by J. R. Brule
“But salesmen move like water, trickle in through the cracks. All we have to do is leak into where these people are broken. Being persistent is part of the job description, kid, so you can’t get put off by the not-so-eager.” He threw back some pills. “And believe me, we might be in for a bit of a hard day, so I need you to help me, okay?”
“Yes, Mr. Kloom.”
“Good. Let’s go make some sales.”
Rudy followed him to the first home, which was even more grandiose than the ones from the last neighborhood, maybe twice as big. At the front door, Mr. Kloom rolled from toes to heels in wait, the cherry wood box tucked under his arm.
An old man with graying hair answered. He wore a jaundiced white button down shirt, reminding Rudy of the color of bone, and leaned all his weight on a polished black cane. Judging by his demeanor, Rudy doubted a successful sale. The man looked like he’d just gotten off the phone with an agent after discussing the rising rate of his life insurance.
“Who’re you?” the gentleman snapped.
“We’re representatives of—”
“Not interested,” the old man said, closing the door.
But Mr. Kloom’s foot was fast—he stopped it from closing. “I only need a minute of your time.”
“Get off my property or I’ll call the police.”
“Sir, if I may—”
“Are you deaf, goldy?”
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Kloom said, and Rudy knew he’d gone off his tracks. He was winging the pitch. “This isn’t a door-to-door sale.”
Lie #1.
“I was told you were the man to see.”
Lie #2. Mr. Kloom doesn’t know him.
“The man to see for what?”
Mr. Kloom held up the cherry wood box, which was odd, because the toilet paper wasn’t there—it was inside the suitcase. “For what’s inside here.”
The older gentleman sighed. “Come inside.” Each step he took was followed with a punctual cane punch.
Inside smelled sterile, like a hospital room. The tables were dusty and the furniture looked uncomfortable, like it had been placed a hundred years prior. The curtains were drawn. Not a single light was turned on. And something scratched against a door upstairs.
The old man shouted up, “Quiet down, Chester! We’ve got guests!” The scratching immediately stopped. “Damn dog got no sense left in him. Shits on the floor and expects a bone. Got to learn some respect, I say. No better way to learn than a little isolation. Too many softies these days, always coddling their animals like they’ll shit a golden egg.”
He led them into his kitchen, where cobwebs littered the corners. The refrigerator didn’t hum, suggesting it was turned off. Empty bags of Wonder Bread lay crumpled on the counter, next to a pile of yellow twist-ties. A white mug stained with coffee drips partially hid a Barbie doll, which lay on its side, stripped of its clothing. Its arms were raised up as if to say
(HELP!)
GOAL! Its carved smile looked all too merry.
“I don’t have any food or drink to offer,” the man said, opening a drawer and scooping the Barbie and empty bags inside, along with the yellow twist-ties. “But that would give you reason to stay. So get on with it.”
Mr. Kloom flung his suitcase up onto the granite counter and laid the cherry wood box next to it. From upstairs, the scratching returned.
The man shouted, “SHUT UP, CHESTER! DO YOU WANT THE CANE AGAIN?”
It stopped.
“Mr . . . ?” Kloom said.
The man’s eyes met Mr. Kloom’s. “You said I was the person to see, yet you don’t know my name?”
“With all due respect, I was only given the address.”
Lie #3.
The man harrumphed. “I reckon you don’t need my name to peddle whatever it is you’ve got in there. So get on with your scam.”
Mr. Kloom used his thumbs to unlatch the suitcase clasps. They flew up with a snap. “It’s no scam, I assure you. I assume I’m talking to a fellow salesman here, so I’ll skip the spiel. This shit here is the real deal.” He spun the case, its insides suspiciously white.
The old man looked, and then threw his head back in laughter. A moment later, he was coughing into his fist. “Is this some kind of joke? What the hell are you two kids running around selling this crap for?”
Mr. Kloom said, “It’s meant to wipe away the crap. Have a feel. It’ll change your mind.”
