EMBARRASSMENT….

For most of my life I have been a sales representative for floor covering companies and as such I have travelled the Australian countryside far and wide, calling mainly on retail shops, architects and government departments.

When faxes came into use, they were welcomed by me and my hard-working colleagues as a real boon as they obviate rushing to post offices with urgent communications.

Whilst I still got my fair share of phone calls from architects, builders, and government offices, I could now back-up my verbal information by offering them a fax, confirming our conversations, for legal reason.

This kind of instant service started to endear me to my business contacts and assisted me establishing an instant trust and therefore a good working relationship.

Today, I have been in the company office most of the morning, trying to get out and onto the road, where I was – theoretically – free to call on important clients. However, the phone calls came in thick and fast and I just couldn’t get away.

‘Are you not going out today, calling on customers?’ my boss Mervin called impatiently from his office.

I snatched my fat satchel and extra folders and was just about to leave the office when the telephone on my desk emitted again its annoying sound.

‘Shall I get that call?’ I called to Mervin

‘Of course!’ he yelled back and with great relieve I rushed to the phone.

It was an architect’s firm, located in the city, near the top of a high-rise office building, and their boss, Mr. John Albert, has this unforgettable, craggy, face, so very lived-in, that never showed any emotion and one could never tell whether he was in a good mood or not. Plus, he spoke with matching voice: terse, halting and in a -what musicians would describe as ‘staccato’.

Now, he wanted something from me, which was impossible!

‘I am sorry, John, but there will never be such thing as a maintenance-free flooring, no matter how much your client is insisting on one.’

‘Hmm, that’s disappointing,’ came his rasping reply. Not quite sure whether he meant me or the flooring, I felt having to come up with something positive!

‘There is a new type of flooring coming onto the market next month, that requires only sweeping or mopping. And scuff marks on the floor are being walked-off during the day. Your client’s maintenance costs will be an absolute minimum….

A slightly drawn-out ‘yes’ revealed his interest and I kept on with my sales conversation: ‘The new product is Easifloor and, so far, I only have a glossy leaflet which I received from overseas, showing basically two pictures of a large room, the first one shows a standard PVC flooring, with a small light reflection and below is this new flooring, Easifloor, looking much cleaner and with a larger light reflection. On the reverse side, are the technical details and minimum maintenance instructions……’

‘I need that for my client…’ In his eagerness, he started to breath heavier.

‘I’ve only got one for myself…..but I shall try to fax it to you. The photos will not come out very well but the technical data on the reverse side will tell your client what a great low-maintenance flooring this is.’

In those early days of faxing, fine grey shades were almost non-existent and I expected no enthusiasm from looking at them, however, technical details on the other side may be enough to convey its low maintenance features.

Having faxed John Albert this leaflet, I managed to run out of the office before the next phone call and drove to the first of my many business contacts.

Leaving a building with great satisfaction, after having called on a happy client who fortified me with a strong cup of coffee, my mobile phone started to vibrate.

‘Peter, do you know what you sent me?’ It was the voice of John Albert the architect from the office.

‘Yes, John, I’ve sent you a fax with the illustrations and other details about our new flooring…’ But he interrupted me:

‘Do you really know what you’ve sent me?’

‘What’s the problem, John? My boss was standing next to me and saw me doing it….I’ve sent you the leaflet of our ‘Easiflor’

‘I want you to come here and have a look at your fax. You can’t send me things like that!’ He sounded disgusted but was there a trace of mockery somewhere? This is hard to say when coming from such a stony-faced person.

‘I am in the city right now and shall drop everything and see you right away, if you wish!’ It would be nice if he had said ‘no hurry, come whenever you can fit it into your busy schedule’ but no such consideration can be expected from this architect.

‘I see you in my office!’ That kind of terseness could be a joke….but was it?

Arriving at his airy offices – thank God for the invention of lifts - the staff seems to be expecting me too. Jenny, the receptionist was a stunning blonde who could easily be taken for a film star.

‘Hello, Mr. Frederick, she welcomed me. Was her face flushed or did she apply too much make-up in the morning? Hard to say, but her eyes were shiny and brimming with joie de vivre. Or was she laughing on the inside?

And now, Mrs. Leadbetter, came out of the inner sanctum. She was an elderly woman, tall and willowy. Her rimless glasses glistened at me in a kind of reprimand but she seemed to have more colour in her expressionless face and there were less wrinkles than usual and the ones I could see, were less deep.

My professional antennae were telling me something is not right here and that I need to be on guard. Mrs. Leadbetter walked ahead of me, past rows of rooms with architects who seem to glance at me only to bury their heads down deep into their files and blue prints in front of them.

‘You can’t send me faxes like that!’ We had arrived at John Albert’s office and he stood up from his desk handing me the two copies of my fax.

His face was in a state of mourning like always, only his eyes were glistening.

‘Hello John, I greeted him routinely, ‘nice to see you! Taking from his outstretched hand the two copies. He and Mrs. Leadbetter stood there studying my face intensely.

