked at a big California coffee shop, and were split into tables. Hamburgers deluxe were ordered all around, and I dove into mine. Arnie Berlin came up to my table, slapped me on the back again, told me that he liked the way I talked, and left. I asked Ralph where Arnie was going, and he told me that Arnie never went out into the field. "Arnie Berlin’s too big for the field. Too smart. He never wastes his time out there." After dinner we drove on into a part of suburban San Francisco that was completely foreign to me. It had large, secure, upper-middle-class houses with plenty of kiddy toys in the front and back. "Bingo!" Ralph said. He parked his boat of a car, another car filled with men in suits and their recruits was behind us, then we all got out, and Ralph directed us into two-man teams. I was chosen to be with Ralph, which made me happy.  

He seemed to have a kind of sharpness that rose above the rest-or maybe I had just fallen for his fresh face and the round glasses. The first order of the night, he said, was to make appointments. We did this by knocking on doors and speaking to housewives.  

It was about five o' clock and usually their husbands were not home-at that time most women did not work-but you asked for the "man of the house." This gave you a position of authority, after all, we were men, dressed for business, looking for "the man of the house." The housewife would apologize that her husband was not at home, Ralph would then give her his business card and tell her that he would return shortly. "We're doing a short market survey, Ma'am. We just want a bit of your husband's time."  

As we left the first house, Ralph explained, "Just before and after dinner is the best time. Before, they want to be cooperative, get you out-and get dinner. After, they're happy-but you don't want to get them when they're too tired." 

We made five appointments, then went out for coffee, and then came back. The pitch, I learned, was actually divided into three sections. There was the Intro, which I had learned; the "crack," when you get into the house and crack open your briefcase full of impressive Collier's samples, and the final stage, which I later learned was called the "shake"-when they sign up for the free books and you shake hands. At the end of the evening, other book men asked, "Did you shake?" Often the answer was: "No, I only got to crack." 

The first night, I stayed with Ralph on the five calls. The first two were completely uncooperative. Either the husband or the wife could care less. One of the other calls went as far as the crack, then faded out: just not interested, "free or what, who needs it?" But two approached the shake, and at each house at that point Ralph asked me to go out to the car and wait.  

When I met him later, he explained that there were "details" they did not like to show recruits. "We have to do a credit check, see, and that'll just confuse you. You won't have to worry about doing credit checks until you're as far up as I am. Somebody else'll do them for you." I asked him how was I supposed to make any money if I was not allowed to see the shake, and he told me not to worry about that-I would be paid for my training, and I would see that money as soon as I made my first placement. 
  
"Placements," I learned, were never called "sales," after all the books were free. We rejoined the other men, some of whom had had a good night-one man actually "shook" twice-and I was driven back to the office. From there I walked back to my hotel in the seedy Tenderloin, which seemed as far away from the suburbs as Mars. I could barely sleep that night. All I could think of was that I-with my "interesting" accent-was going to make more money than I had ever dreamed.  

The next day I went back to the Journal and resigned my job. My boss was sure that I was going back to school. The Viet Nam War was starting up and that seemed to make sense to him; that I would try to get out of the draft by going back. Later in the day, I went back to the Collier's office. Arnie Berlin, in another tailored suit, met me in the front "counselor's" room (the word "salesman" was never used because we were not selling anything, just giving away free sets of books).  

"I heard great things about you, Perry! You're smart! You have incentive! Motivation! Lemme tell you, motivation is everything! You don't got motivation, you might as well give up on life. You become a faggot, know what I mean-they don't have motivation, either!" 

I nodded my head, and looked him straight in the eye. He suddenly turned away from me when I did that, and started talking to Ralph, who was to take me out again that night. This time, I would make appointments of my own, but Ralph would come in for the crack. 
  
I was told that because I had made appointments, if Ralph cracked and shook, I would get some of the commission. This made me feel much better because I had a lot of confidence in Ralph as a cracker and shaker. 

Again, we went out in the big cars, I was bought another hamburger for dinner, and then we found another suburb to penetrate. I managed to make four appointments, and Ralph came in with me for the crack. I could tell right off that he was not thrilled with my appointments. He pointed out things to me that I should have noticed: a porch that had not been repaired (sign of a future bad credit risk); a family with no children (if you don't see kid toys, ask, then leave); one family that was actually headed by a woman (a total no-no).  

On the way back, with the two of us alone in his big car, he told me that I had cost him money that evening by not making good appointments. 

"Appointments are the backbone of this business. You make half the placement at the appointment!" I still was not sure what all this meant, so much was coming at me at once, but I asked him when I would be paid for my training. He told me to expect it after I "broke"-a term for breaking into your first placement.  

"You should do that in a week or so. Don't worry. I'm going to see to it that you make some real money, Perry. Arnie and I both like you a lot!" 

