Brain Still on Fire

Erin Doom

Oct 6

4 min read

Updated: 4 days ago

A Labor Day in the Life of a Salesman

Commemoration of the Holy, Glorious Apostle Thomas

Glorification of St. Innocent, Metropolitan of Moscow, Enlightener of the Aleuts, Apostle to the Americas

Anno Domini 2026, October 26

Inside Little Blue, with another Amazon route waiting behind me.

IT WAS SATURDAY of Labor Day weekend—a weekend devoted, in spirit at least, to rest from labor.

I had already delivered for Amazon that morning. Then I drove an hour and a half to Salina for what was supposed to be an excellent sales lead. The woman knew her water was bad. She worked in health care. She seemed genuinely interested in finding a solution.

Twenty minutes into the appointment, I learned that she rented the house.

There could be no sale. Because the system connects to the home’s plumbing, we couldn’t proceed without the property owner’s involvement. Three hours of driving had led to a home that never should have become a lead.

But the drive was not wasted.

A Room of Remembrance

On the way to Salina, my blue Jeep, which I’ve started calling Little Blue, became a room of remembrance. Memories of Warren Farha, my recently reposed godfather and dear friend, came one after another. By the time I arrived at the appointment, an eight-part memorial had begun to take shape. On the drive home, even my anger over the unqualified lead became material: I remembered how often my own failure to answer messages had tested Warren’s patience, and how graciously he had borne with me. The memory gave me a way to bear with someone else.

Then another idea arrived. What if everything I had learned in sales—the disciplines, failures, recoveries, and constant confrontation with myself—could become a program of formation for other salespeople? By the time I was nearing Wichita, the wild thought was becoming a proposal.

I was tired, frustrated, financially strained—and exhilarated. I was creating almost faster than I could drive.

My brain was on fire.

One Minute at Home

At about 1:40, Amazon sent notice that it had increased the pay for a three-and-a-half-hour delivery block beginning at 2:15. The offer was seventy-seven dollars—still ridiculously low. I remember earning seventy-five dollars on Saturday nights to deliver the Sunday edition of The Wichita Eagle decades ago. But those extra twelve dollars were enough. I needed the money. So I accepted the block.

The warehouse was eighteen minutes from my house. I pulled into my driveway at 1:50.

I ran.

I ran to the door, through the house, and up the stairs, stripping off my sales uniform as I went. I changed clothes, put on different shoes, ran back downstairs, climbed into Little Blue, and pulled away at 1:51.

One minute at home.

Salesman out. Amazon driver in.

I reached the warehouse at 2:13.

Two minutes to spare.

The afternoon route was organized differently from the morning routes I had grown accustomed to, and for a moment I couldn’t tell which package came first. Another driver helped me see the order. Then my old UPS instincts took over, and I arranged enough of the packages to get moving.

I pulled away to deliver for another three and a half hours—my second Amazon route of the day, after a sales appointment in another city. I would deliver again Sunday morning and Monday morning. Partly I needed the money. Partly I was trying to train myself into a new rhythm of early rising, something Christiane has urged me toward throughout our marriage.

Labor Day weekend had become a weekend of labor.

Less Than a Gallon of Gas

As the route continued, the transmission began shifting less smoothly. The wear and tear was no longer theoretical. Little Blue was carrying me between delivery routes, sales appointments, home, and the beginnings of a new business. I don’t know how much longer it can keep this up.

Then the gas needle settled onto empty. I hadn’t had enough time to stop before the delivery block, and the route brought me nowhere near a station. I spent the final miles wondering whether I would finish before the tank did.

You can’t make this stuff up.

One minute at home. Two minutes to spare. Less than a gallon of gas.

Thank God, I made it to the nearest gas station in Haysville. Then I remembered that a recent customer with a newly installed system lived only about two minutes away—and that I had forgotten to give him the gift we leave after a sale. So I sent him a text and drove over.

He hadn’t responded by the time I pulled into the driveway, but he came outside immediately. And he was raving about his water. He could already feel the difference in his hair and skin. He loved the taste. He couldn’t wait to wash his car with softened water because his old water was so hard that he had been spending thirty dollars just on spot remover every single time he washed his car.

If I had been holding my phone—and if he had been wearing a shirt—it would have been the perfect testimonial.

Instead, I stood in his driveway and listened. The system had been installed only a few days earlier, and he was already experiencing what I had promised him.

No sale in Salina. An unqualified lead. Amazon before and after. One minute at home. Two minutes to spare. Less than a gallon of gas. A transmission asking for mercy. A new business taking shape in my head. And at the end of it all, a customer standing in his driveway, raving about the water.

That was a good day.

My brain is still on fire.