Blondie strode confidently forward. Even with her achingly high heels I could tell she wanted to be first into the black maw. Thinking this would prove something, show her dedication.

My mind focused more on what lay beyond the door. I'd rather Blondie find out before I did. The unexpected was not for me. I liked planning, knowing what was coming, seeing down the road a bit. Perhaps that's how I ended up in this group in the first place.

The spreadsheets I'd put together. The market research. For someone my age, that kind of focus on such mundane stuff was unusual. I'd been told that before. But I loved it. It got me up in the morning. I could be selling cars, light bulbs, adult diapers. It didn't matter. I loved the challenge of sales, and the goals I set for myself.

"What were your last quarter results?" Baldy whispered.

I thought it was an odd thing to ask as we crossed over the threshold into darkness. What did it matter what my sales had been? I'd gotten a black ticket. I was here. I'd earned my way. I mumbled something, hoping he couldn't understand me. If my numbers were important in order to score the ultimate prize, then it was probably better I remain silent. I knew the reputation of these cut-throats, any inkling of weakness--be it sales number or otherwise--might give them some advantage I didn't want them to have.

The cool interior enveloped us. A tingle of excitement--or was it dread--ran through me.

"Remove your shoes, please." A different voice instructed us this time. A smooth, feminine voice. More soothing and trustworthy than the booming voice outside.

"What?" One of the women in our throng didn't sound pleased. Probably Blondie. "That's disgusting. When is someone going to turn on the lights?"

As if by command bright LED lights flipped on, blinding us all.

"REMOVE YOUR SHOES."

We were in a small white room with a row of lockers. A sign above us on the wall read: Visitors to the factory must wear booties, hairnets and jumpsuits at all times. No exceptions.

The men kicked off their shoes, shimmied out of jackets and the most restrictive of their clothing and donned white booties, white jumpsuits and hairnets without qualms. Baldy held the hairnet, looked at me and shrugged, stretching the net over his bare head.

Mom Jeans hesitated for a split second, but quickly caught up to us boys and stepped into a jumpsuit. It took a few extra minutes for her to tuck all of her thick curly hair into the hairnet, but she managed.

Blondie curled her lip. "Have these been washed?" She held up the jumpsuit and boots.

A door slid open at the far end of the room opposite the lockers. "Proceed into the safety briefing." The disembodied female voice intoned.

Blondie's eyes widened. She threw her fancy heels into the locker, hiked up her pencil skirt, zipped up the jumpsuit and put on the boots. The hairnet was last. She stepped into the next room while tucking her long blonde hair into the net. The look in her eye suggested defeat.

Score one for the big boss. He knew how to level the playing field quickly: strip people of their identity.

Two laminate tables with three metal folding chairs each faced a projector screen. A yellow legal pad and pencil lay on the tables in front of each chair along with name tags already filled out for each of us. We each chose the seat labeled with our name tag and waited. And waited. Time ticked by. The silence grew awkward and uncomfortable.

My bald friend, who ended up seated next to me at the back table, picked up his name tag--HAROLD. He peeled it off, but not before he leaned over to me and whispered, "I told them I like to go by 'Harry.'" He shrugged at the mistake as no markers or blank name tags were available and stuck it across the middle of his jumpsuit. The label pebbled over the cheap zipper in the middle.

My gaze couldn't help but wander from his name tag to his bald head. Harry would've suited him perfectly. I stifled a laugh.

I picked up my name tag, peeled it off and stuck it on my jumpsuit.

Harold noticed. "Hey, you get to be 'Charlie,' but I have to be 'Harold'?" He poked at my name.

I gave a good eye roll to make him feel I understood his pain.

I did not.

Everyone else in the room had donned their name tags as well. I tried to take note of them all--attaching names from the company newsletter to faces. This might be important at some point. The invitation to come to the factory showed up soon after my regional award had been announced. A black ticket with gold lettering. I knew this would be a competition for Salesman of the Year, but no details had been given on the ticket. Only "Congratulations," my name and a date, time and location for the factory tour and Awards Banquet.

Blondie was Jacqueline. Jacqueline Smythe. Her tactics were legendary. She'd won the West Coast Regional Award after scoring a deal with the largest grocery store chain in California. Rumor had it the CEO had a thing for blondes. Jacqueline had gone from brunette to brassy blonde weeks before the sale closed. I heard the CEO got a divorce not long after. This wasn't the first time a business owner had fallen for Jacqueline.