The next day, my third with the company, all of us went to a big California regional sales meeting. It was held in a motel ballroom out in one of the suburbs across the Bay. The parking lot was loaded with Cadillacs and other big cars, drinks and greasy finger-food (high fat, low food value) were provided, and speeches were made. Arnie Berlin got up and gave a motivational talk that might have registered a six on the Richter scale. He almost blew out the sound system.  

"An amazing opportunity has just flopped into our laps, GUYS! Colliers is taking over THE WHOLE DAMN COUNTRY! Forget this Britannica crap-nobody gives a rat's butt about BRITANNICA! Those Britannica boys are crying because they know it's COLLIER'S, COLLIER'S, COLLIER'S!" 

I was happy again to be treated to dinner. It was greasy and inedible, but at least not hamburgers for a change. I listened while various "placement groups" shouted out quota targets for the next quarter, and bet each other Cadillacs and Hawaiian vacations who would place the most number of sets.  

I still could not understand how placing free books could make so many people so rich; the other "counselors" talked about vacation homes, second cars and big boats, but I met several other "recruits" and we looked at each other with the same dazed, curious, slightly frightened, and hungry eyes. There was money here, and we wanted it. But just how were we going to get to it? 

That evening as Ralph drove me out into the field, he told me that this time I had better make better appointments, or there was not going to be another time. He must have sensed some panic in my face, because then he added: "Don't worry. You have what it takes, Perry. Arnie likes you. I like you. Just keep your eyes open this time." 

I did that, and managed to look out for all the tell-tale clues that the prospective household might not "qualify." I managed to make four excellent appointments, and went in myself and cracked for three of them. Ralph came in at the shake, asked me to leave, and then later told me that he had shook on one of them. I was ebullient. "That means I've made my first placement?" I asked. 

"No," he said. "I've made it. But you'll get a percentage. You'll do good, Perry. I have faith in you. See, Perry, it's like this: I'm your field manager. You make money for me, and I'll make money for you. One day, you'll be a manager, and your boys will make money for you and you'll see what I mean." 

I told him that I did not understand what he meant, so he explained it. 

As a manager, he made a percentage of every placement I made, since he was using time supervising me that he normally could have been using placing books himself. Arnie Berlin, who was too busy administrating to do his own placements, made money on every set Ralph placed and I placed-as well as every one below him. Above Arnie were even more important men who made money on every set placed below them, and so on. 

"So how much are the books actually worth?" 

"Don't worry about that," he said. "Tomorrow, you'll get to see the whole thing. I'm going to let you stay for the shake. You'll see exactly what happens." 

I went back to my room that night worried. If everybody was actually making money at that point, except me--how was I supposed to make money? I tried not to think about it. The nice thing was how genuinely protected I felt by Ralph and Arnie. They did like me; they kept telling me that. I felt completely alone, and yet in a weird way I had bonded with Ralph.  

There was something about him that had gotten to me, maybe it was just the fairness and clearness of his face. I thought about him that evening, and thought about how nice it would be if he had been in my bed with me. The thought was strange, but then when you're still a kid, thousands of miles away from home, and alone-well, you anyone nice 
to be in bed with you. It was as simple as that.  

But somehow nobody at Colliers seemed to know that I was gay--maybe they 
just thought all Southern boys acted the way I did (nervous, intense, slightly out of it)-and I actually liked some of the other Collier's men I had met. They were all either married or about to be, but for the most part I had no problems with them.  

One of the things I had learned being away from home was that I could mix easily with people. I knew I was shy-I always had been-but I tried not to be standoffish. I guess, the 
truth was, I wanted very much for them to like me. 

I did have problems with some attitudes. One hyper-aggressive jerk from Ohio of all places told me that he did not like Southerners. "They have a funny way about them. It's odd, y' know? You never can be sure how they really feel."  

Then he looked at me with this very cold look that made me feel that he was not talking at all about the fact that I was from Savannah, Georgia. He was talking about the fact that he was certain I was gay. Southern. Odd. Funny. Gay. One thing was certain: in 
order to "place" free sets of encyclopedias, I would have to be a very "regular" guy.  

The next night, as he had promised, Ralph let me stay for the shake. It was Friday night, the last night of our work week, and we both made two appointments. I went with him to his first appointment, and watched him go all the way through it. He handled it like driving his big car. He had a young, apprehensive couple in the palm of his hand. They wanted the free books so badly they could smell them. They had two small kids ("Bingo!" I could hear Ralph say); and they really wanted to qualify.  

He went all the way the way through a credit check with them (the husband's job, bank accounts, debts, etc.), and they signed the release form that said they were aware of their commitment to all the year books. At this point, they asked him where would they send the money in on a yearly basis? 

