The Dream Merchant

by Fred Waitzkin

  Ava couldn’t quite get the flame of the gas stove where she wanted it and she fussed with the knob. The eggs were cooking too fast, but instead of taking the heavy skillet off the fire she kept adjusting the flame. She wanted this meal to be perfect. Ava took a deep breath to quiet her nerves.

  For the past two years living with Jim and Marvin in motels and occasionally a rented room, there was never a kitchen. Meals were mainly sandwiches or something fast in a diner. She had cooked for her first husband, the football player, trying to please him, although he would often ridicule her meals and haphazard cleaning. Then he would put on a false smile and show her off to his football buddies or to his dad, who couldn’t take his eyes off her breasts. Ava had sustained herself with a belief that she was drawn to mystical or artistic endeavors, acting or painting, even though in reality she didn’t know anything about these things.

  Now the heavy pan was smoking with hot grease, and even with the flame turned down, the eggs were burning at the edges and when she flipped them one of the yolks ran. Terrible.

  Her husband had wanted the whole package, Hollywood starlet looks to go along with a homemaker’s perfect touch, like Ava’s mother, Beth, who kept an impeccable house. While Ava was growing up and competing in beauty pageants, her mom had won prizes for her pies and cakes in country fairs all over Tennessee, although mother and daughter rarely competed at the same fairs, because Ava’s dad liked to prime and primp his little champion without the distraction of Beth’s hobby. And Ava loved going off alone with her daddy. Beth went along with the arrangement.

  Ava was a natural and she quickly developed a reputation throughout the state for her willowy good looks and perky manner. She knew just how to intrigue and charm the judges, particularly the men, with a broad grin or a shy giggle. She and Daddy came home all heady with victory, and the rooms were filled with the smells of roasts and glazes and baking bread and cakes. For nearly eight years they traveled on weekends to beauty pageants. The pageants were the central event in their family life. When Ava took the prize, the goodness of life seemed rolled into Mom’s popovers, hams, and puddings and Daddy loved her so much. It was pure bliss when he brandished the check for a couple of hundred dollars, called it their fun money.

  Of course, it occasionally happened that the first-place trophy and check went to another little beauty. At the judge’s announcement Daddy turned red in the face. He became sullen and remote; he couldn’t look at Ava during the interminable car ride home. He would say, acidly, her hair had been mussed or her shoes were scuffed or she needed to lose weight, and she nodded. Yes, yes, you’re right, Daddy, yes. She had ruined their good times. It was worse if he didn’t say a word and she imagined how hugely he hated her. He couldn’t eat dinner, and Mom never said a word during those awful nights. Ava had let them all down.

  Ava felt an urge to throw the eggs in the trash. She’d forgotten how her mind became trapped in a loop. The urge was unbearable, but she hesitated, worried Jim would notice. He didn’t know about this side of her. The eggs were more than cooked, but she hadn’t put the toast on. The bacon was getting cold on a plate. She couldn’t serve Jim these burnt eggs. She needed to start again and get it right.

  Ava tossed the four cooked eggs into the trash and nodded to herself. It was the only thing that helped. There was real pleasure in throwing them away and beginning again. It was a chance. She gathered the bacon strips into a paper towel and threw it away. She took a deep breath and began cracking open eggs. She wasn’t very handy and bits of shell fell into the pan. She tried to take the shells out with her fingernail and then impatiently shook the eggs into the trash. That felt good. Jim didn’t notice. And she didn’t have to muster any stupid excuse.

  By the time she was sixteen the family had moved from Tennessee to a small town in western Canada where her grandparents lived. Ava was in a new school. She was smart, a good student. But it was her looks that people responded to, a perfect angelic face, a cute ponytail that played against a ripening body that sent signals she didn’t understand. By then, Ava and her dad were no longer going to competitions. For a time she brought purpose and prestige into his life. The trophies, cash prizes, and articles in the local paper had been his clever work, as though the little girl were a part of himself—the winning was his art.

