Read an Excerpt
Ten Things I Learned from Bill Porter
By Shelly Brady, Eric Bolt New World Library
Copyright © 2002 Shelly Brady
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-57731-779-1
CHAPTER 1
Follow Your Passion
"Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, dear Bill! Happy birthday to you!"
I have never heard it sung so sincerely and by so many people. The entire audience at the John F. Kennedy Center in Washington, D.C. stood on their feet and applauded the sixty-sixth birthday of a most unsuspecting hero — Mr. Bill Porter, a door-to-door salesman for Watkins Products. Bill was all smiles as the clapping reverberated throughout the great hall. I, Shelly Brady, close friend and assistant to Bill, stood to his left; on his right stood another American hero, former astronaut and Senator John Glenn. The occasion was the presentation of an achievement award from the National Council on Communicative Disorders (and Bill's birthday, of course).
Bill won the award because he managed to succeed in business despite having cerebral palsy, a condition that greatly affects his speech and the muscles in his arms and legs. Listeners must pay close attention to Bill when he speaks because his vocal chords release words in a halting pattern. Resist the temptation to finish sentences for him, however, because if one is patient the words do come and are well worth waiting for, especially if Bill is knocking on your front door with attaché case in hand. Bill was chosen for the award because he embodies the dreams, the spirit, and the hope of individuals with communication disabilities or diseases.
Was that the greatest moment in Bill Porter's life?
* * *
The convention center in downtown San Francisco echoed with the cheers of seven thousand men and women from fifty-six countries. They shouted one word in unison — a name, understood in all of the fourteen languages spoken here: "Bill, Bill, Bill, Bill." The stage lights were bright and Bill couldn't see their faces or their tears of joy, but he felt the emotion and the love of the audience, all members of the Million-Dollar Roundtable. They represented the cream of the crop in the insurance and financial planning industries. When the cheers stopped, I spoke for about ten minutes on Bill's behalf because of his speech difficulties. The applause that followed lasted as long as the speech. Bill looked at me, as if asking for an idea as to when the standing ovation might end and what we should do in the meantime. I shrugged my shoulders and whispered, "Let's relish the moment."
Was that the greatest moment Bill Porter ever experienced?
* * *
The make-up girl applied powder to a shiny spot on the top of Bill's head. When ABC's 20/20 called about doing a segment on Bill, I nearly fell out of my chair. Here we were, a door-to-door salesman and his assistant, going about our rather mundane, day-to-day existence struggling to make ends meet, and all of a sudden ABC news correspondent Bob Brown is sitting across from us with the cameras rolling. Bill couldn't believe it when he found out that 20/20 had more than twenty million viewers. We were told the broadcast could change our lives. Companies would want him to share his story at their yearly conventions. I was wondering if there was a book or a movie in the future. Bill took it all in stride, only half-believing that the public exposure would help his sales; he knew that one-on-one sales work best. He was more interested in knowing, "Will I ever get to meet Barbara Walters?"
Was this the goal that Bill Porter had dreamed of?
* * *
The telephone rang. It was the personal assistant to the actor William H. Macy calling. Macy and writer-director Steven Schachter wanted to fly to Portland to meet in person with Bill Porter and myself. After three long years of hard work and a handful of rejections, TNT was ready to produce a movie based on the life of Bill Porter. Bill Macy, an Academy Award–nominated actor, co-wrote the script and planned to portray Bill in the docudrama. I picked up Mr. Macy and Mr. Schachter at the Portland Airport, and since I'm a big fan of Macy's, I was trembling by the time they walked off the airplane. Soon, however, we were chatting like old friends. Then it was off to Bill Porter's house, where the two Bills met face to face. Macy extended his right hand to Bill, a gesture that was gladly accepted. To me, this handshake symbolized the great respect the two men held for each other. In an instant, I knew Macy was the right actor to portray Porter, and the sincere bonding between the two men brought tears to my eyes.
Was this the most exciting day in Bill Porter's life?
* * *
The palm trees swayed in the late afternoon breeze at the La Quinta Resort, a desert oasis outside Palm Springs, California. My pale skin was getting some color as we lounged by the pool, sipping virgin pina coladas.
"It doesn't get much better than this," Bill said to me as he adjusted his hat to keep the sun off his face.
We were unwinding after giving a motivational speech to a few hundred conventioneers. It went well, and I figured Bill was finally getting used to life on the road. No more wet dreary winters in Portland, Oregon, slip-sliding his way up steep driveways and staircases. So this is what it's like to be rich and famous, I was thinking; I can handle this. I just need to figure the logistics of how I'm going to travel from resort to resort with six children and a husband in tow. Bill brought me back to reality when he asked, "How many messages do you think are on my answering machine? I mean, how many orders? Some of those people are going to buy their products at a warehouse store if I don't get back soon."
