Chrysostom

Spent this morning working the coffeehouses, hustling for gigs, and Jesus Christ! when did I become such a sweet talker?

I still think of myself as a stumbling, stammering teenager when it comes to social interaction: but here I was, talking to the young and earnestly Christian owner of a brand-new café—so green he was that he asked in all seriousness if he would have to pay me to play (and why oh why did I not say yes?)—and within moments it was clear that I was in charge.

He had the power to hire me or not, but it was a forgone conclusion the moment I started talking—establishing my credibility with references to other places I've played, confirming my standing in his community by casually mentioning my sacred-music background, answering his questions about my technical needs with offhand confidence. I was open, reassuring, approachable—just the kind of musician you want as an ally when you're starting a new venture.

And I'm still stunned by my success. How did this happen?

Maybe it's genetic. My Dad was salesman, though he never really wanted to be; he was, I think, an introvert by nature. My brother is a salesman, and damned good at it—the proverbial consummate, in fact: extroverted, friendly, entirely genuine. He's got an expansiveness, a personality that fills any room he's in—and frankly, I find it kind of exhausting to be around him for a long time.

I've held sales jobs, in the past, and did fairly well at them, but vowed years ago to never work in sales again. I was never entirely comfortable with the process; neither, I think, was my father. I could never invest so much of myself—my reputation, my identity—in any product for which I could not be entirely certain of the quality.

That, I think, is the key difference, the source of my silver tongue: for the first time, I am selling the one product for which I can, at last, vouch 100%—myself.