by J. R. Brule
“You see, rich people don’t just throw their money around, which is half the reason they’re rich. You got to lure their wallets out, like you’re going fishing, cause they’ll hold on tight. Most people think like you do now, that the rich don’t care which way their money goes. I mean, you and I, we know every penny we spend, right? But that’s because we have to know where each cent goes, don’t we?
“People think that with such a fat bank account, there’s no need to track expenditures. But that’s just plain wrong, kid. Kid, are you listening?”
“Yes, Mr. Kloom.”
“Good, cause this is god damned important. This sort of stuff is what separates the guys who fail from the guys that make it, the guys like us. Get it? You got to understand that somewhere down the line, those rich ass folks were just like you and me. They’re not some dummies, kid, they’re gummies. Do you understand? Kid? Are you FUCKING listening?”
Rudy felt in danger from how fast they were driving, fearing a tire might catch a flaw in the road and launch them into a tree. To him, Mr. Kloom was spewing insanity, which added to his feeling of impending doom.
“Now, don’t get me wrong,” Mr. Kloom continued, “some rich folk are born rich and stay rich. Those ones are the real suckers, cause there ain’t a shot in SHIT they’ll see through my pitch. But we’re not dealing with that kind, not yet. Today, you’ve got to give them a real reason. They have to believe you know something they don’t. That’s the trick, Rudy. Write that down somewhere. Belief is everything. Get it?”
“Yes, Mr. Kloom.”
The neighborhood welcomed them with a brownstone sign and dual spotlights illuminating the name Shirewood in big white letters. Someone had envisioned the entrance to look like the beginning of a great adventure, with overhanging trees and purple blooms. But to Rudy, Mr. Kloom had made him think differently.
Now, the neighborhood may as well have been named Gummyville.
21:
MR BROWN’S CLASSROM WASN’T exactly right—the desks were different, the door too tall, and the students were working like damned ghosts. But in this dream world, it all made sense—why shouldn’t it? Next to Rudy was a brand new student with a blond bowl cut, a student who looked like a troublemaker.
A moment later, the classroom tore away from his vision like a sheet of paper, and Rudy found himself outside on the swing set. And how high he could go! He could line his feet up with the top of the flagpole.
Another instant passed, and he was running through empty halls, the lockers blurring as he scaled whole flights of stairs with single bounds. Clowns with bells and whistles danced around the doors of the library, handing out bubble gum and limited edition gel pens. Some long-faced fellow sat on a stool, playing an oboe in celebration, while a group of children screamed from the kids’ corner, where that fiery-headed librarian was reading a Dr. Seuss book.
The woman spotted Rudy and got up to move toward him, her advance lost in translation, so that she appeared to slide.
“Hello, Rudy,” she said. Her hair actually looked like real fire, the way it wavered, like the air above hot pavement.
And before he said anything, he felt a hand slip into his own. It was the boy with a blond bowl cut, and he pulled Rudy away from the woman with fiery hair, out of the library and into the cafeteria. The ceiling was so high . . . it seemed to stretch on forever. Looking up made him feel dizzy, and he had this odd idea that the cafeteria was a replication, and whoever created it hadn’t taken the time to work out the details.
The kid turned to Rudy with a grin, raised a finger to his lips and said, “Shhhh,” drawing the sound out slowly and emphatically.
Rudy kept on following the new student, past the King Arthur tables and registers. They went into the kitchen, behind the metallic tracks where kids slid their trays. The boy led him back to where the lunch ladies made the food. It was a big room with lots of ovens and stoves and a huge walk-in freezer. Cardboard boxes were stacked on shelves, their labels blurred. The boy stood in front of the stoves, again motioning for Rudy to be quiet.
Why were they here, sneaking around?
He watched the boy turn the stove’s knobs, to expel gas. A faint hissing sound followed, along with fumes so pungent his nostrils stung.