  Eventually she had grown sick of being adorable and that spelled the end of her winning. In their Canada life her father was unshaven and badly dressed, shrunken to a middle-aged car mechanic who went drinking with his buddies on weekends. He barely noticed her, or his wife for that matter. When Ava had been winning, their home had been cheerful and optimistic. Now she blamed herself for the family’s decline. There was no one to share this with and Ava felt hemmed in and moody. Still, her mom cooked savory roasts and biscuits and cleaned with a dumbfounding smile. Ava was bursting at the seams.

  * * *

  On a fall afternoon she traveled to an away football game. After most of the kids she knew had left for home she talked to a shy boy she’d never seen before. She never asked his name. The boy was confused and she said it was okay and held his hand. She led him beneath the bleachers and began kissing his face and mouth and then she unzipped his pants and began to touch him. He quickly came in her hand.

  Ava did other things. She began stealing from department stores. She put things under her coat and walked out. It was like filling up. She was never caught. These adventures appeased some craving she didn’t understand. She could go on being the prom queen for a time, chaste and waving from the float.

  One evening Ava drove the family car to a small, uneventful town about twenty miles away. She looked older than seventeen, particularly when she let her hair down, wore red lipstick, and dressed in heels and a tight-fitting blouse and skirt. She had been practicing her slow walk. She parked the car and walked into a bar. There were about eight or nine guys drinking and they all looked her over. She ordered a beer and soon a man wearing a felt hat came over and they began to talk. He was a grain salesman, a smooth talker. He described the business and Ava smiled at him and said she was a secretary. They finished their beer and she followed him to the back of the bar where there was a dim hallway. She’d thought this through, more or less, but hadn’t anticipated the leaping of her heart. She didn’t even know the guy’s name. They began to kiss in the amber light. He was real hungry and she followed his lead. He pushed up against her and she touched him with her raised thigh. It thrilled her to feel his hardness. He reached inside her blouse and then he crudely pulled up her bra and began to suck on her breasts and squeeze them. His loving was desperate, as if a good deal would get away. Ava moaned the way she thought she should, although she imagined herself being milked and had to force down a giggle. She helped him slip his overcoat onto the back of a chair and that’s when she felt a bulge in his pocket. Her mind was racing. She groaned and licked his ear. Ava rubbed her thigh against him and then pulled the guy’s zipper open. She discovered his balls, handled them. The salesman pulled up her skirt and reached for her crotch. Not yet, she whispered hoarsely. Ava rubbed his wet cock with her palm, rubbed harder. She realized now that it was her show. She covered his face with urgent kisses, and while he was feverish and groping her breasts she slipped the wallet out of his coat pocket and tucked it into her purse. She hadn’t thought about this part. She just did it.

  While the salesman considered his lucky day and cleaned himself with his handkerchief she was back inside the bar and out the front door. The episode thrilled her, and she thought about it a lot. It kept her anger down. She was able to sit at the dinner table with her father without feeling riled and jilted. She had this reservoir to draw from.

  * * *

  Throwing the eggs in the trash was the good part. Ava felt free of the tension. Maybe she’d get it right this time. But soon she was muttering about the new batch of eggs that she’d flipped over without incident. They looked fine, but she still felt the urge to throw them away and begin again. She craved it. She wis
hed Jim were sitting in another room so she could toss them. Each time would seem like a chance to get it right. Maybe it would be the last time. But that didn’t matter so much. The urge mattered. Eggs were piling up in the trash. Her first husband had come into the kitchen and laughed at her. You’re a crazy woman; look at you throwing away food. He’d smacked her. This made her feel like throwing away the food. It was all she could think about. She was trapped. She would have thrown the eggs away a third time except that Jim might decide she was crazy. But she could not serve him eggs that were less than perfect. She blurted out finally, I’m going to start again—which felt like throwing them away. She smiled a little.

  He looked up from his paper. What? Come on, I’m hungry. Let’s eat those eggs.

  They are not right, she said obliquely. I wanted them to be perfect for you. A few minutes before, everything in her life had seemed to hinge on her ability to cook him a great breakfast. Now she just wanted to throw it all away. She slipped them into the trash and smiled sickly. She wanted him to know.

  Jim had never seen her this way, but he seemed to get it. It’s okay, baby. He took her in his arms.

