The letter was succinct and ominous:

Dear Recent Graduate:
Come to our main headquarters on Lexington Avenue at 9:00am on Monday, June 16th. You will get a job.

At the bottom of the high-quality paper was a raised triangular black logo that felt neat against my fingertips.

I had just returned home after college graduation with the desperate hope of finding a job in the city—one that might help me discover what I supposed to be when I grew up. I was too curious not to follow up on this piece of junk mail, so that Monday morning I put on a black and white, sassy-yet-professional Betsy Johnson dress and, armed with mace, arrived at a “main” office – a large room filled with gray fold-out chairs and beige rugs covered in questionable stains. There were about thirty of us shuffling about, all roughly the same age and looking equally confused. It was kind of like the movie Clue. Everyone was mumbling, “Did you get that letter?”

After a significant period of suspense, a young man with far too many blackheads on his forehead made a grand entrance from the bathroom. “Hello! Thank you for coming. You are all probably wondering what this is all about. Well, every single one of you was asked here for the same reason. You were all hard-working students. As of this very moment, you are on the cusp of the greatest money-making opportunity in the history of money-making opportunities.” For five minutes he ranted about how life was short and how his cousin almost died at twenty-five and now, not later, was the time to improve one’s standard of living.

Then, like an afterthought under his breath, he mumbled that we were really here to interview for a two-month stint selling knives door-to-door. Kitchen knives, for commission.

People started storming out. The guy waved his arms in the air and pleaded, “If you leave now, you are missing out, folks. You’ll regret it!” I’ve never been able to live with regret, so I stayed in my seat eager to see where this was all going and wondering if he’d ever seen a dermatologist for the blackhead problem.

Ten others hesitantly remained with me. Unshaken by the diminished audience, he clumsily wheeled a TV to the front of the room and played a ten-minute tape introducing us to the marketing company involved in the venture. There were endless testimonials from a diverse group of young adults. “Knife-selling changed everything. It provided marketing experience far more valuable than any expensive business degree.” “These knives sell themselves. All I had to do was show up.” “Thank goodness I opened that letter and was introduced to the world of knife-selling. God knows what kind of degenerate I’d be if I hadn’t attended and stayed for the entire duration of that initial meeting.”

The guy shut the power off, paused, and frowned. “Now, not everyone can just automatically join our company,” he said, tapping one of his blackheads. “We look for superdooperstars, not just hard working students. I’ll need to interview you one-by-one now in the corner area. Wendy Spero, you’re first up. Dave Freedman, you’re on deck.”

I proceeded to the folding chair in the back corner area while the rest of the group watched suspiciously from the other side of the room. He asked me where I had gone to school and what I had studied.

“I went to Wesleya---“

“I think you have something darn special, Wendy. I’d love for you to come aboard. Congratulations! Please stick around for the next portion of the meeting.”

I was slightly traumatized by having to look at his blackheads up close but was thrilled to have made the cut. I didn’t want to make the others envious, though, so I put on a neutral face and swaggered back to my seat.

One by one, we were all formally accepted into this highly selective marketing conglomerate. Then he sprawled out some knives onto a few chairs facing us, and announced that we’d have to buy an initial knife kit for $100.

As the girl next to me stood up, she whispered, “Get OUT! This is a scam!” But I looked at the shiny cutlery and thought, I must sell knives.

Eventually, only two of us were left. The other woman was wearing braces—the clear kind that turn yellow over time. We handed the man credit cards and left with pounds of merchandise and a new purpose in life.

When I immediately informed friends and family that I’d found the perfect summer job, they responded with stilted enthusiasm. I think they worried I had joined a cult and would soon be wearing a flowy skirt and handing out dandelions next to the Holland Tunnel.

The following weekend, Laura, my best friend from high school, invited me to her family’s rented summer-house in Martha’s Vineyard so I could reboot before officially starting. Because we spent every moment at the beach, and I never motivated to put on sunscreen, I got a severe burn on my face. Big red chunks of my skin dangled. I looked like I was in one of those old ABC after-school specials based on a horrible true story, like I’d been burned in a fire by an evil stepmother or something.

Because my face felt so insanely hot, when we smoked weed that Saturday night, it was as though I were experiencing the evening’s events from the bong’s point of view. I alone could identify with the burning herbs on the receiving end of a pothead’s inhale. It was deep.

When I returned to the city, I rushed to the dermatologist, who could barely hide her fearful reaction to my appearance. She prescribed a soothing white steroid cream for the swelling, and two days later, I grew a spontaneous mustache. A little prickly Fu Man Chu one.

So I had the mustache, the burn, and a sack o’knives.

I was ready to sell.

The knife-selling process was a safe, meticulously thought-out scheme. Per the instructions in my knife-selling packet, I called my mom’s good, trustworthy friends and politely asked for some names and numbers of their good, trustworthy friends. I then called these people up and performed a well-rehearsed, innocent shtick: “Hi, so, um, so-and-so told me you would be nice enough to help me out. I’m learning about marketing and wondered if I could come over to your house maybe for just a couple minutes and practice selling…things…to you.”

Each sucker would reply, “Oh sure dear, that’s sweet. Well, I’m not going to buy anything, but sure—if you want practice.” Shortly thereafter I’d arrive at their apartment. They’d open the door, notice my deformity and mumble, “Oh. Oh my. Oh dear. Have you tried aloe?”