The boy picked up a matchbox and brought out a match, and Rudy knew that was bad—you weren’t ever supposed to have an open flame around natural gas. The strike of the match was louder than a plane’s engine roaring into life. The boy’s eyes were enthralling . . . the flame was reflected perfectly in his pupils, dancing untamed. The place was going to explode, and Rudy didn’t care. With eyes like that, who could care?
Then, just like the light behind Mrs. Anderson’s wall, flames mushroomed, the fumes combusted, and Rudy turned to run away.
But his body seemed thick . . . almost . . . oily. The floor wasn’t hard and supportive like he knew it was, not anymore. It was wet and sandy, and each step sunk him further down, wedging him still. His legs were stuck, as if encased in clay, and he felt heat on the back of his neck . . . so much heat . . . and his skin sizzled like fried bacon.
---
“Enough of that,” Mr. Kloom said. “You’re not going back there for a while.”
“Um,” Rudy said.
“Someone’s interfering, kid. It’s getting dangerous to be in school. For now, I’m keeping you here. For now, we sell.”
Mr. Kloom reached back for his suitcase, and got the cherry wood box from the trunk, that very same one Rudy was warned not to question. It was buried in hundreds of scattered identical books, but the trunk was shut before Rudy made out the author. The title had the word Gift in it.
Mr. Kloom’s hair was done in a neat ponytail. They walked side-by-side down the suburban street, the torrid summer sun lifting fresh tar fumes. Bright green lawns lined both sides, the grass kept short enough to shoot a round of golf on.
It felt safe after that match strike.
Mr. Kloom said, “See how the trees appear to grow around the homes? The guy with the pocketbook had the houses put up first, and the trees planted after, to give the illusion of foresight. It provided residents the feeling they were in nature without having them be in nature. Not coincidentally, it also raised the value of the homes. What does that tell you?”
“The world’s run by salesmen.”
“Yes! Exactly! It’s all about illusion, kid. There’s always someone out there trying to fuck you.”
The homes had large brick driveways with a mix of Porches, Ferraris, Mercedes, and BMWs parked at the top—vehicles that served the same function as the old Subaru they took to get here. Rudy imagined a guy like Mr. Kloom running the dealership, rubbing his hands together like a housefly, convincing potential buyers that the price was right. Only, the price wasn’t right. Like the aforementioned placement of trees, the idea was to increase revenue with perceived quality: say, a fifty percent increase in quality for a three hundred percent increase in price. Selling cars, selling houses, selling toilet paper—it didn’t matter what you sold, so long as the markup was high and the pitch wasn’t botched.
Mr. Kloom led them up a driveway, to their first house of the day, his suitcase swinging, the cherry wood box tucked under his right arm. “Smile now,” he said. “These folk like to peek between their blinds, you know. To them, we’re just a couple of rodents waddling up their driveway.”
Rudy did as he was told.
They stood on a scratchy Welcome mat while Mr. Kloom knocked.
A woman without flaw, wearing a long blue dress, answered the door. Her make-up gave the impression she might be going to a fancy party that afternoon, but the apron suggested she was only baking.
Rudy did as Mr. Kloom advised, and listened.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Mr. Kloom said. He did this sort of half bow.
“Are you salesmen?” the woman asked.
Rudy heard Mr. Kloom in his head.
(a common deterring question)
(answer yes
and they shoo you off)
(answer more . . . creatively)
(have a shot to make a sale)
“No ma’am. My name is Mr. Kloom and this is my associate, Rudy Cloven. We’re representatives of the CLC, or Child Labor Committee, working to end young international slave labor.”
Rudy kept listening.
At this point, it was important to gauge the recipient’s reaction—it determined the rest of the pitch. If Miss Harmony didn’t move to close the door, then she was already sold, because Mr. Kloom would keep the ball rolling until she finally got out her checkbook.
His lines were crafted with such tedious perfection that the sale was pretty much guaranteed. But if she did move to close the door, Mr. Kloom would take a more aggressive approach, and that was when the real mastery came into play. He termed this deciding moment the read for obvious reasons.
Miss Harmony did not shut the door. In fact, she seemed intrigued. The read was already over and Rudy knew Mr. Kloom had secured the sale.