‘Sorry, John, the photos did not come out very well, why, they are only two black rectangular prints with a white streak in each one, which should be the reflection of the light in the flooring. But I have my original leaflet here and can lend it to you for a few days.

Snatching the glossy leaflet from my attaché case and holding it up in triumph, I felt assured of victory. ‘Here, I’ll put it in a plastic pocket for you!’

Placing it demonstratively on his desk, I stepped back with great satisfaction.

‘Another happy client,’ were my thoughts.

But John and his scrawny assistant were not interested. Unmoved, they stared at me with piercing eyes out of wrinkly faces.

‘Have another look at what you sent me!’ He commanded.

Pretending to be un-effected, I had a look at the first page of the fax.

‘Why, it shows two pictures, both black and with a white streak each.’

‘Look at it, have a good look!’ He bored into my soul.

Thinking this to be a new type of nonsense to annoy a hard-working representatives, I perused the page again, this time with inquiring intensity.

The headline spelled in large letters the word EASI, the name of that particular flooring. Then I concentrated on the two black rectangles showing each a white streak, indicating a light reflection.

There must be something unusual about the light reflection – but what?

‘Look at it!’ John bellowed.

Suddenly, the white area seemed to be in the shape of a specific part of the male body but I had training in suppressing such thought and kept surging.

‘Look at it!’ The architect repeated his command.

Staring at the white area, my indecent thoughts returned. It really looked like a male – you know what! But, my brain signalled that it cannot be so, that it is only my filthy mind.

‘Keep your mind on the job!’ I keep telling myself, glancing at the overall impression of this leaflet.

There is nowhere indicated that we are dealing with a PVC floor cover, only the word Easy is being spelled out at the top.

Beneath the top picture is the bold-lettered punch line: ‘Why put up with this?’

Whereas the below the lower picture proudly spells it out: ‘When you can have that?’

Holding that leaflet was suddenly difficult for me and to save myself from unsteadiness, I placed it on the desk.

John must have sensed that the message got through this strictly business-like salesman.

‘You can’t send me a fax like that!’ His voice commanded, but was there a mocking undertone? An intelligent person like he surely understands that I’ve been the victim of imperfect technology and was only trying to give instant service!

This was hard to say because his face and that of his assistant betrayed nothing. Stony-faced, with red, watery eyes and their lips firmly pressed together, John and Mrs. Leadbetter stared at me unnervingly.

‘Anyway, I’ve brought you the original leaflet and leave it with you. Plus, as soon as I receive some sample swatches or larger pieces of the real thing, I bring them to you – for your client. The price will be the same……..’ I prattled on to hide my embarrassment and bid my farewell, in elegant politeness.

Trying to walk past the reception and out the door unnoticed, proved to be impossible. As a final slap of shame, Jenny the film star, called out with a carefully controlled voice: ‘See you next time, Peter!’ Hoping that she had no idea of anything, I slunk out the door and heard her parting words: ‘And don’t send us any faxes!’

DRIVING THROUGH A LOCUST PLAGUE

On the horizon there was something like fog and I was driving right into it. At first I noticed the occasional locust splashing on the windscreen and I had winced in my seat. The creatures turned into something like scrambled eggs and slid down the windscreen in a gooey, slimy mass. My windscreen washers did their work and cleared the screen, but this was becoming increasingly difficult as the number of smashing locusts increased. What would happen if I ran out of water to clean the windscreen? I thought. And then I noticed the red warning light indicating an overheated radiator. Just now this had to happen, I thought bitterly. Turning into a roadhouse, I quickly parked my car and ran into the restaurant part where I found a man looking worriedly at the darkening sky.

‘My radiator has suddenly overheated and I think I need fresh water.’

The attendant appeared to be amazed at my naive talk and advised me out of the corner of his mouth: ‘Nothing to do with it. You have to brush the locusts off your radiator and you’ll be alright. You’ll still need some water for topping-up’.

He suddenly had a small hand broom in his hand and walked to my car where he brushed an amazing amount of roasted locusts from the radiator – all crispy fried, I thought. After everything was checked - water, petrol and the windscreen was cleaned properly once more - I was about to drive off.

But first, I returned to the service station’s office and bought a small hand broom and felt slightly safer. Returning to my car in a haze of swarming locusts, I had noticed the horizon looking black. All the time the chirping noise and flying whirr of the creatures had been sawing at my nerves. A four wheel drive had pulled up behind me and I asked the farmer who emerged from his heap of scrambled eggs what else one could do in such a situation. He glanced at me in a strange way. Somehow, they all seemed to know how to cope with a situation like that one.

‘Well, you’ve got a small brush or hand broom, I see,’ he pointed at it. ‘You surely need netting in front of your radiator . . .’

‘What’s that?’ I interrupted.

He pointed to his vehicle. ‘What you need is a fibreglass mesh tied in front of your radiator to prevent the bloody locusts from clogging up your radiator.’

I stared at the flywire mesh in front of his radiator – that’s the solution, I thought.

