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by Ed Baldwin


  We certainly place many libraries every day without having to talk with lawyers.”

  “Well, I hate to make a mistake,” she reasoned.

  “Do you think it would be making a mistake to have a fine reference library here for these girls to use as they move through school?”

  “No,” she said slowly as she looked at the books. I decided to go with the brat to close the deal.

  “Carolyn, what do you think about these books? Would you use them to get your homework done?” I asked, not without some reservations, but I needed a closer.

  “It sure is a big set. I guess so.”

  “Guess so? Surely you can give me a more complete answer than that. I have to report back to my boss about the family I put these with. It doesn’t sound too good if all I can say is the oldest child guesses she can use them.” I pressed my luck.

  “Mrs. Kremmling said we’d need a World Book next year.”

  I could tell that did it by the mother’s eyes. She looked up from the books where she had been idly staring while I interrogated her daughter. She looked at the daughter to assess the validity of the daughter’s last statement. World Book is the brand name of a competitor but in many people’s minds it is synonymous with encyclopedia and that was apparently the case here. I didn’t correct the little urchin as she had just clinched the deal for me.

  “OK, Mr. Lazar, we’ll be your family. What do we have to do?” I walked out of the Blank’s home on cloud nine. I wondered if I could get one of those mezuzahs for my door as it certainly had been lucky today. I walked back to the car and went to have a congratulatory cup of coffee. The tide had surely turned back in my direction. I had a week left to close another deal to keep the crew, that should be easy enough now that I had hit my stride again.

  Paris was sitting naked on the couch when I came in that night. She was painting her toenails the color of the tumbler of red wine on the table by her. I’d been living there for a couple of weeks already but the sight of that faultless body still took my breath away.

  “How’d it go, stud?” She certainly had a way of cutting through small talk and getting right to a subject. Her chief complaint with the cotton buyer had been his infrequent visits. When I had become available she cut him loose in a flash as I seemed to have the money to continue her lifestyle and serviced her needs better.

  “I got a deal. That should get me back in good graces for a few days, anyway. It was a snap, too,” I said, getting a beer from the refrigerator. “What’d you do today?”

  “Got my hair fixed. Like it?” She picked up a hand mirror and admired herself.

  “Your hair always looks great,” I said. “What does your beautician do to it. It’s hanging down to your butt just like always—too, too beautiful.”

  “Keep it red,” she said, looking at herself from different angles.

  “Red! Hell, your hair is as red as I ever saw. You don’t have to dye it do you? You’d have to dye your muff too ’cause it’s just as red as on the top.”

  “The top fades if I go out in the sun much. They put something on it to keep it from fading. And as for the ends. They split if I comb it too much.”

  I finished my beer and got up. She drained the rest of her wine and asked me to bring the bottle. In the refrigerator was a half-full bottle of red wine, about five bucks worth, and French. I got another beer and took the bottle to her. She filled the tumbler and put the empty bottle on the table.

  “Do you think my butt’s too big?” she said, standing and looking at her behind in the mirror. The house was lousy with mirrors.

  “You know what I think of your butt,” I said, enjoying the show.

  “I’m still as limber as ever, in spite of all the soft living.” With this she bent over, stiff kneed and curled her fingers under her toes. She was looking in the mirror. The view from behind was something few men experience.

  I knew she wanted to trigger uncontrollable lust and fought off the impulse to see what would happen. She paraded around the room and got appreciative comments at every turn but no action. I went to get another beer.

  “Open another bottle of wine while you’re in there,” she said, sitting back down on the couch. I found a bottle of Merlot under the sink and began wrestling with the cork.

  “I wish you’d change to something with a screw top. Opening these damn bottles is going to give me a hernia.”

  “It wouldn’t be as good,” she said coming to the door to watch. “I’m worth the best aren’t I?”

  I couldn’t deny that she was. I finished opening the bottle and she refilled her glass, putting the rest in the refrigerator. There was usually a partial bottle of wine in there, but it never went bad. On weekends, beginning Friday night she drank only champagne. The liquor bills were running more than the rent.

  “I want a cigarette,” she said, setting her wine on the floor beside her while she began her limbering exercises. She could just about put her foot behind her head.

  I lit the cigarette and found her an ashtray, setting it beside the wine. Then I sat back and watched. She grew bored in a few minutes and walked over to the window to stare out at the parking lot. The other building of the two building complex didn’t actually face hers, but some of the upper floors could get a pretty good view of the apartments over here. Astronomy seemed to be a popular hobby as one could see several tripod mounted telescopes on the balconies across the way. As Paris only put clothes on to have something to take off, I was sure her apartment was a popular attraction for the star gazers. I didn’t get up but I could sec a couple lights blink off as she stepped closer to the window.

