by J. R. Brule
(what’s step one, what’s step one, what’s step one)
SHIT.
(don’t think so much)
(poison to the mind)
“Good afternoon, sir. My name is Rudy Cloven and this is my associate, Mr. Kloom. We’re representatives of the—”
“All right,” the man interrupted. “You’ve got one minute before I close this door. And I do mean one minute.”
I actually have a shot to sell this guy!
CALM DOWN.
(stay calm, stay calm)
And be polite, god DAMMIT!
(kloom’s words)
“We’re from the CLC,” Rudy said, “or the Child Labor Committee. We work to pay fair wages to—”
“Cut to the point, junior.”
Rudy held out his hands and Mr. Kloom gave him the suitcase, which was lighter than he’d thought it’d be.
Rudy supported it up and undid the latches with trembling hands. He glanced up and saw the man peering at him from over the rim of his glasses, and he did not look as Rudy thought he should look.
You moron! Look at the product, not the customer!
(like water, find the cracks)
He undid the second clasp and the latches swung up. He opened the case, showing the blinding insides, and the man laughed.
“Well, you’re original, I’ll give you that much.”
“It’s eco-friendly paper, sir, as well as making sure the employees get paid.” Rudy knew his pitch sucked—it was too jumbled, too unsure, and worse, it lacked creativity. And the man had laughed at him.
“All right, kid, you’ve entertained me and I know this shit isn’t exactly easy.” He took out his wallet. “How much for a pack?”
“Twenty dollars, sir.”
But Mr. Kloom swooped in. “We’re out of single packs, unfortunately.” Rudy knew they weren’t. “But we have a bundle on sale for fifty.”
The man’s hand paused inside his wallet. “Fine. When can I expect delivery?”
“All deliveries are made on Saturday.”
That was tomorrow.
“Then I’ll be expecting your return, Mr . . . ?”
“Kloom.”
“What a dreary name.” Then he looked at Rudy. “I can say that now because he’s got my money. I’ll be expecting you tomorrow.”
And he shut the door.
Mr. Kloom refrained from celebration until they were a good distance away, and clapped Rudy so hard on the back he almost dropped the suitcase. “Great job, kid. I’ve got to say, I’m impressed. You got a few things to learn, no doubt there, but god DAMN that was well played. Do you want to know the secret to the sale? You got to have them feel the paper. That’s the trick. When you’re strolling through the supermarket and those old people offer samples, do you ever really want to buy any of that SHIT? Of course not! It’s not until you get that one taste . . . that first feel. Do you get what I’m saying?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see how I upped the ante? When the wallet’s out, they’re ready to buy just about anything. And loosen up, would you? You just made us profit. That’s nothing to throw away. Tell you what, I bet this will cheer you up.” He handed Rudy all the money they’d earned that day. “How’s that? Taste the fruits of your labor, kid. You’re a natural and you’re better off feeling that talent pays. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Rudy had never been rewarded so directly, or so highly. It felt . . . promising, and he smiled.
“That’s it,” Mr. Kloom said. “Can I be the first to say, that I do believe money has just made you happy?”
Rudy thumbed through the bills, counted up the cash, and put it in his pocket.
He suddenly had the suspicion that none of this was really about the money. And with that thought, came another: maybe it’s not about the sales either.
27:
MR. KLOOM PARKED THE car, brought out a notepad, and scribbled some things down. Mid-scribble, he popped some pills.
“Shit,” he said. “That old-man-mystery of yours never got my name. But I got his. Mr. Earl.” He thumbed out a Canadian fiver from his wallet and gave it to Rudy. “We’re not entirely done with him yet. Go get something to eat. Ten minutes until this train leaves.”
---
The bell served as an alarm clock for Rudy’s brain, telling him to wake up, that this was reality, and that he couldn’t hide on a toilet seat forever.
Why should I be afraid? A middle school kid can’t hurt me . . . not after what I’ve been through.
Don’t wait for your turn in the blender.
