W E LC O M E TO T H E B U S I N E S S, J E R R Y • 33 ON THE ROAD In northern New Hampshire, there is a town, called Berlin, which, at the time, derived most of its income from a large paper mill. I never stayed in Berlin because the sulfur smell was so terrible. I went down the road a few miles and stayed at a motel in Gorham. The place was clean, they had nice double stuffed potatoes and it was far enough from Berlin to escape the smell. My travels to northern New England introduced me to a contrast of customers. There was a wagon jobber, who I had to catch early in the morning, and there was a woman I called the black widow because every time I saw her for eight or nine years straight, I am sure she had on the same black dress. I also called on a fellow who owned a bowling alley and vending route. If I was fortunate enough to make contact with him he always gave me an order simply because I showed up. There was a Wise distributor for whom I would have to wait until early evening. If I successfully chased him around in his very cold warehouse I would get an order. And, then there was a guy who would always waste my time. I would sit at his kitchen table and show him my wares. He would listen intently and give me four orders. The next day he would cancel three. I never quite understood why. Maybe he just needed someone to talk to during those cold winter months.