Golf Cap was Devon. Devon Miles. I should've guessed by his links-friendly clothes. Devon wined and dined his top clients at golf clubs all over the South. I'd heard his father-in-law had connections and exclusive memberships at all the toniest resorts. Devon had built his sales relationships in large part due to his in-law's help.

Mom Jeans was Agnes. Agnes Ackerby. The Witch of the Northeast. Sweet as pie to her clients--so much so I heard they called her 'mom' on her sales calls--hell on wheels for any of her underlings. She treated her assistant like dirt and fired any junior salesmen that had potential to bump her out of her sales slot. Cut-throat would be the best word to describe her tactics.

Harold Washington covered the Rocky Mountain area. His big advantage was his hometown: Denver. He'd locked down the market there early on in his sales career due to his renown as a high school football star. Took his high school to State and had been in a few local commercials back in his younger day. Everyone in Denver knew Harold "The Boulder" Washington. Now that his fame was starting to falter, today's event could be his only shot at the Salesman of the Year title. I'd heard his sales had slipped his fourth quarter.

I locked their names away. This was my skill--names and faces. First, I made note of a physical feature or clothing item that stood out, then I learned the name. Ninety percent of the time, I could recall that name if I met the person again. If I couldn't remember the name, I had tricks up my sleeve. Salesman don't tell tales. Don't share their techniques. I felt confident I could remember my fellow competitors' names once we left the safety briefing.

The room darkened.

I clenched my pencil over the legal pad, ready to take extensive notes. Maybe we'd be tested at the end, maybe we'd be scrutinized to see if we broke any of the safety rules. I was determined to win. Ready to do whatever it took to best the four other people in the room. The final prize had to be mine. Needed to be mine.

The screen lit up with the ZC logo--the same script from the front gate scribbled across the biggest seller--a Zago Chocolates Crispy Bar. Dark chocolate, crunchy crispies, segmented into 5 pieces. I'd sold umpteen cases of these bars to my regional customers: supermarkets, five-and-dimes, gas stations, vending machines. You name it, I'd blanketed the Midwest with Zago Chocolates in the five years I'd been with the company. I'd forced out lesser sales personnel who couldn't keep up with my pace. I had multiple sales pitches tied to consumer studies, price points, promotional efforts, and more. No salesman could match my techniques. My leads were as deep as they were wide. I had contacts in every state, every county, and every city with more than 20,000 residents in my territory.

The opening slide faded into a picture of the CEO and founder, Zane Zago, wild white hair, oddly unwrinkled face for his age, dark bushy eyebrows, crooked smile with bright white teeth.

"Mr. Zago founded Zago Chocolates in 1975 with a dream--to be the biggest chocolate company in the U.S. of A." The same female voice filled the room as the presentation began. "Using a secret formula passed down from his grandfather--a premier chocolatier from the Alps region of Italy--Mr. Zago perfected the art of automated chocolate making and built the factory you are now sitting in."

A slide popped up showing the exterior of the factory. A nondescript cinderblock edifice, to be honest, but imposing in its size. The picture had been taken from the ground, shooting upward at the building. It reminded me of Dickensian London. Dark, dismal, and hulking behind its twelve-foot-high wall and iron gate.

The slide switched to an interior shot of the chocolate making process: copper vats filled with steaming chocolate. Workers dressed in the same garb we were wearing, but with added protective eyewear.

"As we take the tour of the Zago Chocolates revolutionary factory, please stay behind the yellow lines."

A slide appeared showing a walkway between the vats with fluorescent yellow tape delineating the safe path through the production area.

"Keep hands, arms and legs away from machinery."

The next slide showed a bizarre, multi-bladed chopping machine being fed shelled walnuts. The slide advanced to another, which showed a huge roller smashing a thick layer of nougat into a thinner sheet.

"Do not stray away from the group."

A cartoon of a man with multiple question marks over his head appeared on the screen. He stood in front of three unmarked doors. I supposed this was to depict how easy it was to get lost in the massive factory without a guide to help you.

"Comply with all signs and safety instructions given during the tour."