The farmer noticed that I was simple and added ‘Of course you still need to get out of your car occasionally and brush it clean once in a while. Otherwise your radiator may still boil!’

I had thanked him with great relief and gone back into the service station’s office where I bought some flywire mesh and tied it in front of my car’s front grille.

Upon continuing my trip into the ‘black hole’, I learned what fear was. You cannot see the road ahead; your windscreen wiper cannot clean away quickly enough the messy slime that runs down the windscreen. And when you are out of water, and the radiator is hot again, you have to get out and brush away the insects and that’s when they get you. In the stifling heat, they crawl into the car, into your clothes and as quickly as you brush them off, they clog up your mesh again. And all the while, that high pitched chirping is penetrating your brain and you cannot do anything about it!

With my suit clinging wet to my body, shaking and wide eyed with terror, I got through the swarm, headlights blazing. At the next roadhouse, I steadied myself with a strong cup of coffee.

While the mechanic filled up the petrol tank and checked the motor and radiator, he tried to talk to me: ‘So, you’ve been through that swarm already. They are expected here by tomorrow. Then we will have trouble,’ he said with a grim expression. ‘You won’t believe what they eat. There is nothing left wherever they strike!’

‘I thought the Government was spraying their areas to reduce the swarm.’

‘Yeah, but only crown land, me boy!

‘What do you mean? They spray only on government land and across the fence, on private property, nothing is being done? And there is more private land than crown land in some areas. That’s no good.’ I got agitated. ‘The authorities are bragging on the radio about what they are doing to break the plague while they keep breeding on private land.’

He laughed, ‘You’ve just learned a lesson now, haven’t you?’

I swallowed bitterness. ‘Yes, I suppose I just have.’

HELPING A FRIEND…….

The town of Bilbool was not very far. I had already passed its signs and soon I would be amongst houses again. Bilbool was a small country town and I only had to visit a school, a Government department and a bush nursing hospital.

The school had always fascinated me. It was so small that the principal was also a teacher, the cleaner and God knows what else. It had a small administrative building made of red bricks, many years ago, and since the town’s population was dwindling, there was plenty of space everywhere.

‘Good morning,’ I greeted the friendly lady behind the office counter. ‘Would Mr Frank Upton be in? I don’t have a firm appointment but he is expecting me today.’

She smiled. Obviously, they did not get too many reps. calling, being in the middle of grain-growing country with little else to warrant a visit from far away Melbourne.

‘He is teaching right now but just knock on the door and he will come out. But he may ask you to wait till recess.’

‘That is fine.’ I thanked her and walked the long corridor in search of a classroom with children and a teacher in it. Through the glass windows I could see into empty classrooms that would have been filled with children in days gone by. With young people flocking to the cities, country towns now struggled to preserve their small communities.

Sure enough, the last classroom to my right hand side was active. Children were sitting on their small chairs and listening with admiration and awe at what was being taught. At the front of the room, I saw Frank, the principal, teacher, caretaker, and whatever other functions he may have had in this little country school. He looked more like a farmer than a teacher, with his shirtsleeves rolled up, his collar unbuttoned. His sunburnt face, with lean features beneath a tussled shock of hair, was animated as he talked. I had also noticed that his pearly white teeth and blue eyes, cheerfully darting from one child to another, accentuated his personality. And, of course, he wore the grey gabardine trousers of the country folk and matching desert boots, made for walking on unsealed roads.

Suddenly, I realised that he was teaching German language. His blackboard was covered with picture cut-outs of various household articles and he kept pointing at them with a thick forefinger. I don’t know what came over me, but I knocked on the classroom door, opened it and stuck my head in.

I heard myself say in German: ‘Could I see you for a moment, please? I won’t keep you long.’

He flashed a smile at me and nodded. I am sure he mentally checked my grammar. However, my question had a noticeable effect on the children. Their mouths dropped open and they stared at me utterly surprised. Obviously, they had accepted a foreign language as being something to give them a hard time in school, but that somebody would actually speak it, when he didn’t have to, seemed to astonish them.?

‘That was a surprise, Peter,’ Frank extended a grateful hand. ‘Could I ask you to wait another ten minutes, when we have recess? I shall not teach for the rest of the morning and I am all yours then.’

‘Great, Frank. I shall wait outside the reception area. Alright with you?’

‘Perfect! See you soon.’ He went back into the classroom and recommenced torturing the poor children with a difficult language.

It turned out that Frank wanted my advice on installing a safety floor in the passageway. ‘Every time it rains, the rain water comes inside, making the corridor slippery and downright dangerous for the children’.

I had a look at the situation. ‘Frank, I’ll give you my honest opinion. The installation of safety flooring will cost a large sum of money and will still not solve your problem.’

‘Well, what do you suggest?’ Obviously, Frank was not keen to spend money unnecessarily. And if a floor covering rep. advises against buying flooring, there must be a valid reason.

‘Your main entrance to the school has no porch; it is flat and without protection. You step from outside directly inside. The rain hits your entrance and virtually comes inside every time the door is opened. And even closed, it runs from outside into your interior as there is no barrier.’

