Celestial Inventories

by Steve Rasnic Tem

  “Sixteen if he’s a day! Old enough to blow a stranger’s head off if he’s dumb enough to stick his head outside! Guess he didn’t read those encyclopaedias you sold them ten years ago.”

  Crazily, Emil wonders if the Wilkinses had purchased their easy annual update volume subscription plan. It has been designed to keep your youngster apprised of all the latest developments not only in the sciences but in the arts as well.

  An hour later it is all over. Emil cannot remember if this family has placed an order or not. But there is such a relief in leaving a customer’s house he could care less. It is the best he ever feels.

  *

  Emil comes out of the house feeling that now would be a good time to take a walk, a relaxed stroll through a friendly neighbourhood where he has lived all his married life. Their kids know his kids—they don’t always get along but they play together every day—and he sees the parents at the grocery, in church, and every other Wednesday night for bowling. They aren’t exactly friends, but there is a kind of comfort in these small, recurrent encounters. It is a good life, if you avoid looking too many steps ahead.

  When he sees his battered black Buick parked at the curb, he recalls that he is a salesman, has never been married, and has very few friends to speak of. His key sticks and hangs, as if the lock mechanism has not been used in some time. He is careful not to strain the key too far as he manipulates it against the roughness of the internal workings, and finally there is a giving, and a surprised suction as he jerks open the door.

  Inside, the air is as thick and cloying as the air trapped in a dead grandmother’s old trunk, and the fast food wrappers layering the floor appear to have been there for years. He sits in a bed of dust as soft and thick as another layer of upholstery.

  He has no hope of starting this vehicle. This is a dead machine, designed for the transportation of the dead. He puts his key into the ignition and turns it anyway. There are no signs of electrical activity. He gets out of the car and looks under the hood. The engine appears to have been ripped out ages ago.

  When he calls the main office he is too embarrassed to tell them that the car is an ancient piece of junk which has not been driven in years, because of course this would make no sense. He simply reports that his career in sales has outlived another vehicle, and that he will need a replacement. They authorize a budget and he picks a used car dealer at random from the phone book, his only criterion that it is within walking distance.

  He waits at a safe distance from the car lot and watches as people drive in, are greeted in rapid succession by eager, excited salespeople, are spirited away to the cars that will change their lives, the cars that were made for them and them alone, with bucket seats, SRS brakes, extras and more than extras, the cars that will strain their marriages and bankrupt them. Many of these customers already know the possible end result of their reasonable time payment purchases, are perhaps even determined that it not happen to them again, and yet they will be so excited, so agitated by the experience and all the grand possibilities they will be absolutely thrilled to pay more and more for less and less.

  Emil has an advantage. For so many of these people, a new car means a new life, transportation out of bad decisions and past mistakes. For him it is simply a continuation of the long, sad trip he has been on all of his life.

  He waits until the right couple comes in driving the roughest, most battered vehicle he has seen in years. But it does not smoke, and there is no obvious wobble as it pulls in front of the dealership. An hour later they drive away in a bright blue teardrop of promise, and he walks across the street and into the sales office.

  “What do you mean that doesn’t include floor mats?” speaks a surprised voice out of a tiny office to his left.

  “I want to buy that car, there,” Emil says to the first salesman to approach him.

  “Excuse me, sir?” Emil might have asked to buy a tombstone in a shoe shop.

  “That car, there.”

  The salesman glances over Emil’s shoulder without much interest. “Must be a trade-in. It hasn’t been worked up yet.”

  Emil struggles to look the man directly in the eyes. “That’s the one I want.”

  The salesman attempts to stare him down in the friendliest possible way. “What if I told you I could get you into a better car for less money?”

  “You and I both know how much it’s worth,” Emil says a little shakily. “Take that figure and add fifteen percent.” He forces himself to pause, and looks even more directly at the man. He isn’t sure if he’s pulled off a smile. “I’m a salesman, too. Since college—it’s the only job I’ve ever had.”

  The car salesman nods, unimpressed, and Emil decides this has been a failure. “I’ll have to take this to my manager,” the salesman says, and for an unreal moment Emil thinks he is about to be arrested. Emil gazes after the man as he enters another office, waits anxiously as the salesman confers unemotionally with his boss who glances up at Emil only once, then down at a notepad. The boss gives the salesman a piece of paper, who carries it out to Emil and puts it into his hand. He almost expects the car to stall out as he drives it out of the lot, which would be embarrassing but survivable.

  *

  Studying the violent screen flickers of these motel room TVs, Emil has developed a theory that these sporadic discharges of light are part of an attempt to hypnotize the viewer into buying whatever product is being discussed. This sales maneuver is doubly clever because these residents are generally poor travelers who cannot afford to leave their rooms. They watch these commercials in a state of desperate exhaustion.

  A collage of images impresses onto the tired and illused tissue of his brain: children, small tidy houses, walks in the park with the family dog, vacations at the beach. Be A Man floats eerily across the screen in colours muted to suggest a whisper. What are they selling? There is no way to determine. Whatever it is, it is certainly something he does not have.