  But I wanted to do it for you, she said, resisting his embrace. I planned this meal and I’ve made a mess. I’m not sure I can do this, she said, meaning their perfect country life.

  Sure you can, he said, holding her with his strong left arm like a dance partner. We’ll cook it together. He began cracking open eggs with his right hand. Jim was a whiz in the kitchen, flipped them over in the air. He had learned all about cooking from his mother. Ava was baffled by his facility and it made her even more downcast, except he coaxed her to add a little pepper and butter the toast while he held her close. She’d counted on this meal being her coming out. It’s okay, he assured her. They’d go fishing after breakfast and he’d teach her to track the cows. I’ll teach you how to find them wherever they go. Soon the eggs and bacon were done and Jim and Ava were sitting at the heavy oak table with late morning sun streaming through the gingham curtains. He swept her up in his energy for the meal and the farm life, and his good humor and optimism were all over their breakfast. They would live in this beautiful place with farm animals and make a fat baby. They would take care of the farm, fish and hunt, and make more babies. It was a terrific spread. Jim said, Look what we’ve done, and he had drawn her back.

  But also Jim was attracted to the quirky, brooding, and dissolute side of his wife. When she eventually described to him her obsessions and early sexual explorations, he relished them like her faint smile filled with whimsy. Ava showed Jim possibilities he could never have imagined. She was a powerful influence on young Jim, nearly Marvin’s equal.

  12.

  Jim found the plush mattress marked down to $150 at Sid’s Best Buy in North Miami. After six rapturous nights one side caved in as if the springs were made of asparagus. Now Jim had to reach uphill to find Mara, although that wasn’t the worst thing in the world. But he should have known better. For all of his wheeling and dealing, Jim remained a sucker for a deal.

  He procrastinated a week before returning the mattress, although there wasn’t any reason to expect a problem. To the contrary, on his first visit to the store he and Sid had really clicked, and Jim had looked forward to seeing him again, maybe showing off his beautiful girl. He had it in mind to tell Sid about the Wow Cards and to make him a distributor when the cards were ready. But on this August afternoon, with the ruined mattress sagging on the roof of Jim’s car, Sid wouldn’t give him the time of day. Jim was embarrassed, getting brushed off by this sweating, fat shyster. He was going to have to drive the mattress back home. Then what? Sid was staring at Mara’s thighs while talking about the fine features of a cheap dresser to an elderly black woman.

  One thing led to another and Jim leaned over the counter and when Sid raised his voice Jim pushed his finger into Sid’s flabby chest. Then Sid came around and there was a scuffle and Jim lost his balance and fell hard onto his back and hip. Jim was surprised this fat shit could push him over; he must have lost something. This came into his mind because Jim could really handle himself. He bruised both his elbows and came up hobbling. He and Mara left with her helping him along, while Sid dialed the cops and shouted, You come in here and threaten me! You fuck, I know your address, I know where you live. Did you see what he did? Sid turned to the black lady, who nodded solemnly. Jim felt disgusted with himself.

  I was in Florida that week and stopped by their place in the evening. Jim was hurting. His left elbow had filled with liquid that wobbled when he moved his arm. He asked me to touch it two or three times. The elbow felt strange, like a water balloon connected to his bone. He couldn’t believe it was there. Also, there was a hard knob on his hip. I was more concerned about his hip. But he could walk. At my age, it’s bad when you break a bone, he said when she was out of earshot, as if she shouldn’t know he was an old man. Come on. But he was more concerned about his elbow than the hip. He said he wouldn’t be able to lean on his elbows. What will I do? he asked helplessly. For a moment, I didn’t catch his meaning. They were planning to drive to Orlando to visit friends the following morning, had the babysitting worked out. It would be a whole weekend together without interruptions from the kids, and she was looking forward to it. He was concerned about leaning on his elbows with this flopping water bag.

  Mara was out of character, edgy. She was afraid Sid had called the cops. What if they looked into her immigration status? She could be sent back.

  Do you think the cops will come? Jim asked me, glancing her way. In a moment, their future had come unglued.

