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  I've often made the claim that I could sell any product so long as I could hold it up or point to it. I believe that. If you can sell empty boxes, you can sell anything.

  The hardest part of the job was gathering a crowd. As people strolled along, I'd catch their attention then try to pull them in with humor: "Excuse me, sir, that's right, you, sir. Come right up to the counter. That's right, just move your feet, your body will follow. I've asked you to come over because you look like a very intelligent man, a man smart enough to appreciate a great bargain. Just nod your head if you understand me . . ."

  But the most effective way to draw a crowd was to engage their curiosity. To make an impossible offer, an offer they knew couldn't be true. Then they would stop to listen to my patter to find out what I was really selling. No one really believed I was selling empty boxes. "That's right, friends," I promised, "these boxes are guaranteed to contain absolutely nothing. But I'm only going to be able to sell six empty boxes to six lucky people. Look at this beautiful box," I would continue. "Why, this is a box that could hold an expensive Waterman pen. It could even hold a watch or some other fine gift. But, wait, what's that, madam? You're wondering who would possibly pay a buck for an empty box? Thank you for asking that question, I've wondered myself if there still are people bold enough to do so. Certainly not your staid, conservative, solid, unimaginative man with no romance in his soul. But those of you who know that there's often more to something than meets the eye, those of you who wonder why a man would stand before you and dare try to sell you an empty box for one dollar, you will say to yourself, 'There must be more to this offer.'

  "Now, for those six lucky people who purchase these empty boxes, I must remind you, when you open your box, if you're surprised, if you yell out, 'This box is not empty!' that will be perfectly okay, it will not upset my selling because I am selling only those six boxes. For the rest of you, after I've sold these six empty boxes, please, please do not embarrass me or yourself by asking me to sell you the seventh box because I am not permitted to do so in this demonstration . . ."

  As I continued this patter the crowd would grow. Everyone wanted to know what was inside those boxes. Eventually six people would each lay a dollar bill on top of my six boxes. Then I would ask those people to open their boxes. "And if it's empty, just as I said, yell out loudly, 'It's empty!' Okay, open the boxes."

  Now, you don't really believe I would sell empty boxes to people for a dollar, do you? A dollar was a lot of money to pay for an empty box in 1946. You want to know what was really in the box? To find out all you have to do is send one dollar, one thin dollar bill, one tenth of a sawbuck to . . . Of course not, but see how effective my pitch was? In fact, the boxes were opened to reveal . . . nothing. As I had promised, they were empty. But I had my crowd gathered and I wasn't about to let them get away. So immediately I began my spiel for perhaps the single finest product ever sold on the magnificent boardwalk in beautiful Atlantic City—I only wish this book was accompanied by a sound track so you might hear the pronouncement of trumpets—the legendary, the one and only, famous Morris metric slicer.

  "Now, ladies and gentlemen, I told you those boxes were empty and, indeed, they were empty. Now what does that prove? It proves I'm an honest man. That I was telling you the truth. So now you must believe me when I tell you that I am privileged to be able to offer to you the greatest item I have ever been authorized to sell, the handy Morris metric slicer.

  "To start with, I want you to forget the two dollars these incredible gadgets were made to sell for. Okay, I like you people, so I'm cutting the price in half. One dollar. Just look at the way it slices cucumbers. Is that great or is that sensational? Have you ever seen cucumbers cut so beautifully? With the famous Morris metric slicer you can slice anything so thin you could get a job with a tobacco company slicing calling cards into tobacco paper . . ."

  Can you hear the music? Selling plastic gadgets on the boardwalk; making something out of almost nothing. This was a great slicer of postwar Americana.

  "Did you say cabbage, madam? Of course this'll cut your cabbage like no one has ever cut your cabbage before. Not only that, it will make coleslaw, sauerkraut, anything at all that may constitute your cabbage pleasure. But that's not all.