  *

  ARE YOU READY? in bolder than bold type shouts at him from the screen. He waits for the kicker, the product revelation, the final sales pitch before he is returned to their regularly scheduled program. But there is no return. There is no change. The words remain frozen, oppressive, unforgiving, even when he unplugs the television in frustration.

  *

  Emil is travelling I-70 just outside Salinas when he sees the billboard “The City of Commerce” with a huge red arrow perched on top. The sign is somewhat worn, but he thinks maybe this is from the road construction he’s seen in the area over the past year. He thinks of the letter folded up in his pocket, and he turns onto the access road: all black and shiny with promise.

  He might quit his job this very day, call the company office and have them pick up the car and his samples if they care to bother.

  He passes no cars on the road and considers the afternoon heat and thinks this must be a slow time for shopping traffic. He spies the gleaming steel tower from a couple of miles away, a variety of buildings spread about its base like flowers planted around an airport control tower. In the afternoon sun everything gleams like a nest of needles. Just before he turns onto the main street, another large sign appears. Welcome to the City of Commerce, with a picture of a happy little girl gesturing to the wonders behind her. Alice in Wonderland, he thinks, and the artist’s vision of the shopping centre confirms the notion—it might easily grace the cover of some edition of something by Carroll or Baum.

  Emil is bewildered by the cold tears he feels leaking from his eyes. What is happening to him? He should just turn around. “City of Commerce” indeed. It almost makes him laugh.

  Then he sees the bullet holes above the little girl’s head almost making a halo, the torn passages through the faded backdrop of city.

  A turn onto the main street of the City of Commerce confirms that the place has been abandoned for some time. The finished buildings appear empty and the unfinished buildings ready to collapse beneath their architecturally unsound frameworks. He ha
s nothing better to do—never did have—so he continues his leisurely drive past the vast fields of asphalt.

  The streets appear to have been laid out with remarkable care: a perfect grid of block after block of abandoned buildings, partially finished constructions, lots full of dried up landscaping, mounds of mysterious concrete, in one place a huge outdoor skating rink (Remarkable! Ice skating in Kansas! The signs scream.) Now it looks like a large, shallow swimming pool with no water, much less ice. Remarkable, indeed.

  The abandoned construction sites in particular draw Emil’s eye. Much of the time he cannot tell what the building was intended to be. Multiple girders jut out sideways in parallel like huge claws taking a swipe at the sky. Rooflines twist and turn like the skeletons of roller coasters. Giant square passages where walls might have been form windows for watching the world change colour. Enormous Mondrian sculptures line up like a fleet of cubist spaceships.

  He parks along one street of gravel and sand and peers through the great transparent teeth of a clownish building with round window eyes. The swirling pink and orange paint job within makes him think of an ill child after a day’s overeating at the circus.

  What might they sell in such places?

  The fact that the buildings are relatively new, unlike those in the Western ghost towns of old, fills him with a peculiar dissonance, as if he is hearing dozens of ill tuned chimes playing nearby.

  He turns the corner and is face-to-knee with a silver metal beaver at least a dozen feet tall. Beside it, and still gigantic at half the beaver’s size is a brilliant white fibreglass baseball. The beaver’s eyes are wide and staring, as if it is as surprised to see this baseball as Emil is.

  He can find no specific business these statues might be attached to and therefore assumes this must be some sort of installation of public art. He wonders about what the customers must have thought of these two objects, forever how long this place had customers.

  As he walks past the rows of storefronts it occurs to him how insubstantial everything seems—the empty stores like huge display boxes having no value without their goods. The wind thunders against the expanse of glass and shiny metal. There are no indications of residences, of schools, or any other structure where the day-in and day-out of life might take place. But of course, this is the City of Commerce, a container for commercials and impulsive retail exchange. Now even the signs indicating what might have gone on here are gone.

  One door is slightly ajar. Emil tugs it lightly and slips inside. This one has been occupied at one time—the outlines of counters and shelving decorate the floor. Dead electrical cables dangle where light fixtures have been removed. Here and there lie a candy wrapper or a bit of a magazine, grey tracks in the dust where small creatures have roamed. There has been surprisingly little vandalism.

  “You don’t belong here.” The dry voice speaks from behind.

  Emil turns to see a man with one hand poised over a holster. “Hey, easy now,” Emil says softly. “I … I have an invitation, I guess, to work here.” He slides one finger into his front pants pocket, fishing for the paper, careful to let the guard see the rest of the hand. He retrieves the letter and extends it.

  The guard shakes his head. “Not necessary—I didn’t think you were the stealing type anyway. You’re the salesman type. I’ve seen a lot of you around here, sniffing around. All of them had letters like yours.”

  Emil puts the paper back into his pocket. “What’s to steal around here anyway?”

  The guard looks around the vast room as if for the first time. “Fixtures,” he says, with a hint of sadness.

  Emil walks past the guard and out the door. Then he pauses. “How long?”

  “Oh, about three years.”

  “What happened?”

  The guard smiles a little. “They had a huge supply of what people didn’t want.”

  On the otherwise unnaturally quiet walk back to his car, Emil finds himself chuckling aloud.