‘Y-yes. But what can be done about it?’ He was keen to make the right decision and was prepared to listen.

‘You have no roof protruding as a barrier for rain. If you had at least a canvas or aluminium awning which would act like an umbrella, the rain would fall at a distance from your entrance! ‘This, combined with outdoor industrial matting and another industrial mat inside, a minimum of five paces long, would take everything off the soles of shoes and your corridor would be dry.’

‘That is very good advice, Peter. It certainly would cost less than replacing a floor. I’ll be glad when I’ve stopped the kids from slipping.’

‘Now, hang on, Frank.’ I interrupted his beautiful thoughts. ‘There may be kids still falling because they push and shove each other. Even if you had a safety floor, there is no guarantee that nobody will slip - ever! But you will reduce the chance considerably if discipline is high.’

‘But that means your own advice will lose your company business,’ he said looking puzzled.

‘We do not work that way’ I explained to Frank. ‘If you really needed flooring I would say so. But I will not recommend something that’s not necessary’.

Frank assured me that he would get some quotations for a large awning and industrial matting and do his homework budget-wise. We shook hands and I left with the elating feeling of having helped a friend!

MISSING SLIM DUSTY IN CONCERT…..

I turned and there was Ian, a youngish architect, smiling at me. He had set himself up on his parents’ farm and travelled up and down the country district, finding business and was seemingly cushioned against the vagaries of the economy that his city counterparts dread so much. Conducting my business was easy as Ian was naturally friendly to visitors. He did not get too many and that made me very welcome.

‘Be careful when you drive on to Dunkston and into Victoria,’ he warned.

‘I know, Ian, I heard about the plague of locusts on the radio. Unfortunately, I will have to spend a day in town because I have to put my car in for service,’ giving him an accusing look which went unnoticed. Anyhow, I wondered what there was to warn about? They were tiny creatures, weren’t they? What could they do? Plus, the government was constantly announcing that it was spraying the area, obviously killing them off before they started swarming, so if I kept the windows closed and the air conditioning on, they could not get to me. I just had to drive through the swarm in comfort. Easy!

Well, it wasn’t! I was wrong as usual and my hair greyed a bit more than nature intended. But first, I had to get the car serviced. There were two good mechanics and I chose one with the least cars waiting. The workshop was located at the begin of the town and it was unique because it had a life-size mannequin outside, near the road, with a motorised arm waving motorists into its driveway. Obviously, the owner of the petrol station cum repair shop had a sense of humour!

Looking at the dummy, I had noticed that it was also being used as an advertising medium for other things because it had a large sign hanging from its neck, inviting everybody to a play in the town: ‘Rome, sweet Rome’ it said in large letters - obviously a pun directed at the Italian population of the area. Also, the dummy was dressed in a Roman toga and, like in ancient Rome, had a laurel wreath placed on its realistic wig. With its finely detailed face and accurate proportions the mannequin really did look lifelike! To make it attract even more attention, the service station owner had installed a windscreen wiper motor that moved the arm. Waving at passers-by and directing motorists into the driveway was certainly a clever set-up!

Wally, the owner came out, smiling. He knew that another city slicker had been lured into his establishment! ‘You like my dummy, then?’ he started a conversation.

‘It’s incredibly lifelike! It certainly gets a lot of attention,’ I observed admiringly.

Wally nodded proudly ‘Yes, I put a bit of work into it,’ pointing at the arms. ‘I’ve installed a windscreen wiper motor. Actually I put two of them in the dummy and added hinges to the arms.’

I stared at the animated figure.

‘I’ve also installed a loudspeaker and work everything from the console in my office. He pointed to his small office with all the space occupied with paperwork and with spare parts used as paperweights. And sure enough, there was a microphone and some buttons and knobs giving the appearance of a primitive radio station.

‘I have only one problem’ he said.

‘What’s that?’ I could not think of a drawback.

‘Come into my office right now’ His voice had become a whisper like a conspirator’s. Eagerly, I had followed him. He placed himself in front of his microphone, his hands hovering over the knobs and buttons. His expression became grim and determined.

He obviously had forgotten about me, judging from his intensive staring at a van with a family inside. Clearly tourists, they had stopped in front of the dummy, and stared at it, talking to each other excitedly. Then one man had left the van and slowly approached the figure, as if mesmerised.

‘Watch this bastard,’ Wally whispered. ‘They all do that!’

‘Do what?’ I whispered back, feeling like a conspirator, too, only not knowing the plot.

The man stood in front of ‘Nero’ as I had named the Roman mannequin, reached out and tried to shake hands with him. This must harm the mechanism, I thought.

Suddenly, the dummy jerked and boomed at the tourist ‘Let go of me bloody arm! What do you think you are doing?’

The shock was very visible, especially as there was nobody else in the driveway. The man almost jumped out of his skin. Trembling, he sprinted to his van, got into it and drove off with the acceleration of a racing car driver.

‘See that?’ Wally turned to me. ‘They all try to shake hands and it damages the motors inside it.’

