(7 of 9)
To make everybody happy, the good Coca-Cola driver-salesman must be part Boy Scout and part diplomat, with a dash of the movie hero thrown in. His supreme duty: to make friends with the dealers. His list of "do's" commands: "Look your best. Greet the Dealer. Smile . . . Show interest ... Be courteous ... Be honest . . . Keep promises. Make change . . . Thank Dealer." Of course, there are refinements of these simple tenets: "If, for example, the dealer's wife has just presented him with a new baby, the friendly salesman congratulates him . . ."
The friendly salesman, of course, does not argue, does not sample the merchandise in the store, does not interrupt when the dealer says something, does not make remarks to women customers. He keeps his mind on the cooler (a subject which takes six hours of lectures and demonstrations alone), sees that it is properly stocked, and that the Coke is placed nearest the cooling unit.
The good salesman carries a special slide rule (called "profit meter") with which he can figure in a trice the dealer's profit on any given number of Coca-Cola bottles, personally puts up Coke advertising ("don't leave your sign for the dealer to put up—he might give it away to one of his friends"), keeps his truck in perfect order and drives carefully. Curves must be taken smoothly so that Coke cases won't slide off; pedestrians must not be frightened, much less injured—they are all potential Coke customers.
The dangers of not driving carefully are dramatically demonstrated to the student salesman by a little red toy wagon driven by a male doll which carelessly smashes the wagon against a stone (the instruction book thoroughly lists, among the required props, "one stone about half the size of your fist"). The point: "Because he didn't take proper care of his little red wagon, Juan was out of business" (PAUSE BRIEFLY AND LOOK AT MEN SO AS TO ALLOW POINT TO SINK IN . . .)
Signor Pretti. To see how the point was sinking in, a TIME correspondent last week accompanied a Coke salesman on his round of Milan. A few minutes before 8, dark, heavy-set Giovanni Pretti, 30, had put on his tan & red uniform and cast a last look into the mirror from which signs asked him: "Hair Combed? Shaved? Uniform Clean and Neat? Shoes Shined? Friendly Smile?" He lovingly polished his brand-new Bianchi truck (one of 62 now covering Milan) and climbed into his seat.