“I can tell you’re an educated woman, Miss . . . ?”
“Harmony.”
Odd that Rudy knew her name before she’d said it. To most people that’d come as surprising. But this kind of shit was beginning to seem normal.
Mr. Kloom brightened. “I just knew you’d understand our cause, Miss Harmony. Do you have somewhere inside we could talk?”
“Of course. Please, come in.”
Mr. Kloom nodded to Rudy before stepping inside. Miss Harmony led them deeper inside the gummy cave, which felt ten degrees cooler, almost subterranean, like she was a creature and not a person. Mr. Kloom said it was important to let them hold the reins, let them feel in control. Otherwise, no sale.
Miss Harmony walked with the posture of a queen, guiding them past a spiral staircase. A straight-shot carpet ran down the floor, muffling their footsteps. A dining room off to the left looked fit to serve dinner to guests wearing white silk gloves. A light classical tune played from somewhere, the sound of which Rudy had come to associate with class . . . and money.
“Mr. Kloom,” Miss Harmony said, “do tell me more about the committee you work for . . . this CLC.”
“Certainly. As you may know, child labor hasn’t slowed for decades. Businesses move their factories from national territory to foreign soil. This allows the bypassing of basic labor laws, and employees get treated like modern day slaves. The conditions are so terrible that suicide isn’t uncommon.”
Miss Harmony gasped. “Well, that’s just awful!”
Mr. Kloom nodded. “I know. It’s terrible. The pay is so low that most workers can’t even afford to buy dinner after working sixteen hours a day.”
“I just can’t believe people could treat other people that way.”
Miss Harmony led them into an expansive kitchen. The marble countertops looked squeaky to the touch. On every wall was a cabinet made from Tigerwood. The stainless steel refrigerator was the size of three coffins pushed together. Miss Harmony pulled two chairs out from the table and motioned for them to sit. Then she filled glasses from a pitcher of ice water garnished with a slice of lemon. She put down three ornate golden coasters.
Mr. Kloom set his suitcase and cherry wood box on the table before unbuttoning his top button, and took his seat. Rudy sat as well.
“What’s in the box?” she asked.
Rudy sipped his water, awaiting a retort.
“This?” Mr. Kloom said, and patted it. From somewhere distant, Rudy heard whistling, maybe from someone upstairs. “Miss Harmony, my job is to make sure those employees we were talking about get paid a fair wage. Not a wage you’d find here, mind you, but enough to afford food and shelter.”
Listen.
It’s important to relay as much information as you can before presenting your product. Since Miss Harmony opened with ‘are you salesmen?’ it’s imperative to present the goods as an opportunity and not as an item.
“How can I help?” she asked.
(let them come to you and never the other way)
“The CLC,” Mr. Kloom said, “aims to provide real jobs to real people who are not making real money. We don’t do handouts so we don’t ask for donations. We put people to work for decent wages. We allow them the opportunity to make a life for themselves without the . . . fu-FU-FU-”
Rudy saw Mr. Kloom’s hand under the table, gripping his knee with white knuckles, as he struggled to keep control and not drop the F-bomb. Rudy saw an opportunity to save their sale.
So he finished with, “Without the worry of being taken advantage of.”
Miss Harmony turned to him, surprised by the sudden transition. Rudy had to keep her eyes on him, so he kept on talking.
“Employees are mistreated so often that some companies actually run out of people to hire. That’s when they build somewhere else. And do you know why?”
Miss Harmony shook her head and Rudy knew he had her interest.
(look at that necklace)
“The suicide rate gets to be such a problem that the companies don’t want to stick around. Not because they’re concerned for their employees—they could kill off a whole country without batting an eye—but because they don’t want the press to release an article. So they move their factory and don’t alter the rules. The conditions never change.”
“Why . . . that’s just awful.”
Mr. Kloom took over. “Yes it is.”
He unsnapped both suitcase latches and lifted the lid. The insides were blindingly white, housing a lone test roll. “That’s why the CLC created their own factory with their own rules, where the conditions are similar to what we take for granted. The employees create a product that we can sell. We pay them salaries high enough, and fair enough, to live comfortably.”