“I expected something more creative from a guy wearing his hair like a woman. Get out of my house.”
“Don’t listen to him, sir,” Rudy said, making both their heads turn. “I respect your home, and we’ll leave, but take my word when I say this toilet paper is the best around.”
The gentleman considered him. “Peppy little shit, aren’t you? What makes it the very best?”
“Don’t take my word for it,” Rudy said. “Just feel it.”
The old man addressed Mr. Kloom now. “Better keep this one around. He just saved your sale.” He reached into the case to touch the roll.
His eyes widened. “I’ll be damned . . . that’s some fine TP you’ve got there.”
Mr. Kloom laid out the prices. The old man agreed to buy a box, but said to mail him the bill, because his checkbook wasn’t nearby.
“You’ve already got my address from your make-believe source.”
When they were outside, the old man slammed the door shut. The sound cracked through the neighborhood. Echoed back between the homes.
“Well that was nice,” Rudy said as Mr. Kloom led him across the yard.
“It wasn’t nice at all, but I enjoy a challenge every now and then. Helps to keep me sharp.”
“I meant what he said about me. You heard, right?”
Mr. Kloom smiled. “Heard what?”
“Never mind.”
“Keep your head on straight, kid. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Besides, we’ve got a lot more homes to hit. If you let your head get big, you’ll slip up, and your ambition will burst like a sky-bound balloon. Believe me there. I don’t want you making the same mistakes.”
“Yes, Mr. Kloom.”
For some reason, Rudy turned back to have a look at the old man’s impeccable home. It looked the same: clean, grandiose, brownstone. Nothing looked particu—
He saw something in the top right window. It was blurry, but he thought it looked like . . . a face . . . with blonde hair.
Then it pulled away.
Rudy squinted, blinking, wondering if he’d seen it at all.
(hid the barbie)
“Rudy?” Mr. Kloom said, looking stern. “Get in the game.”
Rudy nodded. They went to another home.
But his head was not in the game. It was far, far away . . .
---
Rudy was in school.
The morning announcements proclaimed that recess would be held in the gymnasium today, due to some late night vandalism—a shattered cafeteria window. A girl named Sarah Andrews sat in front of him, and it was the first day Rudy ever saw a thong. She was wearing white pants, too.
“Rudy?” Mrs. Anderson said, and he thought he’d been caught. “Your homework?”
---
The sliding glass window pulled back—the same one from his previous vision—and a peppy sixteen-year-old-girl smiled from behind it. “What can I get you?”
Your skin is going to bubble with hot oil.
“What’s a . . . pogo?”
“Hmm . . . it’s a hot dog, and we deep fry it. It’s on a stick and breaded, kind of.”
“Oh, you mean a corndog?”
“Yeah!”
“Okay, I’ll take a pogo.”
“Would you like to poutizine that?”
“I’m sorry . . . poutinize?”
She giggled and leaned forward on her elbows. “Yeah, it’s like gravy and cheese. We shred the cheese so it melts better. I don’t know, that’s just what we call it.”
You could poutinize my pogo.
Calm down, she’s sixteen.
Isn’t that legal in Canada?
“I’ll pass on the poutine, thanks.”
Rudy turned to look out over the dock while he waited, at a boat drifting into the marina. Two boys stood on the bow, wearing unbuckled life vests, lines at the ready. A silver-haired driver manned the helm, his face flushed. He looked like he might have a heart attack if the boat got a scratch.
“Your pogo,” the girl said from behind Rudy. “And change.”
“What’s this called?” Rudy asked, holding up the coin she handed him.
“That’s a toonie.”
“What happened to my penny?”
“Oh, we got rid of pennies. It costed two cents to make one. I usually just throw them at seagulls . . .”
---
“That old guy’s house . . .” Rudy said.
“What about it?” Mr. Kloom said.
“Did you get the feeling he was . . . hiding something?”
