The Important Matter of Wasted Talent

I just got my series 7 license, working at some boutique firm filled with nefarious figures. It wasn’t a bucket shop because they were pitching real stocks and didn’t underwrite scams. Nevertheless, between the cigarette filled boardrooms and shifty criminals (a story for a later date) roaming around the office, it wasn’t exactly the place where I wanted to stay long term, if you know what I mean.

Starting out, my job was to get new accounts through cold calling. More often than not, people hung up on me; but it never bothered me because human behavior always fascinated me. If you say certain words to people, in a specific cadence, you can literally control them. I experienced this salesman mastery on several occasions, when the words flowed off my tongue perfectly, allowing me to address all concerns with ease and confidence. But it was impossible for me to maintain, consistently, due to the variables of the personalities I had to deal with.

“First one to talk loses”: that’s what I was taught when closing someone. Ask for the order and shut the fuck up. There were times when I’d be on the phone with a prospective client for minutes in total silence (it felt like hours), a game of discipline and will. I shit you not, if he uttered a word before me, 9 out of 10 times he was buying. But cold calling is a hard business. Most men can’t hack it and quit inside of 3 months, after running into walls–fact.

In comes “Ed Motta.”

The seat adjacent to me was idled, apparently reserved for a “professional” account opener. As always, I was skeptical, especially after learning he was getting paid 3x my $200 per week salary–a great sum of money for a piker like me back then.

On a Wednesday morning, around 11:30 am Mr. Motta staggers into work and introduces himself to me “Ed Motta, nice to meet you.” He was in his early 30’s and had an unusually large jug-head, short legs and stocky build. He was a Ray Liotta look alike–to the tee. His arrangement with his senior broker was straightforward: $600 per week salary and an additional $100 per new account opened. He didn’t manage a book or ever speak to a client after opening him. His job was to get clients and move on–like a locust.

He picked up the phone and started to “dial for dollars” as he liked to call it. He made a contact and started to pitch some rich guy out of 0hio some bullshit biotech stock. Ed’s voice was built for radio: it was stentorian, with perfect enunciation and he had an extensive vocabulary to boot. To my amazement, on his first contact he opened a new account. Flabbergasted by his showmanship, I put down the phone and watched him for a next three hours. No one ever hung up on him, literally. He could keep anyone on the phone, for hours if he wanted them to. To test this, I gave him leads of people who “slammed” me on contact and he was able to hypnotize them with his voice and make them buy something. He had the ability to open accounts, almost (some people will never buy), at will. He was a great talent, the best I’ve ever seen.

After his first week at work, Ed invited me out one night “for some drinks.” We hopped in a cab and he told the driver to take him somewhere. At the moment, I was drifting off into outerspace, wondering how this singular man was able to control people like elephants under a stiff whip, so I didn’t hear the address. When we arrived at his “spot,” I was taken aback, finding myself in the middle of Washington Heights (shitty area, like you wouldn’t believe), outside some seedy building. He told me, “Fly, I’ll be right back, just stay here.”

Okay.

After 10 minutes, Ed came running down and said, “okay, let’s go have some drinks.” We hopped in a cab and headed to midtown NYC. After getting out of the cab, some homeless fucker approached us for money. Instead of giving this bum money, to my astonishment, Ed gave him his fucking business card and told the homeless guy “call me Monday, I’ll give you a job.” I queried “are you out of your fucking mind?” That guy’s a crackhead.” His reply was “nah, he has a good voice. I’ll throw him on the phone and he will be a killer.”

Okay.

So we’re at the bar and I have no idea what to do there, as it was my first time in a real NYC bar. I was barely the legal age to drink, by the way. Ed was chatting it up with just about everyone he encountered, jovially having a blast. He told me, “hey, I’ll be right back bud, I need to go do something.”

Forty five minutes later and Ed is nowhere to be found. It was getting late and my wife and baby were at home waiting for me. Actually, my wife thought I was working late and had no idea I was out having drinks (thank God she never reads my blog). I paid the tab and left, thinking “crazy Ed” met a girl and left somewhere with her. No big deal.

As I turned the corner, an ambulance stopped in front of me. I turn to my right and it’s Ed Motta sprawled out on the fucking street, knocked out from an overdose of cocaine. From what I understand, he survived the ordeal; but I never saw him again. Rumor had it that he went to another firm to continue his illustrious career as a “professional account opener.” He could have made millions if he used his unbelievable talents of persuasion to build his own business. Instead, because of character flaws and drugs, he’s probably dead or working as a janitor at some shopping mall right now.

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