  "Let me ask you, ladies and gentlemen, have you ever seen a woman try to slice a tomato? A lady takes a butcher knife, lunges at the tomato, the poor tomato has a hemorrhage before it ever gets to the dining room table. But let me show you how the famous Morris metric slicer slices a tomato. Look at those perfect slices. You can adjust the blade so thin—look at that slice—you could read a newspaper through that slice of tomato. Why, I know a lady in Bayonne, New Jersey, had one tomato last her all summer long . . ."

  Then I demonstrated the add-ons: the "rotisserie cutter invented by Peter Nathemelee, dean of the Parisian School of Potato Surgery," a small cutting device that enabled me to cut a potato into a spiral that I could pull out like an accordion, and would snap back when I released it, "so when company comes, spread the potato out; they leave, put the potato back together again"; the incredible "glass knife," a knife actually capable of cutting glass, or at least of scratching it; and most incredible, the Juice-o-matic. The Juice-omatic was a piece of orange plastic with a sharp edge enabling it to be stuck into a piece of fruit; when the fruit was squeezed, juice would drain out. "Stick this into a lemon and you have juice for a salad, a little lemon for fish, a little lemon for your Tom Collins . . . and some for Mary and Jane Collins too. In fact, there's enough for the whole damn Collins family.

  "Sold separately," I pointed out, "these items would be valued at more than five dollars, and that's if you could even find them, but right now"—it had to be right now—"all of these wonderful items, the Morris metric slicer, the rotisserie cutter, the glass knife, and the Juice-o-matic, can be yours . . . not for that five dollars, not for four dollars, not even for the two dollars the metric slicer alone normally sells for, but for only one thin dollar. That's right, you heard me correctly, one dollar bill. But I'm only going to be able to sell sixteen sets during this demonstration, so if you want one . . . Please, not all at once, don't push, here's a man buying two of them, he must be leading a double life . . ."

  By the time I finished my spiel, people were throwing money at me. It was not as easy as it sounds. You really had to sell with your whole body. I would work for an hour, then take an hour off, all day, from early in the morning until the crowds disappeared late at night. A long, long day. But during the summer I could earn as much as five hundred dollars a week, a tremendous amount of money in those days, and all in cash. And after deductions for taxes, that was . . . five hundred dollars. In the fall, if I delayed returning to school a few weeks and hit the fair circuit, I could make as much as one thousand dollars a week.

  At times the work was dangerous. An integral part of the pitch was the "actual demonstration." I sliced a tomato and I cut a potato. When I introduced the Juice-o-matic, I had a large pitcher of ice water and I made it appear as if all that juice was draining from a grapefruit. I learned how to talk while using my hands, which is tougher than it sounds but became very important when I went into television. During Christmas vacation in 1947 I was in New York City selling slicers from a storefront directly across the street from the Roxy Theatre. One afternoon, as I was trying to cut a frozen potato with the slicer, the blade slipped and cut deeply into my thumb. It was bleeding very badly, but I didn't want to lose the "tip"—the "tip" is the crowd—so I pressed my forefinger against my thumb to stem the bleeding, then put my thumb in the ice water as I began "turning the tip," or making the final pitch. I sold six sets before going to the hospital.

  I spent four years as a marine pilot in World War II. I was a flight instructor, I did aircraft-carrier landings, I was a test pilot, and I taught carrier landings. But the injury I suffered selling the Morris metric slicer was more severe than anything that happened to me during that war.

  Every pitchman eventually
developed a personal spiel. It was an act, and the payoff really was a payoff. Success was measured in one-dollar bills. A lot of very successful people started on the boardwalk. Charles Revson, the founder of Revlon, was a pitchman. Popeil, who I believe is the grandfather of Ron Popeil of infomercial fame, was a boardwalk legend. Lucille Ball's husband, comedian Gary Morton, sold Lanolin a few yards from my spot. Roommates Charlie Bronson and Jack Klugman worked for my father at his Skillo booth, a derivation of bingo, and he used to tell them, "You want to learn how to do this business, go down the boardwalk and watch my son selling vegetable gadgets."