* * *
"I doubt it," I said. "Those customers are loyal to you."
"Exactly," Bill replied. "Loyal to me, not an answering machine."
Today, for medical reasons, Bill's travel is limited and La Quinta is only a fond memory, but he often speaks of that trip to Southern California. He says he can close his eyes and feel the warm sun on his skin and hear the wind rustling through the palm leaves.
Was this what he had looked forward to doing all of his life?
* * *
Bill spent years pounding the pavement, knocking on doors, ignoring rejection after rejection. No matter what response he received after knocking, no answers or negative replies, he moved on, undaunted, for Bill had a mantra that calmed his nerves: "The next house will say 'yes.' The next house will say 'yes.'"
Bill repeated this chant over and over as he trudged up the hills of northwest Portland, approaching each house optimistically even if it was the same house that last month told him, "How many times do I have to tell you? Never, ever come back!" He'd go back again, month after month, with a fresh and confident attitude. It was all a part of his strategy, a strategy all good salespeople know about: wear them down until they tire of saying "no." Eventually, they will buy. Eventually, everyone buys.
Such positive thoughts constantly course through Bill's mind and body. Did they just say something about not coming back? I must not have heard them correctly.
After months and sometimes years of knocking on their doors, Bill finally breaks them down. First, he hears a hint of resignation in their voice. Next, they invite him in. Then, they agree to look at his catalog. And finally, it's "I'll take one of those." They may only order one bottle of vanilla this time, but it's a sale, a sale from someone who once told him, "No. Don't ever come back."
Was that the greatest moment? Yes, you bet it was.
* * *
When Bill is "cold calling" at a stranger's front door, he is in his element. This is the moment he lives for: not knowing who will answer, what their response will be, what mood they'll be in. But most importantly, he wonders this: Will I make a sale? Of his more than five hundred regular customers, Bill says that about thirty-five of them told him to never ever come back. They are among his best customers today.
Bill Porter has a passion for selling. His dream is to be number one. If there is one thing I have learned from him, it's that anyone can follow their passion and live their dream. Bill has proven to me that dreams have a way of coming true if we stay focused on the path, no matter what obstacles confront us.
Selling is Bill's life; he takes it with him wherever he goes. When companies first called wanting Bill to share his story with their employees, he had absolutely no interest. At first, I thought it was because he was embarrassed by his difficulty communicating. I later learned that he was uncomfortable not because of his speech impediment, but because speaking to a large audience wasn't his "style." He told me that he was a salesman from the old school, a one-on-one type of guy.
I, however, was very interested! Since I was a theater major in college, this was right up my alley.
"Wait a minute," I said. "Don't say no. We can do this speaking gig together."
Reluctantly, Bill agreed to give it a try for my sake. What disturbed Bill more than stage fright was that the speaking engagements would cut into his door-to-door sales. Our first speech was scheduled for a Saturday.
"No way," Bill said. "Saturday is callback day." That's the day he telephones customers that weren't home during the previous week. I suggested that he double up and do callbacks the next weekend. After all, he was his own boss.
"Absolutely not," he said. "Period."
I tried another angle that I thought might work with him.
"Bill," I said, "suppose you make more money on Saturday from the speaking fee than if you stayed home and did callbacks?" He still wasn't swayed. Then it dawned on me.
"Bill," I asked, "what if we handed out catalogs to all three hundred audience members and invited them to be your customers? You could potentially double your sales next month." Bingo! I could see Bill calculating the sales figures in his head. And as it turned out, dozens of audience members purchased items from Bill after our talk.
Everywhere we go, Bill makes new friends and customers (these two words are synonymous to Bill). The first time we traveled abroad we were scheduled to fly to Calgary to speak to Bill's own company, Watkins, Inc. The morning of our departure, a nagging thought kept crossing my mind. The night before, just before he dozed off, my husband asked, "Does Bill have picture ID?"
The question kept haunting me the next morning as I packed, said good-bye to the children, and caught a ride to the airport. Always prompt, Bill was waiting for me when I arrived. Together, we walked up to the ticket counter and presented our tickets. Then my nightmare came true. The agent asked, "May I see picture ID, please?"
"Here is my ID," I said. "However, my friend here has never driven a car. And, uh, well, therefore, he doesn't have picture ID."
Bill's fingers fumbled through his wallet searching for anything with a picture on it. Credit cards, bus passes, and various receipts soon littered the ticket counter. Finally, he held up his library card with the innocence of a child.
The agent was briefly amused, but quickly regained his composure and asked, "Does Mr. Porter have a passport or a birth certificate?"