Rudy sighed, stood up and unlocked the stall door. He went to the sink and washed his hands. He stared at himself in the mirror, leaning forward on the porcelain, hoping to find an answer written on the whites of his eyes.
In the cafeteria, the entire table watched him sit down.
“Holy shit, Rudy!” Jud said, pushing up his glasses. “Is it true?”
“Rudy wouldn’t ever do something like that,” Jake said. “Not unless he planned it with me first. You hear that? You could’ve gotten away with it if you’d just come to me.”
“John Handley’s face, X’ed out?” Kevin asked. “Are you moving out of town or something?”
“No, I’m not moving.”
“I have second period with John,” Sam said. “He was hunched over his notebook the whole time. I think he was planning where he’d hide your body parts after cutting you up.”
“Shut up, Sam,” Zach said. “He’s not evil.”
“Look at them over there,” Kevin said. John Handley and gang were cracking up. “They pretend like nothing’s happened, but you know as well as I do that they’re waiting to get you alone.”
Rudy choked on a mouthful of half-frozen fries.
“So much negativity today,” Jake said. “Look, just follow through with your shit, okay? If John Handley wants to fight, that’s where we come in, right guys?” No one seemed very enthusiastic, but Jake waved it off. “Point is, puff out your chest and take what’s coming. If you back down, you’ll lose more than just your self-esteem. The whole school’ll call you a wimp. And wouldn’t they be right?”
“But I didn’t do any of that stuff. Someone set me up.”
Jake said, “Well that sucks.”
Jud said, “Who did it, Rudy? Cooper Frank?”
“Doubtful. It was one of the other guys.”
“It was Chuck,” Sam said. “That kid’s the biggest spectator.”
“Shit!” Jud said. “John and his crew are coming over here!”
“Hi, nitwits,” John said, wearing a big grin. “No card game today?”
“If you can believe it,” Jake said, “all our cards went for a run.”
“Can it, Miller. I don’t like that smart little mouth of yours. Do you know Doug’s been talking about punching it for weeks?”
Doug, his bulky arms crossed, wore a black vest over a white t-shirt. His hair was greased back with a comb—grease that didn’t come from any product.
“I’m here for the newest town idiot,” John said, looking at Rudy now. “The freak himself, somehow outta the hole we condemned him to. You’ve got steel balls to post that shit on my locker.”
“I didn’t even—”
“Shut up,” John said. “You need a new name . . . how about . . . Booby?” Both Doug and Downie laughed into their fists. John smiled, showing perfect teeth.
“Kid can’t even defend himself,” Downie said. He had little dark hairs growing on his upper lip. “A real Booby. Great name, John.”
“And just like a Booby, I’m going to squeeeeeeeze you,” John said, closing his fist for emphasis. “You talk a lot about me, Booby. Something about not owning good enough shoes, last I heard.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t—”
Doug slapped Rudy’s head.
“I didn’t ask you to open your mouth, Booby,” John said. “Point is, kids’ve been talking about you beating Cooper Frank. Normally I don’t listen to such fat mouths
and their words, but then Chuck Loore came around and told me everything.”
Rudy heard Sam whisper, “I knew it!”
“Told me you wanted to duke it out with the number one champ, and that’s me.” John rammed a hitched thumb into his own chest. “That whole glass display by the office? That’s for record-holders, for school stars. You’ll find my name there, engraved in gold. That’s where people who matter get to live forever and you’re not one of those kids, Booby.
“Tomorrow afternoon, you’re going to meet me at the track. We’re going to have a race in front of the whole school, so everyone knows how full of shit you are. Afterward, you can go back to living your pathetic little life with your pathetic little friends, playing fantasy card games and jerking off to pictures of girls you’d have to drug to kiss. I don’t have to tell you that if you don’t show up, I’ll let these guys on you,” John crossed his arms over his chest like a gunslinger, pointing at Doug and Downie. “And they told me they’d like to make a stew with your eyeballs.”
John laughed and his friends did as well. Downie slammed his fist on Sam’s fork, catapulting a piece of pizza into Jud’s face, leaving a smear of grease on his glasses.