‘That’s incredible,’ I could only stammer.

But Wally was made of sterner stuff because I heard him mumble: ‘I hope his drycleaner can keep a secret!’

I had to stay in Dunkston while my new muffler was being installed and I also took advantage of getting a full car service at the same time. Wally was an old-fashioned mechanic who took his work very personally, and whatever he did, he did properly. However, I had some visits to make in the town: to the hospital, the local government authority and flooring contractors, all in walking distance, so not much time was lost.

Upon leaving an architect’s place and walking towards a Government department where more architects were waiting for me, I had passed a large cinema and noticed a sizeable poster advertising a concert by Slim Dusty. It was a pleasant shock because Slim Dusty was one of my heroes of country music. In fact, it had always been my dream to attend one of his concerts and witness this legend perform. His concert was scheduled for the next day! I was reading the poster with excitement when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

‘Hello, Peter! You are back in town.’ It was Terry Stringer, an architect, whose small office I had intended to visit.

‘Hello, Terry.’ I was pleased to see him as he was completely natural with none of the snobbish air I sometimes encounter from city establishments.

‘Yes, I was coming to see you this afternoon, if that’s alright with you? I have some new samples for you and your catalogue needs updating.’

‘Splendid, Peter. Let’s say about 3 pm? That’s it then. I see you are a Slim Dusty fan? Are you going to his concert tomorrow? It will be a great event.’

‘Unfortunately, Terry, I can’t! You know how it is - there is always another town to call on.’

‘I know what you are like, Peter. You are too correct. That’s what’s wrong with you.’

‘W-what do you mean?’

‘Let’s say, if you had a car problem that needed fixing or if you were not feeling very well and had to take a day off - you are entitled to it, aren’t you? Then you would have your chance to see Slim Dusty and nobody would know!’

‘You make it sound so easy, Terry’

‘But it is easy. And don’t forget that after the concert, you can meet the master in the pub and have a yarn with him. You know what Slim is like!’

‘Yes, he is very folksy and,’ I was pulling myself together, ‘I have my car in for repairs and a service today. I tell you what, Terry, if the car is not ready by this evening I shall stay here for another day. But only then.’

‘Please yourself. So I shall see you at 3 o’clock then’. Terry nodded and left me in inner turmoil. I have always been a stickler for correctness. It didn’t not matter how far away from a boss I worked, I always did the correct thing, otherwise I just would not have been able to look at myself in the mirror in the morning. Therefore, I decided to leave it up to God. If my car was still being repaired the next day, then I would have had no other choice and I would see Slim.

Wally, the repairman, smiled when I called on him late afternoon. ‘It’s all ready, Peter. New muffler and full service! The tyres are alright and I have just test driven it.’

‘Thank you, Wally. I am relieved that I have a reliable vehicle again and do not need to feel stranded any more!’

But there was a touch of regret in my voice.

http://www.peterfrederick.org                                         http://www.life-on-the-road.com

THE WRONG VIDEO……

‘On the road again . . . ‘ I was thinking of country singer Willie Nelson’s famous song as I hurtled along on the freeway to Darebin. I had a five hour trip ahead of me and not to have this long stretch take away from my valuable selling time, I had left Melbourne on a Sunday afternoon. I liked travelling on Sundays, in the afternoon, because the roads were clear and the service stations and roadside restaurants were unhurried and relaxed.

Whenever I felt the need to eat, I made a habit of stopping where the big interstate trucks parked because there, for sure, would be the best food and best comfort! In summer, their air conditioning would be working well and in winter, there would be, for sure, a warm log fire to relax by. On this day, I found myself looking for a place to have a mid-afternoon snack. The nearby large roadhouse looked inviting, and there was a group of semi-trailers congregated in the vast car park, waiting for their owners.

‘Good afternoon’ a friendly greeting made me relax right away.

Sitting down in a cosy nook, I had asked for a chicken salad and a pot of coffee in accordance with the weight-watching program I was undergoing at the time.

‘Very well.’ The young lass had made notes and disappeared into the kitchen.

The background music was all ‘country’ and I had glanced into a newspaper for the latest news on the economic front, what so-and-so said in Parliament and the reply from the opposition, the news from the footy teams and how they dealt with unruly players.

Boring, boring, I thought - always the same. But it helped me to relax, so much so that I felt like dozing off.

‘Here you are luv,’ a friendly voiced waitress put down some cutlery, pepper and salt and then ‘bang!’ an enormous bowl of something appeared in front of me.

My sleepy eyes  snapped wide open and I gasped in shock. It was a large mound of salad, piled high above the rim of the bowl, and on top of it, carefully balanced, was a half a grilled chicken!

I can’t eat all that, I thought. What a portion! Looking around helplessly I had seen on each table one or two tall, burly men in singlets or T-shirts, tucking with gusto into similar mountains of food. They all seemed to take the size of the portions for granted! Trying to fit in with the other ‘road people’, I  pretended to tuck in with great appetite. But I still had to furtively wrap most of the chicken into a paper napkin to take ‘home’ to my motel room.

