In the world of sales, there are a few fundamental rules that I think are all significant enough to earn the honor of being called “the most important rule.”

Being assumptive is a sales person’s best friend, but knowing when to stop talking and wait silently for a response is assumptiveness’s hot little sister. Each play critical roles which can be used exclusively or in tandem, but mastering your timing is key.

Recently, I’ve been putting a lot of work into my ability to wait silently for a response. The temptation to fill an awkward pause with one’s own thoughts is menacing. It is something I REALLY struggled with as a reporter, and have lost some huge sales in my financial career because I was the one to speak first during a critical pause near the end of a meeting. But today, I experienced a moment I will look back on for the rest of my career as a turning point in my ability to wait patiently for the big yes.

I was in a meeting with an elderly gentlemen discussing a new product MCE is offering. Just as in every meeting, the critical moment came, and it was time for me to say my final words.

“So now we’re going to go ahead and put in that application,” I said, and then waited. I’ve just told the man that he’s going to buy my product, but can’t initiate the transaction until he’s given me confirmation that yes, he’s going to buy my product. Ultimately, I’ve just asked for his permission to sell him something with the explicit intent of hiding my question in a confident statement.

Five seconds. Ten seconds. Do not speak, Dave Robbins. Be silent.

“Well, let me ask you,” says the gentlemen. “Here’s what I’m thinking…”

I nod. Don’t make a sound. Don’t go back into your pitch for fear that his question will stump you. Be as still as possible. Make as little noise.

“See, back when I was a boy, we didn’t really do our money through the bank. My poppa, see, he was in the war dropping bombs on the Ottomans out of the airplanes they had back then and when he got paid, he didn’t get a check. Do you even get checks? I mean, you work at a darn bank – how do they pay you here?” he asked.

“Direct deposit,” I tell him.

“See I don’t even know what the hell ya’ll are talking about these days with your direct deposit and the such. When my poppa got paid during the war, what they’d do is they’d send a telegram to my momma, and it’d tell her that on this day and at this time there’d be a boat comin down to the dock, and she was to send someone and they would pick up his pay. Now, my momma was a good workin woman and she didn’t have time to walk all the way down there, because even though poppa made good money we didn’t have that kind of money where we could live near the water. So every few weeks my momma would come wake me up in the morning and feed me a big full breakfast, and tell me to walk down to the dock with my wagon and pick up poppas pay.

“Now, they didn’t pay him with a check or anything fancy like what you just told me about – what they would do is they’d send him his pay in nickels. Can you believe that? So me and my neighbor Jed and all of the other boys in our streets – we would walk down to the dock together with our wagons and we’d wait for the Navy boat to come and what would they do? They would fill up our wagons with nickels! And we’d eyeball each others loads to see whose daddy had gotten a bonus for killing the most Ottomans and then with our loot and bounty, we’d make that there 12 mile walk back home.

“Now, usually by the time we got home I was tired, and sometimes my momma would tell me I could go back out and get a root beer with one of them nickels if I wanted. But normally I’d just ask if I could keep the nickel in my piggy bank and use it to buy a balloon or some horse shoes later.”

With the wide eyed fascination of a blogger, instead of a salesmen, I let the words, “Go on,” slip through my teeth when he paused and looked down at the brochure we’d been going over a few minutes prior.

“Oh. Well. You know, I’m just thinking – because at that point I’d go change my clothes and put on my dinner shoes instead of my street shoes and my sister and I would help momma make us some dinner. You know what we ate a lot of during the war?”

“No sir.”

“We ate potatoes. Lots and lots of potatoes. Fried potatoes. Mashed potatoes. Raw potatoes. Baked potatoes. Potatoes and ham. Potatoes and pepper. Hah! You can’t have too much pepper!”

“You sure can’t,” I said.

“Have you ever had a fried potato, Brian?”

I’d like to point out here that I was wearing my nametag during this conversation.

“Like a French fry?” I asked.

“No, not like a French fry. You know what, I’m gunna give you something to put in your pocket and think on. One day here soon, I want you to go home and put a pot of cooking oil on your stove and when it gets good and hot, just go ahead and drop in a potato. It’ll take a few minutes to cook but believe me, you’ll know when it’s done. Potatoes can burst, you know. It’ll start screaming and hollering, and when that potato is making noises like you ain’t believin, you’ll know that it’s done. And when you eat it, you’ll think of the Ottomans.”

We made eye contact. He watched me. I watched him. 15 seconds went by and I broke my own rule – I spoke. I had to.

“Uhhh… okay. So, that answered all of your remaining questions?” I asked.

“Yup. Yeah. That’ll be good. I just wanted to think that one all the way through before I went ahead and signed something.”

“Not a problem, sir. I’m always glad to help people think through their decisions.”

I have yet to decide if I’m going to try his fried potato suggestion.