Then they were off.
“What a dick,” Jake said.
“You have to beat him,” Sam said.
“Yeah,” Jud said, wiping his lens with his shirt. “Imagine how shattered his world would be.”
“He doesn’t know the only girl’s picture I jerk off to is his mother’s,” Jake said, and they all laughed.
“Rudy?” Kevin asked. “Are you going to race him?”
“What choice do I have?” Rudy asked, and he took a big bite of pizza.
---
Mr. Kloom handed Rudy a note. “You’re going to go to that old prick’s home and stuff this in his mailbox. It’s a reminder for payment. Money order ensures the check won’t bounce, because you bet I’ve been screwed like that before. We need to do better today, kid.”
“Yes, Mr. Kloom.”
When they arrived, Rudy went to the mailbox, which had a dark varnish and opened without a single squeak.
Mid-close, he saw Mr. Earl staring at him from a downstairs window. Then the curtain fell back in place and blocked him from view.
---
I’ve seen it all, Chad thought, as a secretary in the office filed his registration. I win. Rudy’s mine, Kloom’s mine, Julia’s already mine. With her came those two retards I could have done without, but that’s fine, I don’t mind. What did I say back on the train? Screw the savoring?
I take it back. Savoring is all that’s left.
28:
RUDY LEANED ON THE Subaru, his limbs crossed as he waited. The birds were singing their songs, and a breeze shook the leaves on their branches.
The upcoming race was blinding him to his real problems—like Chad Stevenson and avoiding getting killed—and he realized how strange it was that all the other boys viewed it as the most important part of their lives. To them, the race was about stomping out the competition. To Rudy, the race was a waste of time—a background noise to reality.
And was it wrong that he sometimes thought it would be nice to be young again? Just quit trying to understand the world, and just go with the flow like a weightless spider in the wind? Those spiders, the ones that lived in the skies, he doubted they ever looked down and worried where they’d land. They simply . . . drifted.
And that sounded sort of blissful.
---
“You know what I just realized, kid?” Mr. Kloom said. He had a yellow sticky-note in his hand. “We’re out of shipment. Can you believe that? Six boxes gone in a week; I haven’t had that sort of turnover since . . . well, maybe never.” He smiled big now. Rudy thought his teeth were too white for a smoker. “Hot damn, I think that calls for a bit of a celebration, don’t you?”
Rudy thought it’d be nice to take a break from the sales, and wondered how a man like Mr. Kloom celebrated. Honestly, the thought scared him a bit. Still, Rudy said, “First round’s on me.”
As they drove out of the neighborhood, Rudy took one last look when they passed Mr. Earl’s home. There were no faces in the windows, no one glaring out from the insides, and no dog playing in the front yard; just a brownstone home with the curtains drawn.
Whatever was hidden, Rudy had to face the music—he’d never know.
---
The gun sounded, signaling the start of the
(began already?)
race.
(no, not real)
The asphalt turned to mud under Rudy’s feet. John Handley blew past him, not having that sinking problem. The stands were empty, and a big grey cloud was moving across the blue sky, looming over the field, throwing its shadow over the entire track.
Rudy sunk into the muddy ground, to his waist. He was cold, drowning, suffocating, dying. He could see John already past the finish line, and Rudy sank further and further, and he saw Chad Stevenson smiling from the bleachers, smiling, smiling, smiling, and Rudy kept sinking, sinking, sinking.
---
His hands numb, clutching the door of his locker so hard his knuckles turned white, Rudy thought of that man in a suit from the science room who’d asked him to play hooky.
If only you’d played hooky, you’d be saved.
---
When they got into town, Mr. Kloom parked the Subaru behind the market. There was only one other car—a pretty busy day for this time of year—and they went inside to see Finch. He was sitting on a swivel stool, holding open a newspaper with his feet kicked up on the counter. He brightened at their entrance; his ice cream swirl of hair waved as he stood, and his lazy eye whirled.