Later, back in my car and driving off, I had made a mental note to check the size of the meals in future before ordering.

Upon approaching the town of Darebin, I had remembered some friends in Melbourne asking me what I did if I fell sick or something similar whilst on a country trip.

Well, on my last trip to Darebin, I had lifted a heavy case of samples out of my car. Grabbing it wrongly, or misjudging my ability, my back had given out and the pain which shot up and down my spine was excruciating. I had managed to drag myself into a motel room, close the door and fall on top of the bed. The pain got worse because the bed had suddenly become so unbearably soft. Carefully, I had managed to slide off it and slowly lower myself onto the thickly carpeted floor. The relief was instant - no pain, no aches. I managed to pull down from the bed a pillow and a blanket.

Never had I thought a floor could be so comfortable to lie on. I slept through the evening and the night, but before I dozed off I had wondered what the staff would say if they came in the morning to make the bed and found me on the floor, unable to move. Would there be a doctor in the town that could come and help me? How long would I have to lie on the floor before I could move again? I was a long way from home . . .

However, when I woke up in the morning, I felt extremely well and had no more problems with my back! As I slept deeply, nature had taken over and healed, like the utilities programs in my computer, I thought.

Another time, I had caught a bad flu virus. I must have shaken hands with a real germ carrier of an architect! Arriving at a motel, I checked in with a croaky voice and running nose, shivering and obviously with a slight temperature. Once holed up in my room, I helped myself from the courtesy bar to a tea bag and a small bottle of Bundaberg rum. After a cup of hot tea laced with rum and ensconced in a warm bed, I started to glow like a stop sign. And, again, when I woke up the next morning, although my pyjamas were wet with sweat and my hair was sticking to my scalp and forehead, I felt fine, even on top of the world I thought.

Another time things were a bit trickier for me. Again, on a country trip, I had parked my car in front of a hospital engineer’s office. The ground was so uneven that I had twisted my foot and sprained my ankle. First I took no notice of the pain and completed my business with the engineer before driving off. As soon as I was on the road, I noticed that my left ankle was swollen and extremely painful. Putting my car in ‘cruise control’, I had experienced immediate relief. But every time I had to slow down and use the brake, the pain that shot up my leg was indescribable. I never noticed before how often one has to brake, even on a clear freeway! Finally, I arrived at the next town and, jumping on one leg, with gritted teeth and bated breath, I checked myself in at my motel,

The next day I went to the local hospital by taxi, where a doctor x-rayed my ankle and put bandages on it. I hired a pair of crutches from the nearest chemist and spent the next two days in my room, conducting my business as well as I could, from my telephone. Other illnesses have, thankfully, never happened to me whilst on a business trip.

I was deep in thoughts, when I arrived at Darebin town. On my car phone, I had dialled John Russell’s private telephone number.

‘John Russell here’, a relaxed voice had answered. In the background I could hear children laughing, dogs barking, adults talking.

‘John, this is Peter Frederick here.’

‘Oh hello, Peter’, his voice sounded pleased. ‘Are you in town again?’

‘Yes, John, I have just arrived at my motel. I shall be in your shop tomorrow morning to discuss with you your current television advertising campaign.’

‘Great, Peter. Shall we say at 9 am?’

‘Yes, John, I am looking forward to seeing you again. And, oh, before I forget, could you video-tape your TV ad, please? You know, the one you have currently showing in this area! My boss wants to see it, regarding cooperative advertising.’

‘Of course, I shall tape it tonight for you and bring it tomorrow to the shop.’

‘Excellent! Have a nice evening, John, and I shall see you tomorrow.’

‘Yes, see you tomorrow, Peter!’

The next day, I was at ‘John’s Floor Coverings’ right on time, but there was no sign of John. Being used to waiting outside shops and offices, I had looked at a few windows and then admired his store sign. Whilst some establishments have high-falutin’ titles like ‘Galaxy Floors’, ‘International Floors’ or ‘Super Floors’, ‘John’s Floor Coverings’ sounded rather quaint and, since everybody knew him, there was no need to impress anyone with a bombastic name. At twenty minutes past nine, John arrived in his panel van and I made the mistake of looking at my watch.

‘Sorry, Peter, but I had to take the kids to school.’ ‘No problem, John. It’s good to see you again. How is business for you?’

‘I am really flat out at the moment.’ We entered his shop and he switched on the kettle.

‘I see you’ve got your priorities right, John. Coffee comes first!’

He grinned. ‘Have you spoken with your boss regarding subsidised advertising on our local TV? I do need help!’

‘Of course, John, and we won’t let you down, like I explained to you yesterday on the telephone. Did you bring your sample video recording of this spot with you?’

‘Damn, I forgot! I put it next to my bag and overlooked it this morning. It’s all that rush, you know!’

‘I’ve got to have it in order to help you, John. I promised my managing director to post it to him “express overnight”. He’s waiting for it.’ I was looking desperate and John had an idea.