"Yeah, but not with him," I said. "Say, do you subscribe to the Oregonian? You do? Great! Then you must know who this man is. He's the Bill Porter in the 'Life of a Salesman' article, the man born with cerebral palsy. The man who was told by the State of Oregon that he was unemployable, and who went on to become the top salesman for Watkins Products. We have to get him to Canada to tell his story to conventioneers. Look at the picture of him on the cover of this magazine; underneath it says 'Bill Porter.' Doesn't that count as picture ID?"
The agent said he'd be right back; he had to speak to his supervisor. Bill and I stood nervously at the counter strumming our fingers and casting apologetic looks at the disgruntled travelers behind us.
Finally, the agent came back and said, "We can let you go to Canada, but you wouldn't be able to get back into the country without proof of citizenship." That could be a real problem for my husband and children, I thought. The ticket agent continued, "If you can secure proper documentation, we have a later flight."
We headed straight to a phone booth where I called the office of Vital Statistics in San Francisco, Bill's birthplace. After waiting on hold for ten minutes, I finally got a voice. "Yes, we can locate William Douglas Porter's birth certificate, but it will take three weeks to process. No, it can't be faxed. No, there's nothing we can do to satisfy the agents at the airport. Sorry." Click.
I chanted another of Bill's mantras, "I have no obstacles," as we hailed a cab and headed to Bill's house. We tore through drawers and closets. Old family photos distracted us from our mission of finding picture ID for Bill. "Look how beautiful your mother looks in this photograph. She was so pretty," I sighed. Quit gabbing and keep looking, I reminded myself.
At last, underneath a pile of scrapbooks, we found a worn paper bag with the word Statistics written in red letters. I dumped the contents on the floor and we sorted through them: death certificate for Ernest Porter, marriage certificate for Bill's parents, life insurance policy, old electric bills. Finally, something appeared with the words William Douglas Porter on it ... a baptismal certificate. Maybe, just maybe, this would work.
I shoved everything into the bag and called a cab that took us to the Department of Motor Vehicles. After a twenty-minute wait in line, we stepped up to the counter. I placed the Statistics bag on the counter next to the magazine with Bill's picture on the cover. I pleaded our case.
"We missed our plane and we have to go to Canada. This is the famous Bill Porter and he needs picture ID."
I was just warming up when the DMV lady interrupted me.
"Oh, you're the man featured in the Oregonian article. I read that story and I couldn't stop crying." She paused a moment and looked at the documents on the counter in front of her. "What's this? You have only one piece of identification, your baptismal certificate. Hmm, you're really supposed to have two pieces of identification. If you promise not to tell a soul, I don't think there is any question who you are. Honey, you just come on back here and I'll take your picture. I'll have you on that plane in no time." Somehow, while I organized all the paperwork, Bill managed to sell his new friend/customer a can of Watkins cinnamon.
If Bill told you his version of this story, it would go something like this: Once we missed a plane because I didn't have ID. Missing the plane didn't bother me at all; missing a day of selling is what annoyed me. Fortunately, all was not lost. The nice lady at the DMV bought a can of cinnamon and took a catalog to share with her family and friends. Boy, am I glad I didn't have picture ID; just think of all the new business I got. I wish Shelly would have calmed down; she looked like she was ready to pass out.
Bill Porter is a perfect example of an individual succeeding because he stayed focused on something he felt passionate about. Like his father, Bill's passion was for selling, to be the best salesman he could be without compromising his values. Bill once received a ten-minute standing ovation at the end of one of our speeches when he passionately urged audience members to simply "go out there and make it happen." Following my passion was one of the first things I learned from Bill.
CHAPTER 2
It Doesn't Matter How You Got Here, Only Where You're Going
September 9, 1932, was the happiest day in the lives of Ernest and Irene Porter. The time was 2:20 A.M. and they were the proud parents of a baby boy, William Douglas Porter. In spite of the difficult labor (the doctor had to use forceps to extract baby Bill), Irene would have gladly repeated the experience for what they received that morning: a precious and healthy little boy. The birth certificate on the table was proof of that; on line 29, under the heading "Congenital Crippling Deformities," was typed the word "None."
I picture Irene with baby Bill in her arms during the first few months of his life, when no signs of cerebral palsy were evident. I see her counting ten fingers and ten toes, caressing his soft skin, and gently running her fingers over the handsome features of his face. He seemed perfect in every way.
It didn't take long, though, before she knew something was wrong. She knew it before anyone else. Bill's perfectly shaped left hand was always clenched ever so tightly. Irene also noticed that her infant son's back was arched and stiff. She spent hours massaging his shoulders and back. She gently pried his fingers open, only to see them revert back into a tight little fist.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Ten Things I Learned from Bill Porter by Shelly Brady, Eric Bolt. Copyright © 2002 Shelly Brady. Excerpted by permission of New World Library.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