“What product do they make?” she asked.
“Toilet paper.”
Miss Harmony blinked in confusion. “I’m sorry, did you say . . . ?”
(now’s the time to take the reins away)
(the time to peddle is now)
“Toilet paper, that’s right. The softest, most ecological, wipe-yourself-clean toilet paper you’ve ever seen.” Miss Harmony looked taken aback, like she couldn’t believe what she was being told, but Mr. Kloom did not stop the pitch.
(never stop the pitch)
“Manufactured from the Kundun trees found in Nigeria, Chile, and the Czech Republic, we grow them using no pesticides, herbicides, or other environmentally deficient chemicals.”
“Mr. Kloom, I—”
“Of course you can’t judge a book based on its cover.” He spun his suitcase toward her and pushed it forward. “Have a feel.”
She looked to Rudy, maybe to see if she was being played a fool. But Rudy nodded, saying, “It really is marvelous material.”
She looked at the roll. Her tongue moved inside her mouth and bulged her upper lip. Finally, she reached inside, and at the touch, her pupils dilated. “Oh my, is that soft! Why, it feels like I’m touching air!”
Mr. Kloom smiled that self-satisfied smile. “Unlike other toilet paper, Miss Harmony, this here is fair trade, eco-friendly, and renewable.”
“How can it be this soft and hit the big three?”
“Not only does it hit the big three,” Mr. Kloom said, “but it creates jobs here in Canada. My associate here would be unemployed if it weren’t for the CLC.”
Miss Harmony put her other hand inside the case, massaging the paper with both hands.
“Now,” Mr. Kloom said, “I’m a traveling salesman and the paper moves with me. With that in mind, I can sell ten packs for $150, a twenty-five percent discount. That option not only costs less, but employs two international workers til the year’s end. We’re a non-profit company. All the money goes to our cause.
“However,” Mr. Kloom said, smoothing a slip of paper on the table. “This here is our newest option. Your subscription enrolls you to receive a fresh shipment every month for the rest of the year. It is, of course, renewable by phone. This option ke
eps steady jobs for our entire workforce and ensures that you always have the best bathroom experience.”
Rudy was pleased to see the coaxing going so well. He knew Mr. Kloom was not lying about where the TP came from or the benefits that came along with it. He was, however, lying about being a part of the CLC. Rudy wasn’t even sure there was such thing as the CLC.
“Miss Harmony,” Mr. Kloom said. Her eyes turned up to meet his. He held out a pen and wobbled it between two fingers. “All I need is a credit card and signature.”
“Oh,” she drew back her hands, like she was embarrassed to be seen caressing a roll of toilet paper. “Of course. Where do I sign?”
---
Mr. Kloom swung his briefcase as they made their way back to the car, whistling a melodic tune. After a while, he said, “That’s why I need an associate, see? To pick the cards up when I drop them. You sold it well, too, God DAMMIT!
“Imagine,” he said, the sun gleaming perfectly in his pupils, “imagine knowing you’re walking over a million bucks worth of gold. All we’ve got to do is excavate the treasure.”
22:
RUDY’S DAD LOST SIGHT in one eye forever,
(you BITCH)
but the glass replacement looked pretty real. It could be, and frequently was, popped out at will. Many of Rudy’s meals came served with an eyeball on top. His dad would come to the table like he didn’t know, have a seat, and fake his realization.
“Shit! I lost my eye! Have you seen my eye?”
---
Get out of there, Mr. Kloom said.
Why?
It’s dangerous. Didn’t I tell you that?
But how could something dangerous feel so . . . right? In school, he was finally becoming a somebody . . . a somebody that even John Handley was starting to worry about.
You’ve got to come back.
Not yet.
---
“Where were you?” Jud asked, in the gymnasium. “You missed an epic card battle.”
“I did some sprints.”
“Alone?” Sam asked.
“And . . . why?” Jake followed up.
“I was racing.”