  The boardwalk was a wonderful training ground for me. I gained a tremendous amount of confidence in myself and I learned how to think on my feet. And to this day I know that if the television thing doesn't work out for me, I can always make a decent living.

  After spending the summers on the boardwalk, I returned to college to complete my degree at Catholic University in Washington, D.C. It was a tough time. I was married and had a child, I was a full-time college student, I was active in the theatrical department, and other than my marine benefits I had no income. I had to find a means to support my family and pay for my education in my spare time. The Morris metric slicer was just about as far as you could go in selling people something they really didn't need, but they were buying my pitch, my show, as much as they were buying a slicer. At Catholic University I found something that people really needed. I started my own dry-cleaning service, Dutch Cleaners.

  I knew about as much about dry cleaning as Teatime Movie's Art Fern knew about sophistication. But I knew that the only dry cleaner near campus took a whole week to do a job, which created a real hardship for priests with only one or two black suits, and students with few clothes. So I found a dry-cleaning plant with equipment on the premises near my apartment and negotiated a deal with the owner. I received a percentage of every order I brought in. I couldn't offer potential customers a better price, so I offered better service. I would pick up an order in my Ply-mouth and deliver the cleaned clothing in only three days. I named it Dutch Cleaners after a very popular household cleanser, Dutch Cleanser. That name was very important; it sounded like an established business, it sounded substantial, it certainly sounded more impressive than "Ed McMahon riding around in a fifty-dollar car." I had business cards printed and began knocking on doors. I'd go to my philosophy class from 9 A.M. to 10 A.M., then pick up dry cleaning until my drama class began at 1 P.M. Many nights I'd be up till 4 A.M. pinning names on shirts and suits. Dutch Cleaners was successful almost immediately, more successful than even I could have imagined, and I had a great imagination. I enlisted a partner, and three years later we had three trucks making pickups and deliveries, and four employees. Dutch Cleaners had helped support my family all those years, so when I graduated I sold my share of the business to my partner for a dollar. Of course, for that same money he could have purchased the incredible Morris metric slicer and all the extras.

  While I was at Catholic I also answered an ad in the paper promising me that I could make hundreds of dollars in my spare time. I figured my spare time to be between 11:15 and 11:30 P.M., but I always needed money. That was how I began selling pots and pans door-to-door. Actually, it wasn't just any pots and pans; it was the incredible Thermic Ray stainless steel cookware, made with patented copper bottoms that distributed the heat so evenly that food preparation required almost no water or oil.

  If I knocked on a stranger's door today, they would probably open it wide and start screaming, "It's Ed! It's Ed! And he's got the check." I suspect Dick Clark—with whom I give away the wonderful American Family Publishers' millions of dollars—and I might be the most welcome surprise guests in America. But believe me, it was quite different in 1947. On occasion someone will tell me they saw me selling on the boardwalk or bought a vegetable gadget from me, but no one ever remembers closing their front door in my face. A lot of people did. I learned quickly never to admit I was selling cookware but rather to explain that I was in the neighborhood, "and I was just speaking with your neighbor, Mr. Rogers, and I showed him some special equipment he is now having installed in his home. May I come in?"

  I sold Thermic Ray cookware just like Tupperware. I offered to demonstrate the unique capabilities of these pots and pans by cooking dinner for five or six couples. I actually cooked a full roast beef dinner in their home, giving a nutrition lesson along with my sales pitch. "Now don't peel the carrots, just brush them," I'd explain, "because the healthy vitamins are right under the skin . . ." I'd follow up by visiting the homes of each of the dinner guests to try to close the sale and get additional leads from them. People claim to remember seeing me selling vegetable gadgets on the boardwalk, but no one ever remembers the night I cooked a lovely dinner for them.