Mr. Kloom got a cigarette, sparked it up and inhaled. The smoke came out his nostrils as he said, “All right, kid, tell me what’s on your mind.”
“I just mean . . . did he seem . . . suspicious?”
Mr. Kloom grinned. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
---
“Hey there, stranger,” the girl at the glass window said, perched on her elbows, her butt arched behind her. “What can I get for you?”
Is this another day?
“I’ve got a bit of an addiction to those pogos you serve. Let me get one of those.”
She giggled. “Coming right up. And try not to stare this time, kay?”
Did I stare before?
---
“Kid!” Mr. Kloom shouted.
“What?”
They were in the car. “You’ve got to stop. You’re fading.”
“Fading?”
“You’re moving too fast.”
“Moving . . . too fast?”
---
“Hey, one more thing,” Rudy told the girl.
“What is it?”
“I met this old guy with a dog, in a big white house, a few miles from here. I was wondering if you knew him.” Rudy took a big bite.
Her face wrinkled. “How would I know a thing like that?”
---
Every student eyed Rudy as he walked into Mrs. Anderson’s class, and going to his locker was like walking the red carpet. The news was out: he’d beaten Cooper Frank in a sprint.
---
“Too fast, kid,” Mr. Kloom said. “Slow down, or you won’t like the results.”
Rudy blinked.
---
Kids hopped around a carousel out front of the ice cream shop while Rudy ordered a vanilla cone dipped in hard chocolate shell. His dad got a strawberry shake. They leaned on a wooden railing while Rudy licked his ice cream and his dad sipped his shake.
“Your mother called today.”
The words caught Rudy off guard—it seemed so long ago he’d last seen his mother. In fact, the last time he’d seen her, she’d been swinging a knife.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” his dad said, sucking his shake through a straw. “She wants to see you. Do you want to see her?”
“Yes!”
“On Sunday we’ll go to the penitentiary. Do you miss her, Rudy?”
He nodded. “All the time. Do you?”
“If only I kept my eye on her,” his dad said, and poked his fake eye with his index finger.
Rudy laughed.
“She can be a convincing woman. I just don’t want to see you upset.” His dad put a hand on Rudy’s shoulder.
Rudy was licking his ice cream when he noticed a lump rising in his dad’s jeans, near his fly, and became aware that his dad’s hand was moving in circles on his shoulder. He looked up at his dad, who stared into space, sucking the strawberry shake. Rudy didn’t really know what to think, so he pretended not to notice, and bit into his waffle cone.
---
“Rudy!” It was Sam.
Rudy looked up from the water fountain, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Mm-hmm?”
Sam laughed. “What in God’s name have you done?”
“Huh?”
“Oh, so you can tell the whole school, but not me, your friend?”
---
Rudy ended up in a dark room with a single light in the center, sitting in a chair. A rubber ball gag was stuffed inside his mouth, preventing
(scream)
speech. His wrists, torso, and feet were tied.
That kid who saved him from Julia in the cafeteria—Chad, his name was—sat backwards on a wooden chair. They were facing each other.
Chad smiled. “Showing up early, are we?”
. . . Early?
My thoughts are still deep.
“That’s right, Rudy. This is where it all ends. Just you and I.”
Rudy could feel himself sweating under that single light. He tried to ask where Mr. Kloom was, but only mashed words came out. Turns out, gags are effective.
“Oh, your buddy, that Kloom character? He’s out of the picture, kid.” Chad stood up and kicked his chair away. It slid across the floor and hit the wall. “Chad Stevenson wins again,” he said, and started undoing his belt buckle.
26:
“BREATHE,” MR. KLOOM SAID.
Rudy vomited all over the floor underneath the glove box. Before he even thought to wipe his mouth, he shouted, “He kills you!” and tiny flecks sprayed on Mr. Kloom, dotting his face. “Oh, shit! I’m sorry!”
Mr. Kloom let the moment sink in before wiping his face.
“That kid that’s not a kid, Chad Stevenson, he kills you!”