“Klum! I haven’t seen you smile that wide since . . . maybe never!”
“You do know it’s Mr. Kloom, right?” Rudy said.
Finch said, “No, kid. He’s a shark when it comes to sales. And you know how much sharks enjoy chum, don’t you? He’s Klum.”
“Rudy here made his first sale, on his first go,” Mr. Kloom said, again slapping Rudy on the back. “To that, I say a little champagne is in order.” And he was off to get some.
“Never seen him act like this afore, kiddo,” Finch said, his smile slanting to one side. “You must have put on quite the show.”
“I did okay.”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s going to take you under his wing full-time, introduce you to the guts of the business. If you get a peak, do me a favor, would you?” Finch leaned over the counter in a way that made Rudy uncomfortable. His smile looked . . . sharp . . . and his breath was sour, like rotten garlic.
“Sure.”
“Don’t quit,” Finch said. “That’d be about the worst thing you could do.”
---
“Rudy?” his dad called from the kitchen.
“Yeah?”
“Could you please come here?” His dad sat hunched over a white envelope, with his face cradled in his hands. “Have a seat.”
Rudy pulled out a chair. “What is that?”
“It’s a letter from your mother. It’s addressed to you.”
“Well, what’s in it?”
“I haven’t opened it. It’s not mine. But I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out how it got here after she . . . she . . .” His dad sniffed. “You know what I’m trying to say.”
Rudy nodded.
His dad was reluctant to hand the envelope over, so Rudy took it and opened it. Inside was a folded piece of paper.
“Can I read it in my room?”
“It’s your letter. Do what you want.”
Rudy got up from the table, envelope in hand, and went up to his room. He stopped to peek down the hall before closing the door, having an odd feeling that his dad followed him.
On the top left corner was the address of the state penitentiary scrawled in his mother’s hand. The postmark was of bars to a jail cell. Rudy wasn’t sure whether that was supposed to be funny.
She’ll
apologize for what happened and ask when I’m coming to visit.
Rudy anticipated a full-page letter, but when he got it unfolded, there was only one word on the entire sheet, in tiny print, smack dab in the middle.
HELP
---
Mr. Kloom came back holding up a dark emerald bottle of André. He peeled off the silver foil and tossed it on the floor. Finch brought up three Dixie cups from under the counter.
Not exactly the classiest celebration.
Finch lined up the cups as Mr. Kloom shot the cork into the wall, yelling, WOOO! Champagne fizzed from the top. Then they each took a cup, did a ‘cheers’, (the missing sound of clinking glass made the experience somehow more memorable) and threw back the first round.
“God damn, I love that stuff,” Finch said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Mr. Kloom made an ahhh sound as he finished swallowing. “Fill us up again, Finchy boy. I’ll grab some more bottles.”
And he was off again.
“Klum never listens worth a damn, just does as he pleases. Sometimes I think that’s what makes him such a great salesman.”
“He’s a master, all right,” Rudy said. “I think we ought to bump our next shipment to ten boxes.”
“An optimist! I can see why he likes you. You may be quick on the pedal but you’ve also got the talent to drive. If it were any different, you’d be gone by now. I’ve seen it happen.” Finch gulped his champagne and filled them up again. “Yeah, I’d say you’re just about locked into this one, kiddo.”
“Ah, quick!” Mr. Kloom shouted as a bottle rolled out from his arms. Rudy was quick and was able to snatch it before it shattered over the linoleum. “See, Finchy? The boy’s a natural.”
They lined the bottles up on the counter as if on a factory conveyor belt. Mr. Kloom opened them one after the other.
POP! . . . POP! . . . POP!
Finch turned on the radio, and elevator tunes blared. “Who’s ready to drink?”
“Way ahead of you, amigo,” Mr. Kloom said. And he was. He threw his suit jacket over the counter and let his golden hair down before chugging straight from the bottle.
“Rudy?” Finch asked, holding out a freshly-opened bottle. It was sweating. “Best get started. Last one to finish has to take a naked lap around the store.”