  I always displayed my shining stainless steel pots and pans on a black velvet cloth under the brightest lights in the house. Under those conditions they sparkled; housewives loved them. Now, the key to closing the sale was convincing a potential buyer not only that he or she had to have these pots and pans, but that they had to have them right now! That minute. So after the equipment was all laid out, looking beautiful, and the customer was wavering, I'd add, "And the nice thing about ordering tonight is that I can give you a handy kitchen fire extinguisher. I don't know if you know this, but almost 90 percent of all fires in the home start in the kitchen, and I noticed you don't have a fire extinguisher in your kitchen . . ." Well, either they ordered right then and there or they didn't sleep soundly until they got a fire extinguisher.

  Within months I convinced the owner of the company that we didn't need the demonstration dinner, that we were wasting an entire night cooking when we could be selling. I turned out to be correct. Eventually I became such a fine pots-and-pans man that I began training other salesmen. At one point I had seventeen people working for me. Working part-time at night, I was earning $350 a week. The owner of the company offered me twenty-five thousand dollars a year to leave school and become vice president of marketing. Who knows, if I had accepted, I might have ended up selling pots and pans to the whole country on a cable shopping network.

  In fact, I am selling pots and pans on a shopping channel to two countries, the United States and Canada. And as fine as Thermic Ray cookware was in its time, it simply cannot compare with the amazing nonstick Le Dome by Sitram, the largest cookware manufacturer in France. Because you never need to add oils or butter to prevent your foods from sticking to these pans, Le Dome is perfect for the kind of fat-free cooking so vitally important for a healthy . . .

  In television, we often thank people for allowing us to come into their homes. It's just an expression used to thank people for watching the show. But when I was selling my cookware door-to-door, I literally did go into people's homes. And some of the experiences I had would make even Dr. Ruth blush. A lot of single women lived in the Washington area because they could get government jobs. My pitch to them was that my cookware was perfect for their hope chest, that it would help them get ready for marriage. It's possible I might even have reminded them that men love women who know how to cook, and pointed out how easy it was to cook with my pots and pans. Cookware, marriage, it was a pretty successful pitch.

  By this time the marines had turned me into a man, a nice-looking man, and single women often invited me into their homes. One woman bought a set but asked me to return the next night to meet her roommate, who might also be interested in my cookware. They shared a small apartment, so the three of us wound up sitting on the bed. Her roommate was sitting right next to me; as I began my sales pitch, her robe opened and I couldn't help but notice that she was totally naked. As a fighter pilot I had been specially trained to notice such things. Naturally, it made my pitch a bit more difficult. Talk about a hard sell. "Now, um," I stammered, "I'd like to point out how perfectly this . . . set is matched. You can see how . . . big . . . large . . ." I was very happy the other woman was there. If we had been alone, I don't know how I would have han
dled . . . things.

  When you sell door-to-door you often discover unusual lives being lived behind those doors. One Saturday afternoon, a seemingly normal married couple invited me into their home. When I sat down I noticed that all the blinds were closed tightly, that only one light in the room was on, and that these people were half-bombed. This was going to be a tough sale. They offered me a drink; I turned them down. They insisted; I refused. At that time my reputation had yet to precede me. The truth is that, with one famous exception, I never drink while I'm working. As I began my pitch, he grabbed her and she started fighting him off. He was grabbing, she was fighting, I was displaying my beautiful pots in the dark. Finally, I suggested, "Perhaps you'd like me to come back at a more convenient time . . ."

  When I graduated from Catholic University in the summer of 1949 I sold the dry-cleaning business, stopped selling pots and pans, and gave up the opportunity to sell gadgets during the fall fair season. With just a little luck I would have earned as much as six thousand dollars selling slicers from Labor Day to early October. Instead, I accepted a job working for a new television station, WCAU in Philadelphia, for seventy-five dollars a week.

  So much for the value of a college degree.

  2

  One memorable evening on The Tonight Show the great comedian "Lonesome" George Gobel began reminiscing about his career as a pilot during World War II. "I fought the whole war in Oklahoma," he explained, causing the audience to laugh. "I don't know why you laugh. That's evidently where they needed me or they wouldn't have sent me there." But then he added proudly, "We were pretty effective too. Not one Japanese plane got past Tulsa."