by Ryan Hyatt
“Deal,” Betsy said, and she led Chuck out to the alley for a smoke. Outside it was sunset, and the day’s bright yellows settled into oranges and pinks over the mountains to the west. It was also quiet, save for the chatter of occasional passing pedestrians. After inhaling a few puffs from Betsy’s vaporizer, Chuck felt the calm and serenity he did when he arrived in Jerome a week ago. The bad trip Alberto sent him on had passed, and the divorced father’s chakras felt like they had been re-calibrated.
Returning inside, Chuck felt a confidence he hadn’t in years, and meeting Rita’s gaze, he understood why. She was right, and in every way.
There was no reason for Chuck to worry about his past, only his future, he realized, and tonight at least his future seemed promising.
Chuck didn’t chuckle the rest of the evening. He laughed hard and regularly, without fear or timidity. He laughed not as a loser estranged from his family might, as one filled with sarcasm and insecurity, and as he often regarded himself and assumed others regarded him also, but he laughed instead as a family man with a gift for gab who just happened to enjoy his present company.
Chuck was a salesman, after all, and as he drank and danced and exchanged glances with Rita, he realized Joe G. also was right. Chuck’s time as a working stiff was coming to an end, and he was about to begin the greatest working vacation of his life. Good thing he signed that contract, he thought.
Rita came home with him. They had a joyous romp and woke at dawn. She loved him the way he was meant to be loved, and he knew by the gaze of her eyes, the warmth of her dimple, and the firm softness of her touch that the feeling was mutual.
Chuck used an app on his phone to call her a ride. They met the car at the end of his stony driveway. Rita understood. Chuck had a job to do, a plane to catch. He was a man of the world on a mission to reunite with her and the others he loved, and he planned on doing so on the best of terms. His terms, or at least his employer’s.
“Stay sweet, old man,” she said. “I look forward to our next rendezvous.”
“You, too, young lady,” he said. “Me, too.”
Chuck kissed Rita goodbye, but there was no smile, no dimple, just her gaze resting on his as she rode away.
In time, he thought.
CHAPTER 9
Chuck collected old pictures of May scattered around the house, found his slippers in the closet along with his good luck charm, his Charles the Chicken suit, and stuffed it in his duffel bag.
It took a while for the poison to exact its toll. He caught a nap on the flight, during which he had a sweet dream about Rita, but by the time he arrived at Barrydale’s, just an hour before the noon event was scheduled to begin, Chuck found himself in the throes of one of the worst hangovers of his life. Joe G. was furious. Al-Hakim filmed. They were inside one of the department store’s changing booths that had been converted into a make-up room for the show.
Joe G. glanced at Chuck through the dressing-room mirror, and then he pointed at a large map of the United States that he waved around his employee’s face. The map had a red wavy line scribbled through it, the course their road trip was set to take – first north, then south, then east, then north, then south, then east again – all the way to a picture of the Big Apple, New York City, sure to be an exhausting ride over the next three hundred sixty-five days.
Meanwhile Chuck, seated, vomited profusely into a wastebasket.
“Cut the camera!” Joe G. said, and he folded the map and used the flapping rectangle to ward off al-Hakim as if he were a blood-sucking bat.
“What about the rules?” al-Hakim said. “You said there aren’t any! Everything gets filmed, remember?”
“Not today,” Joe G. said, and he pushed the videographer outside the booth and closed the curtains.
Only Joe G. and Chuck remained. Joe G. pulled from his pocket a straw and a small bag of cocaine. Chuck, who noticed in the mirror his face looked as green as a Martian’s, waved Joe G. away.
“I don’t mess with that stuff,” he said as his boss prepped his lines. “It’s too dangerous at my age.”
“Not today,” Joe G. said. “Nothing can ruin this damn demonstration, not even you!”
Chuck grudgingly obliged. After a small snort of the fine white powder, he seemed to have had a miraculous recovery by the time al-Hakim was invited to rejoin them minutes later.