"Oh, you don't pay for it yearly," Ralph explained. "That would be way too much bookkeeping. We couldn't pay bookkeeping fees and still give you the books free. No, all we ask is that that you pay for the updates in one year. But don't worry, Collier's is so happy to work with you people that we'll extend you credit for the payments for as long as you want." 

"Oh?" the husband said. "You mean we'll have to pay interest on the twelve years worth of books before we even get them?" 

"It's not interest," Ralph said, his eyes twinkling behind his round glasses. He was all smiles and dimples now. "We just have a small handling fee. It helps us help you. No one objects to it, but if you do, I'll be happy to tear this agreement up right now. Several young couples just like yourself in this neighborhood want these books, and we have a quota on how many free books we can drop off in each place . . . ." His voice dropped off, but he continued beaming at them. 

The couple, who were earnest and wanted to give their kids all the advantage that a free set of Collier's Encyclopedias offered, shook. But they weren't the only ones: I was shaking, too. I wondered if I could ever maneuver my way through this like Ralph did. 
  
Obviously, I had a kind of hero-worship towards him: his clear, fresh, dimpled smile. The round glasses. The well-cut suit.  This man, it all said, would not lie to anyone. 

"Now you see why we don't let tenderfoots hear the shake first off," Ralph said, out the door. "It would scare the hell out of them. They didn't let me hear a shake for the first month!" 

I nodded my head, then went on alone to my appointments. I bombed out at both of them. I was scared. How could I honestly convince anyone to sign up for interest--which was not interest, on "free" encyclopedias which were not free.  

It was hard enough to always lie about being gay, but to have to lie here-to nice people who had let me into their homes, who sometimes asked me if I wanted a cup of coffee, or a doughnut—now that I had some inkling about what was going on ... but what else could I do? I was eighteen years old; in a strange city; without a job. My fifty bucks was going very fast. And I knew that I had to "break," or break. 

That weekend I went back into the underground, mostly night time gay world of San Francisco. Suddenly it seemed so much more real than the "real" world of the suburbs, with me trying to place "free" sets of Collier's Encyclopedias in them. The gay kids I knew from the bars and coffee shops who all had little jobs that barely paid them enough to eat on, seemed a hell of a lot more secure than I did.  

Suddenly I envied them. Most of them had jobs in department stores, schools, libraries, or small shops where they could be somewhat openly gay. I could not. I felt as if I was going to drown in something: an idea that I had no word for at the time. The idea simply enough could be described as "queer hating" or "gay hating."  

Later, it would be called homophobia. But that moment, I just chalked it all up to my survival. To survive on my job, I would have to convince them that I was exactly like they were. This meant "playing" straight. It seemed to have as much to do with my job as convincing people to get a "free" copy of Collier's Encyclopedia. That Monday, I went back into the office and Arnie Berlin met in the hallway. 

"Come into my office, Perry," he said.  I followed him into his office. Unlike the rest of the shabby office of Collier's, it was carpeted and over decorated. The decor knocked you off your feet; everything looked as explosively expensive as one of Arnie's suits. He sat down behind a huge black polished desk and glared at me. 

"They told me you ain't broke yet," he said. "Why not?" 

"I just got to the shake last Friday." 

"You don't need to shake to break. We'll shake for you if we have to! All you gotta do is make those people know that you believe in this as much as they want to. You don't believe, they don't believe: it's as simple as that. So how come you ain't broke? You're normal, right? You ain't some kinda pervert working your way into our office, are you? We had that once: I got rid of that queer fast. We thought you're a regular guy-but with real class! I like that, maybe it's the Southern part, but I like it. So what's wrong? If you are normal like any other guy, you shudda broke by now." 

I told him I was sorry I had not broken, but I would do it that evening, no matter what. I tried to lower my voice, and I looked directly into his face. My palms were sweating, and I could feel perspiration flowing under my shirt. He beamed at me. 

"Perry, that's all I want to hear! San Francisco's fulla pervs, y'see 'em all over the place. Queers-guys with no balls. I don't want 'em in my office. If I caught a queer in my office-it would be all over with for him! I just want you to know that." I nodded my head and continued to look him directly in the eyes. He broke into a smile. "Now, if you 
don't believe what you gotta believe, you can get the fuck out! But if you do believe, I'll make money for you. I swear, Perry! Now go out there and make us see it!" 

He got up, still smiling, slapped me on the back so hard I almost fell over, and we shook hands. I hoped that he could not feel how wet my palm was, and continued to look him straight in the face. I realized then that he was probably tenser than I was, and his teeth were clenched. He looked totally carniverous. It was a look I had never seen before, and hoped I would not see again. He looked at me until he must have decided that he had had enough, and I was glad to get the hell away from him. 
  
I went out that evening, and nothing seemed to work. I was sick with anxiety, and anger, and just nauseated at the whole thing. I wondered why I had ever left the Wall Street Journal, and how I was going to keep from being out on the street in a week. 