‘After you have called on the architects and the hospital in Darebin, at about lunch time, come back to the shop. I’ll dash home in the morning and get that bloody tape!’

Having updated his samples and having talked ‘shop’ for about ten minutes, I took my leave. Exactly at noon, ‘high noon’ as I remembered from the famous film, I walked into his shop again. He was still breathless from a hectic morning.

‘I’ve just come from home and here is the tape. There is another program on it too - your boss will have to find the TV ad.’

‘Thanks, John, I shall go straight to the post office and mail it. Declan is waiting for it. You will hear directly from him regarding our payment towards your costs.’

Walking into Darebin’s post office was like going back in time. It still had linoleum-covered floors and counters. I wrote a little note for my managing director telling him that the commercial was on the tape, amongst other programs. Feeling relieved for having finalised everything in this matter from my side and with the ball now in the corner of my head office, I headed happily to the next town.

Driving home to Melbourne at the end of the week I was listening to calming, classical music and had loosened my tie as I still had four hours of driving ahead of me. Suddenly my car phone sounded a shrill interruption and it was Declan, my managing director, on the other end. ‘Where is the TV advertisement you were meant to pick up from John’s Floor Coverings?’

‘I sent it to you “express overnight”. Did you not receive it?’ I was very annoyed because I had made an extra effort to make sure that he received this important item as a top priority.

‘I received the video tape with your note alright and watched it wondering when the commercial was coming on.’ And now he raised his voice in frustration, ‘But you’ve sent me the wrong tape, there is nothing but two hours of ‘’Tom and Jerry” on this one!’

PETER FREDERICK

www.peterfrederick.org

www.life-on-the-road.com

ANOTHER COUNTRY TOWN......

Upon arriving in the town of Barerra near the border of NSW and Victoria, I glanced, again, at my list of appointments. My itinerary was to call on all the architects in this town, the government departments, the flooring contractors, inspect two large flooring installations and maintain contacts with the end-users of our PVC floor coverings.

The first visit in Barrera was at a flooring shop run by Frank Cleary. It was at the edge of the town and Frank was an old friend of mine. I had supported him for a long time because he always made me feel welcome. There was a friendly smile, a cup of coffee and intense listening to any new knowledge I had to pass on and he happily accepted new catalogues and samples. It was amazing how few flooring retailers treated visiting company representatives as part of their team! 

‘It’s just a rep!’ they would mutter when they saw somebody in a business suit and holding a folder enter their establishment and they would continue with whatever they were doing. Obviously they considered people like me an interruption to their work!

However, Frank Cleary was different. He would sit down with me and we  discuss his business and I would point out where I could help him with a special discount when his competition was too tough or I might offer to recommend him to a builder to help him win a contract that way.

On this visit, however, he informed me that things had been very quiet. ‘There is a large building project in town, Peter, and despite our keenest tender, somebody from out of town is quoting cheaper, with a different brand of flooring - I don’t know how they do it!’

Since business was quiet due to a downturn in the economy, I realised how much he needed to win this contract. And he certainly needed my help. Plus, of course, I wanted to see my own brand of flooring installed.

I thought about this and hit on an idea: ‘I tell you what we could do’ I exclaimed. ‘My company could donate 10 sqm of a Safety Flooring as a test installation. We always do this when a client needs convincing. This offer is only available to you! Your competitor from out of town will not be able to offer the same. Would this help you?’ I asked.

‘My word it would’ he sighed with relief and his tiredness seemed to disappear. He clearly saw the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

‘Also, mention that, if you win the contract, you would train the maintenance staff in the proper cleaning procedures, thereby ensuring that the ongoing maintenance costs are kept to a minimum.’

‘Hang on - who would do the training?’ he sounded alarmed as he did not wish to promise more than he could keep. He was truly a decent businessman.

I touched him soothingly on the shoulder: ‘I would come from Melbourne, upon your completion of the installation, and conduct a training seminar for the cleaners. As you know, I always have floor cleaning equipment, like a buffing machine, in my car. For now, Frank, follow up your original tender for the project with a “Letter of Amendment” and list the extras we just discussed. I shall speak later on today to the manager of the project and recommend you.’

‘This may help’ Frank said quietly.

I had known Frank for almost 30 years and was aware that he would have liked to have sold his business and retire as he was getting on in years. But he had no son or other family members to hand over his business to. He was a bit tired but had to keep going, competing with big and well-established businesses from as far as Sydney. In my opinion, he belonged to a disappearing breed of flooring contractors: hard working, doing their own installations, giving good customer service, and yet being squeezed hard by big and rough-working competitors.

My next call in Barerra was to the large private hospital where Carl Boswell was the maintenance engineer. Right from our first meeting, about two years earlier, we had gotten on extremely well. So much so that at Christmas time I always brought him a bottle of wine or company give-aways, small attention-getting trinkets, like an attractive-looking ball point pen or a set of golf balls. In return, Carl would present me with a Christmas pudding that he’d cooked himself, as he was also a qualified chef and in charge of the hospital’s kitchen!

