‘Constant rejection,’ big rewards
Life as a door-to-door salesman is one of ongoing persistence
TAMPA — The Tesla Model 3 rolled to a stop on a quiet residential street out near the airport, and Liam Kunkel stepped out into a misting November rain.
He wore white Alexander McQueen sneakers, tucked a Sharpie in the band of his Mets cap and took a quick hit off a purple vape pen. His eyes scanned the modest homes for telltale details as he walked.
“The way that car is parked says they’re not the primary decision-maker.”
“See their lawn? They’re probably an analytical buyer.”
“That roof looks rough.”
He consulted his Sun Seeker app to determine how the sun would hit a home.
Liam knocked and a white terrier began losing its mind in the window. Liam stepped back 6 feet and angled his body, to appear less threatening.
“Can I help you?” said the woman who answered, her tone anything but helpful.
“Hi, I’m Liam, we’re just out here talking to people about solar, I’m sure you’ve noticed a lot of solar panels going up ...”
“Is there anything you can just leave me?” “Potentially, it just depends,” he said. “Roughly what are you guys paying monthly for power? Hundreds?”
“Potentially? Potentially?” said the woman. “You come here and want information from me, but there’s nothing you can give me to show the homeowner?”
Of course, his pitch was going poorly. Who in 2022 wants a stranger knocking on their front door? And who, in the age of Amazon, would try to make a living this way?
Far from a lost art, door-to-door salesmanship persists, despite omnipresent retail options, internet convenience, and a grinding way to make a living. Its ranks are thinner than the mid-century heyday of the Fuller Brush man and encyclopedia hawkers, but thick-skinned strivers like Liam are still out there, talking up deals, reaping rewards.
The federal government estimates that about 104,000 Americans work as door-todoor sales reps or street vendors.
Pest control, home security and Florida’s burgeoning solar industry all rely on door knocks.
Seventeen months ago, Liam, 22, dropped out of college to move from New York to Florida to become a door-to-door salesman. He knew a guy down here selling rooftop solar energy systems. His Instagram posts made the money look great.
Nobody thought it was a good idea. Liam’s parents thought it was a terrible one.
He stepped off his flight to Orlando last year with $80 in his account and moved into an apartment with seven other door-to-door reps.
The pressure was incredible.
“I lost a ton of weight,” he said, “and not in a good way.”
He made a sale — “served a family” as they call it in the biz — on days one, two, four and five. They didn’t all come so easily, but he studied videos of the world’s best door-to-door reps in action and learned to
be “a chameleon,” matching each potential customer’s energy.
He knocked on thousands of doors. People would greet him with the finger, with an f-bomb, with their buck-naked body. One grumpy man held a shotgun. Liam complimented the weapon, sold him a system and then drank one of the guy’s Busch Lights with him to celebrate.
He was asking people to make a major purchase, he knew, but he learned to believe in what he saw as helping families break free of utility companies — not through convincing them, but by “having conversations.”
The money was fantastic. Reps make around $1,000 to $4,000 on a deal. He bought the Tesla, got matching chains for him and his brothers and great Knicks seats for his parents. It was the kind of stuff they didn’t have when Liam was growing up, even after the family upgraded from a tiny Queens apartment to a house on Long Island.
“We moved there and all of a sudden my new friends had money,” he said. “People all around us had money, but we still didn’t. I was like, what is a country club?”
That stayed with him. Now he’s looking to invest in real estate. He’s investing in his own app to help door-to-door reps, and another for restaurant menus.
At Spartan Solar, he progressed from appointment-setter to closer to the top rep in his office to running the fledgling Tampa office. Most days, he still hits the streets to sell.
On a typical day, Liam wakes in his Tampa apartment beneath an artwork titled “Farewell
to Anger,” beside a bookshelf holding “No Excuses!” “Pitch Anything” and “Secrets of Closing the Sale.”
He used to feel resentful and a little anxious. He read in “The Happiness Advantage” that he’d never be happy in life until he learned to be happy in the moment and he wouldn’t love others until he loved himself.
He takes a cold shower, works out, eats oatmeal, showers again.
He drives to a nondescript business park and unlocks a nondescript office that smells strongly of new carpet.
Ten sportily dressed, immaculately groomed men arrive, one only 16, the oldest few in their mid-20s. They play cornhole as electronic dance music blares through a Bluetooth speaker.
Liam sips sugar-free Red Bull, kills the lights and leads them in a Wim Hof breathing exercise of deep, rhythmic exhalations.
He stands under a blood-red logo splashed on the wall reading “300,” as in the epic film about hopelessly outnumbered warriors valiantly battling invaders. He talks about “milking the turf,” “re-knocks,” “question-based selling” and the “10 pillars of solar.”
He tells the reps to share what they’re thankful for and set a goal.
The people in this room … Two quality conversations this week … Pay for my knee surgery … Buy my mom a better house.
The job is not for everyone. People come and go.
“It’s constant rejection,” Liam said. “But if you push through that, you can do anything.”