  I think it’ll be okay, I said to calm him. I don’t think the police will care about this—they’re trying to solve murders. A few minutes later he asked again and I said I’d call a lawyer friend and ask his opinion. It bothered me Jim was so off balance. The situation was trivial. I kept expecting he would snap out of this lovesick old guy and become the Jim I know.

  Maybe we should take him to the emergency room, Mara said. She wanted me to look at Jim’s bruises. She took him by the hand and led him limping into their tiny bedroom. I followed, a really weird moment. He took off his shirt and then lost his balance trying to pull down his pants. She worked them off for him while he leaned on her shoulder. Then she peeled off his underpants. Jim stood beside the sagging bed, completely naked. His chest and arms were still powerful, but he needed to lose about twenty-five pounds. His belly hung toward his drooping balls. His discolored ankles were swollen from gout or some circulation problem. Without clothes my friend looked like an old man. But Mara admired him as if he were a stallion. She touched his sagging flesh and seemed to feel the thrill of his virility. Her face took on a glow. He began to swell from her longing.

  Maybe she was using him, like Phyllis once said to me, to get her papers, but also she craved him; anyone could see it. She felt his bruised hip with her hand and the pain left his face. Sure, they could go to Orlando tomorrow, he insisted. Look how I’m walking, he said, half-hard while he gimped around the small cramped room. He just needs massage, she said to both of us, and Jim nodded. Tonight I will give him a long massage. Won’t I, baby? She cast him one of her looks—lips pursed and moist while she leaned toward him. She yearned to touch him. His being injured and hurting seemed to heighten their anticipation. It was clear where they were headed as soon as I left them alone. Mara looked at me squarely, until I blushed.

  * * *

  Mara could turn on a dime, one moment sexually provocative or even inviting and the next wary as one of Jim’s gunmen in the Amazon. Her alarm bells went off whenever he and I walked into another room or outside on the lawn to chat. After five minutes she came to join us with her face flushed. Then she stuck with us like glue. One afternoon we’d been talking and I offered to drive him to the deli to get a six-pack. Mara said no. That was it. No, her face set in fierce determination. She was probably thinking I would drive him back to Phyllis, where he belonged. Jim accepted Mara’s iron rule, wh
ich I found disturbing.

  I wondered what she truly saw when she looked at him—a stallion or a dying old horse? Mara had closely held secrets; that much was clear to me, although Jim seemed oblivious. Maybe she was his equal as a scam artist? I began to settle on this idea.

  * * *

  Before Jim left for Israel, he was the best recruiter in Southeast Florida. Everyone in the business knew it. Three hundred times a year, more or less, he wore his custom-tailored suits, stood at the head of a chilly conference room with antiseptic linoleum floors, a green board with his scribbled circles and squares, Danish and bagels wheeled in on trays. Jim’s recruits were seated on folding chairs, looking uneasy or beaten, despair and the smell of floor cleaner welling up in the fluorescent light of morning. Just glancing around the room he could usually identify the best prospects. Jim was tuned into neediness. Soon his mellifluous voice began invoking a business that would give them a sense of empowerment and independence. It is called a mailbox business, which means that while you go to dinner with your friends or go to a show, or watch the game, men and women across the country are earning money that will go into your mailbox; even while you dream at night, checks are on the way. Later, after making phone calls and taking a quick nap, Jim and Phyllis hosted recruiting parties on their balcony overlooking his fine yacht, enthusiastic mixers of old and new friends with music and Phyllis’s hors d’oeuvres and Jim holding court with his favorite stories.

  But even with his tireless energy, Jim’s magnetic therapy products had stopped selling and he and Phyllis were falling into debt. They could no longer keep up with hefty mortgage payments on their condo and yacht. It is a common story in pyramid selling. Markets become saturated overnight. Salesmen can’t find new leads and money gets scarce. The intricate network founders and slips beneath the immutable sea of party nights and lush promises. Overnight hundreds or in some cases thousands of salesmen are scurrying like rodents trying to climb aboard fledgling networks promoting new products with their feasts and bonding sessions, their spirited promises of opportunity, residual income, the sweet life.