The hospital, Star of the Sea, was run by nuns and always had a peaceful atmosphere. So, with pleasant expectations, I entered the hospital and asked at the reception for Carl Boswell.

‘He will be with you in a moment’, announced a serene lady at the reception. She had a very friendly face, with a happy smile that seemed to radiate cheerfulness. This was in marked contrast to some other health institutions, where the receptionists were overburdened and their smiles strained. Still, they all were doing a good job and doing it with dedication. I thanked her and relaxed.

A sister came by, clearly in a hurry, but stopped suddenly and asked me: ‘Are you the representative of the manufacturer we got the new vinyl flooring from?’

Realising that she was in a hurry, I answered ‘Yes. I am Peter Frederick and call here regularly to make sure everything is alright flooring-wise.’ I tried to hand her my business card.

‘Well, we are not happy with the floor - it stains terribly in the operating theatres. They are full of iodine stains. Terrible.’ And then she rushed off and was gone.

This surprise attack had taken my breath away and I had to gather my wits to say: ‘I am sorry to hear that you are not happy with our vinyl flooring but frankly, iodine will stain any flooring. There is, however, such a thing as iodine stain remover and I shall give your maintenance engineer, Carl Boswell, the details!’

But I had not been able to voice this because, like I said, she was long gone. Just by uttering an accusation whilst rushing past, she had deflated me somewhat. I felt this was terrible: being wronged and unable to defend myself! I must have shown a long face, because when Carl arrived he went out of his way to welcome me and cheer me up.

‘Nice to see you again, Peter! How are things with you? Are you having a good day?’

 ‘Well, just so-so, Carl, and how is your day?’

‘We are very busy at the moment,’ he explained as we walked automatically to the hospital canteen. ‘As you know, I am also in charge of the kitchen and do the cooking plus I’m in charge of the hospital cleaners.’

‘Then you probably get two pay packets, I guess.’ I had found my cheerfulness again. This had made Carl laugh and when we arrived at the staff canteen, we went through a well practised routine - Carl filled up the coffee mugs from an enormous container whilst I selected scones for both of us.

‘There was this lady, Carl, who rushed past me and criticised our flooring for accepting iodine stains and before I could reply she was gone.’ Carl giggled and waved a resigned hand - he was used to rough stuff. ‘Are you are aware that there are very good iodine stain removers available?’

We had continued talking ‘business’ and I handed him an information sheet on stain removers. ‘Here is one company you could try.’

Carl was a man of action. He excused himself for a moment and went to the nearest phone. Coming back to his coffee and scone he smiled. ‘I have just phoned the company you recommended and they are sending me a sample bottle to try out.’

‘Here is something for you, Carl,’ I said, reaching into my carry case. ‘It's  French wine, all the way from Burgundy - for you - with best wishes from our company and me. Thank you for all your cooperation and hospitality during the year.’ Carl, a keen connoisseur, perused the label with deep appreciation.

‘Well, thanks, Peter! This is a real surprise! I shall enjoy it with my family, if I get a spare minute with them!’ He giggled in expectation at the thought     of sipping it.

Suddenly he jumped up, rushed into the kitchen which was adjacent to the staff canteen and returned with a great smile on his face. In his hands he carried a Christmas pudding! ‘Here is something for you, Peter. I cooked it myself.’

I knew from the previous years that his Christmas puddings were always very tasty and I accepted his gift with humble gratitude. After all, I knew of no other company representatives receiving a Christmas present from a hospital! It’s always the other way round.

‘Thank you very much, Carl, but you didn’t have to do this - I wasn’t expecting anything . . .’

Carl laughed and took the drained coffee cups to a special tray for washing up. ‘You deserve it, Peter. Whenever I need help, advice or whatever, I can always count on you. You’ve never let me down.’

We took the lift to the second floor, where new vinyl floorings had just been installed. It looked great; smooth like a billiard table because Carl took care to supervise the subfloor preparations as I had advised. Only when the concrete was smooth ‘as per the Australian Standard’ and therefore to his satisfaction, did he let the flooring installer proceed with the next part of installation, the actual PVC.

Carl was a smart man! Normally, tradesmen were let loose with a minimum of supervision - and an installation could go wrong in a big way. This always amazed me as the installation of flooring is a major project and the costs are massive. Therefore, I have always felt that tradesmen should be supervised with the utmost attention. But in Carl’s hospital, everything, whether flooring or cooking, was perfect. He made sure of that!

We looked into the operating theatres: The good doctors had been very generous with the iodine. They were obviously splashing it about with wild abandon. They must shower in it, I thought, judging by the enormous stains on the floor. Of course, nobody can tell a doctor how much to use. In Europe, however, they use another substance, chlorhexidine, which is colourless and leaves no marks.

‘I guess our doctors believe that sterility has to be seen to be effective!’ Carl muttered.

After discussing with Carl the excellent installations, I met with his cleaners who wanted to know some details regarding cleaning methods. I left that friendly hospital in high spirits. I always did.

Peter Frederick

http://www.peterfrederick.org

http://www.life-on-the-road.com