The debut of the roadshow at Barrydale’s fashion co-op was conducted in a large parking lot outside the store. The weather was clear, so there was no need for the rain tents, and the green balloons, representing money, or Eco-Socialism, or both, bopped inconspicuously alongside the traditional red, white and blue ones. Makeshift iron fences, resembling a cattle corral, led a line of eager participants to a stage where their needs were assessed.
Chuck at first didn’t mind peddling products to his guests. As Joe G. predicted, some of those present were clearly better off financially-speaking than the rest, and they assumed their place at the front of the line. Many of these buyers-to-be tried to downplay their affluence. They wore non-obtrusive browns and grays, cotton and corduroy dresses and pants, in sync with the proletarian, working-class fashion ethic that dominated major U.S. cities at the time. Whatever jewelry they wore, they tucked it into their clothes as they stepped before Chuck and the swelling crowd of onlookers.
Others, who were bolder with their wealth, despite common trends, wore vivid colors and fabrics – green, to be sure – but also varieties of pink, purple and orange, nylon and polyester, furs and leathers. Chuck didn’t mind pandering to these types, either, because they reminded him of clowns, like himself, and added a touch of showbiz to the event’s pandering.
Only once during the demonstration did Chuck feel uneasy, and in a way that had nothing to with alcohol poisoning, and that was when a big rig parked at the end of the lot. The monster machine stopped one hundred yards short of the stage, and out from the door plopped a round, rough-looking man wearing a soiled shirt, jeans and a baseball cap, wife and two children in tow. The trucker and his family approached line, and as they did Chuck noticed clearly through the Radicals that the man’s face puckered up as if he were breathing in a mighty stink as he glanced around the swank urban crowd waiting for his turn to be read. The trucker took his place at the back of the line and made small talk with his neighbors as he waited, and waited, and waited, revealing a toothy grin that made him seem as insane as Joe G. Unlike Joe G., however, Chuck was certain this man had a soul, which made Chuck wonder even more why he had come to witness the roadshow. Fortunately for Chuck, the suspense was only temporary until the Radicals revealed the purpose of the man’s visit.
While other guests treated Chuck with the reverence of a celebrity prophet and kept themselves at a comfortable distance, even as they were read, when it was his turn the trucker walked straight toward Chuck and stood before him, face to face, toe to toe, toothy grin and all. He happily extended his hand.
“A great pleasure to meet you, sir,” the trucker said. “I’m Tim, and this is my wife, Janet, and our kids, Bob and Kate. We drove all the way from Eugene, Oregon, just to see you today.”
“Wow, nice to meet you, Tim, and you, Janet, and your little ones,” Chuck said as he shook Tim’s hand, relieved the man hadn’t come all the way from Eugene just to punch him. “I’m honored to have you, but you realize that we’ll be in Oregon next week, don’t you?”
“I know, it’s just that the kids saw what you’re doing on the news and it got the whole house talking, so we thought we’d make a weekend of it and be among the first to be read.”
They were a first among customers all right, Chuck realized – to make his heart sink. After a brief review with the Radicals, it became obvious to Chuck that Tim and Janet were good, honest Americans who were heavily in debt, like most households, he soon discovered, and he did his best to steer the couple likewise. They owed a second mortgage on their home, fifty-thousand dollars on the big, and another twenty-thousand dollars in credit cards. They weren�
��t in need of new products to increase their debt load and ‘enhance’ their lifestyle; they needed an overhaul of their finances, and with it an improved quality of life would follow.
Janet’s tax and health records showed she worked as a billing clerk with a meager salary and suffered from a chronic case of carpal tunnel syndrome. If she couldn’t afford to change careers, she at least needed to do something about her fingers. Tim had several recent traffic violations issued in Boise, Fort Lauderdale, and Houston, which along with his previous year’s tax return, showed he at least was a regular-working trucker. He also made three times as much money as his wife.