“Slow down. Breathe.”
“You’re going to die!”
“I’m not going to die. Relax.”
“I saw it, I saw him, it was just us, and he said you were out of the picture.”
“And isn’t it possible he was lying? Were you listening?”
Suddenly, all the panic drained—he hadn’t been listening.
“That’s what I thought. Now,” Mr. Kloom opened his door, “time for you to make your first pitch. And wipe your mouth.”
As they walked, Rudy said, “That old man is hiding something. I’m sure of it.”
Mr. Kloom exhaled a plume of nicotine. “Listen, kid, I’ve been in this business a long time. I’ve gone through eight—or is it nine?—kids just like you. Thing is, we’re stepping into a stranger’s home. You know nothing about these cats. Everyone’s got secrets. The people we sell to are no different. We’re invading their space, keep that in mind, so sometimes we get these ideas in our heads. Get into someone’s atmosphere, and you start breathing their air. Are you following?”
“It’s just that . . .”
(face in the window)
“I want you to listen to me carefully now. You need to understand one thing: we’re here to make sales, not solve problems. Problems exist at every turn. If you’re always dealing with them, you’ll never move forward. If you don’t move forward, you can’t stay ahead of the game. If you don’t stay ahead of the game, you’re as good as dead.
“Things aren’t always as they seem, and you need to recognize that. What’s more, Rudy, is that I don’t give a damn if it’s true at all. It’s not our business. I don’t care if they buy my TP to sop up the blood from a dead body. See? It doesn’t make a difference. All that matters is the sale.”
“Yes, Mr. Kloom.”
But Rudy’s blood ran cold inside his veins.
Those scratching sounds from upstairs . . . what if they came from a person?
From their fingernails, with their lips sewn shut, clawing at the doorway with the hope of being discovered.
“You smell like smoke,” Rudy said.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
“You said cigarettes deter sales. You smell like smoke.”
“You should quit worrying about me and start getting yourself straightene
d out. But you’re right, so good job.” Mr. Kloom ground the butt out. Then he popped a mint in his mouth—a mint Rudy thought looked identical to the usual pills. “You ready for this? To make the pitch?”
“I guess.”
“Just remember. You’ve got to listen.”
---
A meter stick slapped Rudy’s desk, just inches from his hand. Mr. Brown stood over him, one arm tucked behind his back, holding the ruler like a fencing sword. The bell rang just a second after. Rudy jumped from his seat, heard someone call him lightning feet, and ran up a flight of steps.
Ben stopped to chat. “Rudy! You actually took my idea!”
“Huh?”
“Oh come on, give credit where credit’s due. When you beat Cooper Frank, I was the one who suggested you challenge John Handley. I’m glad you did.”
Never challenged him.
“John’s real angry. I especially like how you taped pictures from second grade all over his locker, and put the red Xs through them. And saying all the money in the world wouldn’t afford him good enough shoes to beat you! You’ve got balls, man!”
Rudy’s heart sank.
What the fuck!
Suddenly his mouth was very dry, and swallowing was impossible.
Rudy went to the bathroom, trying to find safety. As he pushed open the door, he heard voices from inside.
“Going to kill that fucking turd.”
Rudy froze. It was John Handley’s voice; he and his two goons were at the sinks.
Rudy slowly backed away, shutting the door quietly.
They didn’t see me, right? Please don’t let them have seen me.
They didn’t call out and didn’t follow, so he ran to the upstairs bathroom. It was empty, so he went into a stall, closed the toilet lid and sat down, panting.
I’m a dead man.
(dead dead dead)
---
“You’re not a dead man,” Mr. Kloom said. “Not yet, anyway.”
“That’s not very comforting.”
“Best get used to it,” he said, and knocked. “You’re up.”
The door opened a few inches and a man appraised them through the crack. “Can I help you?”
He’s got glasses, doesn’t that make him smart? Why did he have to be a smart one? Now I’m goi—
STOP! Think . . . what would Kloom do?