The Salesman
He is slim, a pale man with a neat gray mustache and regular fea tures, in his late fifties, I judge as I walk into his simply furnished room in till' middle of the hall . I instinctively like him and his friendly soft-spoken manner, and I want to believe him.
"Hi, Mr. Clark. Mind if I talk to you for a few minutes?" I lean against the' small chest and he sits on his bed, relaxed, but not looking directly at me.
"Nope. Glad to do it. "
" Feeling O.K.?"
He nods, "They made me comfortable up here."
"Good. The intern told me you’d just come to town.”
"U h-huh. But I been here once before."
"What do you do?"
"I’m in sales, like stereos and VCRs. High quality stuff.”
"How's business been recently?"
"I made nine hundred dollars day before yesterday. Then I turned right around and spent twelve hu ndred on cocaine."
"Sell that too?"
"Only when 1have to. I'm really a very good salesman. Always have been." 1can see his nice features in a newspaper ad for a Ford showroom or a Sears store,"
“I thought the be-t pushers didn't use the stuff,"
"That's true for the young ones . These teenagers are just in it for the money, they'd just as soon kill you." His voice is low-key and patient. "The older ones, we only sale when we're broke."
"When d id you start using?"
"Regular? About twenty-fin'. Pot earlier, about 11. It was around everywhere." Then is and images of a stolen childhood pass through my mind. I'm spending too much time, forty more to sec today, I tell myself.
"You've been through AA and rehab programs?"
"You name it, the whole nine yards: ' he says and nods his head.
"When did things start to go downhill?"
“After my mom died last year. I started smoking crack in a pipe and I couldn't sleep, had no energy. I lost my job," His voice sounds tired .
"What else?"
"My wife walked out on me with my step-son.' He props his forehead on his hand and I can't see' his face.
“And yesterday?"
"I wasn't enjoying life anymore. It wasn't worth the effort. That's when I decided to end the misery once and for all."
I’d heard the outlines of the story but not the details. "What did you do?" I ask.
"Drove my rental car to the interstate. Went up the exit ramp and then down the highway, going the wrong way. I was looking for an eighteen-wheeler to come by but none did, not even a passenger car. I'm going down a hill and about to give up and turn around when I see these lights in the distance. This big moving van comes up the hill. I'm sitting right in the middle of his lane, going real slow because I didn't want him to get hurt. I'm going to get the full impact, see." Clark pauses.
"Yeah, so then what?"
"He blasts his horn. Then the van brakes hard and goes off into the median strip, skidding and turning sideways."
"And…”
"I'm thinking, this is it. The van is skidding towards me and I have this mixed-up feeling, but mostly relief that it'll be all over now." He pauses again and I wait.
"Then the van skids to a stop about twenty feet from my car. Didn't even get a scratch." A half smile plays around the corners of Clark's mouth. Does he know it's there?
"And then?"
"The jerk gets out and curses at me. I curse him back, and I drive off. Then I see a phone booth and pull off the road. I dial 911 and ask for the police." The half smile dissolves into a yawn.
"The police?"
"Yeah, the AA say they don't know anything about suicide, to call the police."
"Okay" I say, "you told me what I need to know. Do you have any questions?"
He nods. "Hey, how do I get the rest of my clothes over here from the motel?"
And I'm thinking, good, very good, yes you are.
© Roger Spencer