Chuck commanded the Radicals to make some calculations, and he realized with a few short-term adjustments to their lifestyle, the couple could pay down their debts and greatly improve their long-term circumstances.
Chuck noticed Tim had an older ‘unused’ sedan registered through the Oregon department of motor vehicles that was stored on his property. He suggested Tim sell the car and use the proceeds to purchase an especially designed solar-power panel and engine block, recently made available for large trucks. This battery and motor duo could be placed on the roof and under the hood of the big rig, and it would drastically reduce fuel costs. The hundreds of dollars the husband and father saved monthly through these transactions, which typically went towards paying for gas, could be used instead to pay off the family’s debts. In addition, Chuck recommended Janet purchase an inexpensive, refurbished dictation device available on the Telenet, which easily could be programmed to perform mundane, repetitive billing tasks at her request and prevent the wife’s and mother’s fingers from becoming any worse.
The couple was grateful for Chuck’s advice, and Chuck assumed since they were satisfied they would soon be on their merry way back to Portland. However, when Tim and Janet stepped aside, they shoved Bob and Kate before Chuck, and Tim said, “We want you to give these two the same treatment you gave us…tell ‘em what they need, please!”
Without blinking, Chuck said, “Nothing, besides loving parents, three square meals a day, and a roof over their heads.”
Looking around, however, no one but him seemed to appreciate the joke. Apparently everyone in America needed more than they had, even the two children standing before Chuck, who had it all.
It was the first time Chuck had been asked to review minors, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. His personal philosophy, that less was better, was so ingrained in him from so many years living as a pauper that he wasn’t sure he wanted to pass on bad consumer spending habits to unsuspecting kids who might not have known better.
Chuck glanced across the line of guests to the sales bus, where Joe G.’s team sat along a row of foldout tables. Customers who already had been reviewed signed up for mailing lists, informed where they could purchase the litany of products that had been offered them, and told what promotions and bargains were available if needed. Ultimately, these guests were funneled to a series of online sites owned and operated by Unitus Productions, which intended to make them lifelong subscribers.
Among those at the tables, Chuck spotted Joe G. himself, who stared at Chuck, pointed to a line in his contract, and prepared to make some crude public announcement about whatever cruel terms the contract dictated over a megaphone.
Chuck assumed Joe G. was pointing at a clause that told him he needed to review minors upon parental request.
Chuck decided to spare himself any embarrassment. He waved his hands in the air. To the crowd, he must have appeared like a magician, about to mesmerize his audience with his next act. In fact, Chuck was sifting through icons floating around in cyberspace, searching for the information he needed about Bob and Kate.
Sensing the drama, some in the crowd murmured with anticipation. Finally the conjurer spoke.
“Get a BB gun at your nearest box store, that ought to satisfy your desire to shoot things,” Chuck said to Bob, and then he turned to Kate. “Be sure to wear shin pads when you ride your scooter. You can also get them at your nearest box store.”
Chuck hoped his simple, unenthusiastic response would deter other parents from bringing their children before him, but soon he learned they were indifferent to his indifference. The floodwaters had opened, and the rush for Chuck’s assessments reached new heights, even if the guests who stepped before him that day onward often were less than four feet tall.
For the rest of that episode, and for every episode thereafter, the number of youngsters seeking advice from Chuck about what they ought to buy outnumbered the adults over the age of thirty-five two to one.
Joe G. and his investors couldn’t have been more satisfied. At the end of the San Francisco opener, as the sales team packed the bus, Joe G. pulled Chuck aside and congratulated him on his stellar performance.
“Today we were off to a rocky start, but you struck gold, my friend!” he said. “The rush of ’22 has begun!”
It was never the older generation Unitus Productions hoped to reach, Joe G. explained. The real goal was to win over the younger generation and make them lifelong buyers into the company brand, philosophy, and its many services.
“If you had done your homework and read your contract, you might have been more thorough with those first two kids,” Joe G. said. “They were perfectly viable targets. Still, not bad for a day’s work. Based on our initial tracking, you sold $15,381 worth of merchandise. Luckily, you still have 364 days to reach your goal!”