During my appointment period, I could not make a single hit. It was like every woman could see doubt and failure written across my young face. Finally, I rang the bell at a very big, beautiful house surrounded by a huge lawn. A woman in her late thirties came to the door. She was on crutches; she had broken her foot, and was obviously in some discomfort.  

I apologized for bothering her, then went into the pitch. She looked at me, and said, "Why are you bothering me? I'm not interested in this." 

Suddenly I did break; I broke down. "Couldn't you just hear me out?" I asked. "Do you have any idea what it's like--" 

She slammed the door in my face.  

I left feeling hurt. How was I going to face Ralph now, or any of the other men? Then I looked back and saw a large man rushing behind me on the street. He grabbed me by the shoulder. "Did you just ask my wife to hear you out? She's been in an auto accident; she can barely stand up. I should slug you!" 

I looked at him, and then remembered Arnie's line: You gotta make 'em believe. But believe what? I apologized to him. "I'm sorry," I said. "Really sorry. I didn't mean to bother your wife. See," I said, and closed my eyes for a second to get my thoughts together, "I'm . . . working my way through medical school. I want to help people like your wife who've been hurt. This is the only job I can get, sir. It fits into my school schedule. Neither of my parents is alive, I'm alone in the world, and this is the only way I've got to make a living ." 

His face sank. He let go of me. "I'm a doctor, too," he said. "Orthopedic surgeon. I'm sorry about my wife . . . I guess she just had a bad day. I'm proud of you, son. What is it you're selling?" 

I told him about the encyclopedias and he asked me to come back into the house. The house was fabulous and tasteful, without a hair out of place. Compared to the poverty I had grown up with in Georgia, it was out of a movie.  

I went through the pitch with both of them, and then the crack, all the way up to the shake. Then the doctor asked me where was I going to medical school. I hesitated for a second, then told him I had applied to UCLA, and he nodded his head approvingly. He gave me his card and told me that if I ever had any problems to get back to him.  

At the shake, Ralph came in, and they signed the agreement in front of both of us. Then we both shook their hands--Dr. John "Whatever" and his wife, Margie, who apologized to me for being so "out of sorts, but it's nice to know that young men like you are going into medicine"-and then we left.  

"I don't know what you did, Perry," Ralph said back on the sidewalk, but you really pulled a great one for your break. Arnie's going to be proud of you!" 

"I guess we still have to go through the credit check before I get the money?" I asked.  "Yeh, by California law, they get a week to bail out. But these people will go through with it, I can tell." 

I asked him if now, after my first sale, I would be paid for my training period, and Ralph smiled. "You know, Perry, we had a lot of expenses training you. We paid for your dinners, your transportation, your training itself. You've broken, Perry, but that does not mean that you're out there swimming in the money already." 

I told him that I understood what he was saying. It was true. Even out there in the ritzy suburbs, I was still not "out there swimming in the money." 

The next day I did not come back in to the office. Ralph called me at my hotel and I told him on the hall phone that I was quitting. 

"Something told me that you didn't have the stomach for it," he said. "Guess you just went belly up, right?" 

At that, despite all my Southern upbringing of politeness, I told him what he could go do with himself and his free encyclopedias, and hung up.  

Luckily one of my young gay friends knew of an opening at a small, touristy boutique in Ghiradelli Square, and I got it. It was working at a small Japanese store that sold nauseatingly cute tchatchkas.  

I managed to stay there for a couple of months, until I got back on my feet financially. I got my first pay check just in time to keep me from landing on the street outside my hotel in the Tenderloin. 

A few years went by, and I hardly thought about my working for Collier's, until I saw that they had been indicted in several states on fraud charges and then they stopped making an encyclopedia completely. 

Then I met a young man in a gay bar in the Village who told me that he had worked for Collier's in Chicago, and he remembered meeting Arnie Berlin in San Francisco. He told me what an asshole he thought Arnie was--and a closet case.  

"He was always grabbing me," he said. "And the way he looked at me, like he was trying to stare right into me!" I laughed. 

"But the funniest thing," he went on, "was the free encyclopedias. One day I totaled it up, and realized that after all the interest charges, and carrying fees, and delivery and handling fees, those poor suckers were actually paying something like $450 for a set of second-rate encyclopedias that were worth about twenty bucks. The rest was all commissions. You know Arnie was making about seventy dollars every time you placed one of those 'free' sets." 

I shook my head and smiled, and realized that that, finally, was the truth, and that selling encyclopedias-and myself-door-to-door was the worst job I had ever had. But it did make me realize one thing: there is only so much lying you can do in this world, and I never again went out of my way to convince people I was straight. I guess I have been lucky that I have not had to, and feel sorry for people who work for the Arnie Berlin’s of this world, who equate lying with the thing they call "normalcy."