I’d sit at their kitchen table and compliment their hair. We’d gab about our friend in common. Then I’d commence the mind-blowing presentation: I’d slice brown leather into strips with steak knives. I’d cut a thick rope with a bread knife. In one fluid motion, I’d cut a penny in half with large silver sheers. (A thrill in and of itself because cutting currency is technically a federal offense.) I’d revel in the subtle sound of every long, deep, satisfying incision.

At first my customers would act condescending, politely nodding and mumbling, "Uh huh, yeah, uh huh.” But as the presentation progressed, they’d find themselves seeking clarification. “Wait, hold on. How much is that one again?” There was simply no way to remain unaffected by my slick marketing moves.

I was also prepared for the toughest of customer questions. They’d ask, “But wait, if your knives are that sharp, aren’t they dangerous?” Unfazed, I’d grin and explain that actually, using one of their dull knives was far more risky. “Statistics show that chefs are 46% more likely to slip while cutting a tomato from a worn down blade.”

They’d let out a contemplative, “Huh. Wow. Yeah.”

To close the sale I’d lean in, signal for them to lean in, look around (there would only be two of us in the apartment) and whisper, “You know what? I’m not supposed to do this, but I’ll give you a free spatula with that bread knife. How’s that?” A tiny bit would come out of my commission, but they’d fall for it every time—they’d end up buying an entire set, which they didn’t even need in the first place, just to get something for free. Then we’d hug. They’d thank me profusely, and I’d leave with seven hundred of their dollars.

I was thrilled to be good at a real grown-up job, and I didn’t feel guilty because at the bi-weekly knife meetings, the convincing blackhead dude explained over and over again that by selling people these knives, we were massively improving their lives—even if they didn’t cook. I was making the world a better place.

I even preyed on our dearest of family friends. My friend Emily recalls her mother telling the family at breakfast that I’d be coming over that afternoon to practice selling “things,” and that she might go ahead and buy one item—just to be nice. Later that evening, as the family talked about their days at the dining room table, her father asked, “Oh, so did Wendy come over? Did you end up buying something to be nice?” Emily’s mom fell silent. She had spent over $2,000 on knives she didn’t remotely need. “Look. Stop hounding me. I don’t know what happened!” She moaned. “She…she cut leather and then pennies and…and I just lost all control. They seemed really necessary at the time…I swear…We got a free spatula!?”

While I calculated purchase totals and filled out the necessary forms, my clients would happily write down twenty or so names and numbers of friends I could contact. I would call those people up, do the shtick, sell them knives, ask for names, and so on and so on. After three or four weeks I went to so many houses that I had no memory of the original round of victims. I’d call some random guy and say, “Hi, Mary Bingham recommended that I contact you. She said you might be nice enough to help me out…” all the while having no remote idea who Mary was. Then I’d arrive at his door and chat with him for a solid fifteen minutes about Mary’s terrific new gig in the meat-packing district. After noticing the words “cute dog” next to Mary’s name on my special knife-selling pad, I’d be sure to add, “And wow, Mary’s dog is something, huh?”

Eventually, I started getting calls from people desperately seeking knives. “Hello, um, I heard you are a knife expert and you come directly to people’s houses…can you fit me in? I know you must be so busy. Please. I hear you are the best. I don’t trust those pushy salespeople in stores. Salespeople are the worst, ya know?”

Sometimes between appointments I would take a break and wander into a big clothing store like Urban Outfitters. Upon passing through the metal detectors, the entire alarm system would go off. The guard would ask, “Uh, ma’am, what do you have in your bag?” I’d reply, “Knives.” He would laugh, and let me in. I was invincible.

The sale of the century occurred one Tuesday afternoon when a friend of a friend of a friend asked me to meet her at her office. As I exited the elevator and walked through the corporate glass double doors, a middle-aged receptionist asked, “Can I help—oh! Are you the knife woman?”

“I…guess?”

She led me to an enormous conference hall with a stage, got on an intercom and announced, “Attention employees. The knife demonstration will commence in five minutes.” Three hundred people then poured into the space, and a small fellow with a bowtie got up and bellowed, “With no further ado…the floor is yours. Do your thang!”

“Heh. All right…right…okay!” I began. “So, you guys ever cut a tomato and find that the skin gets all mushed?!”

“FUCK YEAH!” yelled the crowd.

Beyond energized, I took out the leather strip and smoothly cut it into thinner strips. I took out the penny and dramatically cut it in half. I took out the impressive bread knife and sliced my left thumb.

Blood was everywhere.

A man shrieked, “Holy—you need to go to the emergency room?”

“Not at all!” I called out nonchalantly. I grabbed a towel from my bag, wrapped it around my hand, held it above my head, applied the necessary pressure and continued the presentation. And made a fortune.

I was relieved when the summer started to come to an end—my back had begun to ache from schlepping around the heavy mass of metal, and my fingers were covered in Band-Aids. But in order to go out with a bang, a week after my big sale I decided to fly to the annual knife-selling convention in Indianapolis, where I was greeted by large posters of rainbows that read, “Fulfill your potential. Persuade! Sell! Conquer!” At the award ceremony that evening I won a tall trophy AND a VCR for selling the most knives in the tri-state area.

Excerpt courtesy of Hudson Street Press