The media dubbed Chuck the Sultan of Savings or the Sorcerer of Spending, the headlines depending on the conservative or liberal slant of those who wrote them.
Chuck was okay with that. Politics, as his ex-wife was fond of reminding him, was never his strong suit. Less okay with Chuck was the open highway and breathtaking views of the American West he was exploring on the road without his daughter. Often during the tour, from San Francisco to Sacramento, from Sacramento to Eugene, from Eugene to Salem, Chuck withdrew from his duffel bag an old picture of May and passed it around for his crew to admire.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” he said, waving a photo at al-Hakim’s camera.
It depicted a rosy-cheeked, sandy-blonde, baby-faced toddler standing proudly on top of a giant plastic turtle.
Chuck recalled the good times, which his ex-wife considered the bad times. That photo was taken at a mall when April, May and Chuck still shared a cramped apartment in Phoenix. May, who never slept well, woke so early as a toddler that Chuck often had to whisk her off on an excursion, usually at the crack of dawn, just to get her to nap by noon, when he worked on his children’s tales. April, for whatever reason, rarely joined them on these morning escapades, and it was probably for the better. Chuck and her already weren’t getting along, to the point where divorce seemed imminent.
When the weather was hot, as it usually was, their destination was often indoors. On that particular morning when that particular photo was taken, Chuck recalled pushing May in her stroller around the mall, pop music resounding through its well-lit corridors, store windows lined with well-dressed mannequins.
Save for the rare retiree out for early exercise, the mall was empty, haunted, a mausoleum of the modern marketplace. Everywhere the ghosts of capitalism lurked, and yet for Chuck and his daughter, it was a serene stroll, engaging and peaceful. Chuck brought May to the play area, although doing so at such early hours was prohibited. He never understood why. If the doors of the mall were open, why not the play area? Why not let the parents and their little run round before the stores opened, as Chuck and May did? It was just good public relations.
However, since the stores themselves weren’t open and making money, apparently there were no concessions to be made for non-paying customers who wished to come early and play before the mall became busy.
A security guard, who embraced the hypocritical attitude of his corporate employer, confronted Chuck at the mall play area after he took that picture of May standing on the plastic turtle. Chuck, passive in all matters except for his child, in
sisted she be allowed to run wild.
“Who cares if the play area is supposed to be closed?” Chuck said. “You let old people roam around here when the stores aren’t open. These old people are bound to have a heart attack, and they are a bigger liability than my daughter. You can see for yourself she’s not causing trouble…”
“Rules are rules,” the security guard said. He was bald and round with a heavy Middle Eastern accent. “The stores are closed. You must go.”
“Do you have kids?”
“No.”
“That explains it.”
“Explains what? Rules are rules.”
“Rules are rules only until you have children,” Chuck said, and he placed May, crying, back in her stroller. “After that, anything goes to keep them happy.”
Chuck, however, didn’t give up on the excursion. After all, it was already ninety degrees outside, and there was nothing exciting waiting for him and his daughter to do at home. He continued to push May around the mall in her stroller, and the most interesting part of their outing came an hour later, once the stores opened and the crowds arrived.
Chuck returned to the play area. He recalled being seated and watching May run wild when she suddenly parked herself next to a voluptuous mother. May planted her right hand on the woman’s breast, turned to her father and grinned mischievously.
Chuck never forgot May’s expression, nor his own feeling of horror as he beseeched his daughter to let go of the woman’s breast. He feared other mothers present might think he trained her to put such moves on them deliberately.
Luckily, the molested woman was amused by the faux pas, and she smiled as Chucked walked over and coaxed May’s hand away from her tit.
“Charming daughter,” she said.
“Thanks, she has her moments.”
That moment was as memorable to Chuck as the one an hour earlier, when May was on top of the turtle, but it was never captured on film. Chuck turned to al-Hakim with the photo and expressed this sentiment.