I used to sell hundreds of somsa on Sundays. The steam rising from the tray. The smell of dough and meat. Strangers stopping, asking the price, walking away or staying. I learned early: the more you ask, the more you sell.
My first job was at 11. Juice at a gas station with my friends. The sun beat down on the pavement. We didn’t sit. We walked from car to car, knocked on windows, held up the bottles. Cold outreach before I knew the word. Hundreds of faces. Hundreds of no’s. A few yes’s. The yes’s kept me going.
I’m from a comfortable family. Everyone at home supported any honest work. They were glad I was learning.
Years later I sold somsa at the bazaar the same way, to pay for my English course. The crowd, the noise, the same pitch again and again. Then I sold my first software the same way: I walked into an education center in Tashkent, said what I could do, built them up a website and got them to prepare me for the IELTS for six months. For free.
After that I started as a frontend developer in the sales department of a construction company, a friend’s dad’s place. I was 17. My friend was more into sales than I was; he pulled leads and sold apartments online. In that small office I learned the one thing that stuck: know the pain of the person you’re selling to, and know what you’re selling.
One day he handed me the phone. “Pick up. Someone’s calling about buying a house.” My voice disappeared. My hands shook. The receiver felt cold. He showed me how to close the deal. He was 17 too. We watched The Wolf of Wall Street two or three times. I wanted to be the guy on the other end of the line.
After three months I sold one apartment. One bedroom. We showed it, got the guy’s loan sorted. Everything started there.
Later I used everything from real estate elsewhere, when I started a web development agency. Formed a team of SWE's from INHA to get projects from companies, I was copying what my friend had taught me, step by step. I was still in lyceum.
A year went by. I was freelancing, living day to day, when I saw an internship at “Alpha Marketing.” The pay was modest. I didn’t have a “monthly job” mindset; I lived on freelance and my contract with Digital Generation. I applied anyway. They said the role was sales manager. Fourteen other people passed the interview besides me.
They trained us for cold calling. Two weeks of nothing else. On the last day we had a sales exam. Four of us stayed. The sales room looked like the one in the Wall Street movie, rows of desks, motivational slogans on the walls, reps on the phones. The air smelled of coffee and ambition.
Crypto was booming. We had to sell brokerage services. Nobody in the company used their real name.
My first day: script in hand, auto-dialer calling strangers. We had to pitch an “investment offer.” We couldn’t talk about religion, politics, or returns. I got crushed. Two hours of cold calling hurt my head as much as twenty hours of coding. We were calling the UK. “Fuck off.” “I’m late to work, fuck you.” Or just no. When someone actually closed, I was surprised. I remember thinking: how?
I left. I had flexible work and freelance elsewhere. I didn’t want to sell for a scammy company. But I learned things about sales I still use.
Whether I wanted to or not, sales sank into my subconscious. In every client meeting since, the steps, the process, still move under my feet. Like a dance I learned before I knew the name of the song.