  *

  In these last few days of sales, generous discounts can be offered, bonus gifts pulled out of the dusty trunk and placed into hesitant buyers’ hands. In these last few days of sales, he is full of compliments and important news for everyone’s family. In these last few days of sales, he represents the church, the school, and a benevolent government. In these last few days of sales, he cannot remember what he is selling, nor does he recognize the odd objects in his sample case. In these last few days of sales, he cannot bring himself to ask Which do you like best? and How many should I put you down for? In these last few days of sales, he knows that sometimes a customer just wants a warm body to talk to. In these last few days of sales, he sees all the lonely people on his list, all the sad people for whom his brief visit is a major event.

  *

  He has been travelling for quite a long time. Of course, he thinks. You’re a career salesman—you’ve been travelling forever. Towns have died during the time he has been a salesman. Local economies have been disrupted. Great masses of people have lost their definition, reduced to reading self help volumes and watching far too many movies. Everyone he meets is desperate to sell, but so many are reluctant to buy, having been disappointed so many times, having been cheated and lied to, having been murdered for their dreams and ambitions.

  The towns he passes through are painted in FOR SALE signs. People have moved on ahead of him. Those left behind in the streets walk aimlessly with eyes like dull pennies.

  In these last few days of sales, he yearns to complete one last transaction. Coming upon the white-haired man out on the street thrills him as nothing has in years. He lets the man have one last swig from his bottle, then props him against the wall. The old man resembles Jack, the fellow who trained him years ago, but he resembles the guard at the City of Commerce as well. He may resemble the salesmen who built the City of Commerce, but Emil doesn’t know how they might have aged. He resembles most old men Emil has ever known. Perhaps he resembles Emil himself, who has not looked at his own face for a long time.

  “You only want the best for them,” he begins. “Your children. Your grandchildren. And if you don’t have children it’s the children of others you want to thrive—is this not so? Because then you can believe that something of this life will go on, and do well, and make of itself a thing of beauty against the failing of the light. For what else is there, but the spark of us carried by children into the lands where we will never travel?

  “And so you buy them things, grand things your own parents could never afford. And you hand these things to them, as if you were handing down sacrifices and offerings to some fierce and unstoppable god. ‘Take these things I have given you and do well,’ you say. ‘Make my dreams into something capable of movement and breath. And do not damage me, make no attempt to rob me of my last remaining dignities because I swear, I only wish you well.’

  “And that’s the best you can do. That’s the best any of us can do, in these final days of sales.”

  Placing his sample case on the concrete in front of the old man, he goes into the trunk of his car and hauls out box after box of Bibles and encyclopaedias, grand dictionaries full of ideas he has never been able to express, baskets of outdated kitchen accessories which have lost both their utility and their names, perfumes and cleansers, small gifts for every occasion. The old man stares drunkenly at the salesman, unable to manage even a thank you.

  The salesman walks away empty handed, leaving all the voices, all the give and take and the I’ve-got-something-special-for-yous behind, knowing full well that he will not have to sell himself to the rain, or the wind, or the ground with its daily increase in gravity. And there is a peace in knowing that not all deals have to be closed.

  *

  From the outside, his home looks no different from all the others. This is the way he wants it—there is a comfort in the cloning of every house he has ever seen on television, the slavish duplication of columns and brickwork, the same angled roofs repeated again and again across the horizon to
become a geometry of reassurance.

  Emil has no reason to leave his house. The company pension provides for him quite comfortably. Why he should be receiving a pension, why they should reward decades of poor salesmanship, he has no idea. But then reward and punishment has always been a puzzle he is unable to solve.

  Groceries can be delivered relatively cheaply from the smaller stores. Items may be ordered over the phone even without a catalogue: he will work from lists of merchandise but pictures of anything are forbidden in his house. He receives a daily newspaper, but pays the man next door a handsome sum to censor it for him, until the paper is like lace in his hands, beautiful in its way as shreds of celebrities and the dire news of the world allow the morning sunlight to pass through, making intricate shadowscapes on his Formica kitchen table.

  He spends much of his day walking around naked. He has grown increasingly uncomfortable with clothing: even the plainest garment seems to evoke one style or another, and then he feels he is wearing packaging, and cannot breathe until it is shed.

  Without clothes he can clearly see the damage that wraps him. There are cracks in his lower face and left arm from hours driving directly into the sun. There is dry and flaky skin across a chest and abdomen which no one has touched in years. There is an arthritic right hand which burns and freezes in the position of one asking for money. Several of his toes are missing. He does not remember what he did with them.

  He has lost the full range of motion in his left arm. His left leg twists awkwardly inward, making it painful to maneuver up and down steps. I didn’t even sell these things, he thinks. I was never that good. My arms, my legs, my hands, my heart pulled and squeezed: I just gave them all away.

  His front doorbell rings. He peers out a nearby window. A small boy, staggering under the weight of a large box, looking up at Emil’s closed door forlornly, as if behind it lies the only safety the boy has ever known, and yet the door must seem hundreds of miles away. Emil wraps a towel around himself and goes to greet his visitor.