  I was giving her a more detailed account of my order as she looked out the window. Her gaze moved up the other building systematically, as if she were checking out the sights over there as well. She must have found an audience because she stopped searching and stretched, then turned and walked back to the middle of the room to retrieve her wine and light another cigarette. Her face was flushed as she returned to the window and set her wine on the table by it. Then like an actress, she turned to listen to me, rubbing her backside as if she were standing in front of a fireplace and had just come in from the cold. Her face became almost glazed and her nipples erect; she was obviously enjoying the show as much as the audience. I could stand it no longer and finally gave up and carried her into the bedroom, no doubt to the frustration of some of the neighbors.

  We made love twice, and she finished the second bottle of wine. I found myself wondering how she could get up in the morning, but then remembered that she didn’t.

  With a flicker of success in my crew, Harvey sent us on a road trip to the upper reaches of northwestern Tennessee. The only motel in Union City that was available was a vintage Holiday Inn, one of the originals. I usually tried to avoid them because there were always cheaper places available, but not that night.

  Pat didn’t make the trip as she couldn’t get a babysitter and the barge worker was getting suspicious. That left me, John and two others to share the room.

  Because we were in another one of those dry counties, we bought the beer early before the bootlegger closed and then went to work. The group blanked early and the poker started by 10:00. I still had two nights to score another order and had had a near miss early in the evening to bolster my confidence.

  “Call your dime and raise a quarter,” John said, three hours later.

  “Shit. You gotta be crazy? Bettin’ into aces?” I said incredulously.

  “I don’t think you got aces, Phil. All you got is one ace and a big smile,” John said as I called his raise and dealt the last card in five card stud.

  “Quarter to you/’ I said, as if he were digging his own grave.

  “And a quarter.”

  “You sure are proud of that ten,” I said as I called.

  “You got another ace or are you just full of shit?” John asked with a sneer.

  “I got shit. But I’ve still got you beat showin,” I said with bravado, knowing he ha
d another ten, which he did and racked in the pot without another word. I got up to get another round out of the case icing down in the bathtub. John was getting a little tight and I thought I might get revenge if he drank a little more.

  I tried to stretch a queen to win in high Chicago and got beat. I drew kings wired in five card stud, and everyone folded leaving me with the ante. Another round went down. One of the other salesmen had lost all he had and went to bed. The three remaining players continued into the night. I wrote a check to keep going.

  “You ain’t fuckin’ Pat anymore,” John said in the middle of a hand. I had won the last one on a lucky draw.

  “What makes you think I been fuckin’ Pat?”

  “Shit, we all know it. When you both blank, and she’s in the car when you pick us up, and the back seat smells like a loading dock, we know.”

  “What’s it to you anyway?”

  “I’m going with Pat now,” he said as if that were the last word on the subject.

  “Pat’s married,” I said, as if that refuted anything.

  Both of us were bigger than either of the other two salesmen, and they showed no inclination to intervene. A lucky punch split my lip and sent a cascade of blood down the front of my shirt. Rolling on the floor again after I tackled him to escape the effects of his longer reach, we demolished a chair and ended up back in the lavatory. On top this time, I was punishing him as best I could when he gave a mighty heave, jamming both feet into the wall to gain enough leverage to throw me off. He jumped on me good, but not before I was able to flex a knee and get my foot in his belly. A quick shove sent him sprawling across the room into the drapes, breaking the front window of the motel room. I was rushing at him to finish him off when the door flew open and the night manager came in with a cop. They had been having coffee in the front office when the people in the next room phoned about the noise.

  The other two salesmen didn’t have enough to bail us out and pay for the damages, so we sat there in the same cell for two days until Harvey could come up to haul our asses back home.

  “Boy, you’re worse than worthless. You’re poison!” Harvey said on the way back to Memphis. “I’m sorry, Phil, but you’re busted boy. No crew, no overrides, no train. Nothin’. I hope you hang it up and go back to sellin’ flowers. Or maybe you should go over to the enemy camp and work for Grolier.” He was pretty mad.

  I gave a few explanatory attempts but he would have none of it.

  “A drunken brawl between a field manager and a salesman over a woman. No excuse, Phil. None. Worthless.”

  I had to listen to that for the two hour trip back to town. We’d sit there in silence for awhile and then he’d start back again. In addition to losing a job, I had a hell of a cut on my lip which had gone ignored during my stay in jail and was festering. Swollen and draining pus, it made a nice focal point for my face which sported several cuts of a smaller nature and some bruises.

  Adding insult to injury, I didn’t have enough money to pay the parking tab for my car which the other two had left at the parking lot downtown when they drove it back. Harvey wouldn’t give me any more money, and John had to loan my own poker losings back to me.

  I was a day late getting back and Paris was pissed, but she mellowed considerably when she saw and smelled my condition. Stained with blood and smelling like I had spent the week in a stable without a dime or any luggage, I was in a pitiful condition.

  Harvey gave my crew to John and transferred me to Barney’s crew with strict instructions to let me out first every day. Pat was to ride in the third crew. This arrangement was a relief as now there was no way to get distracted and kill a whole evening. My production improved some immediately.

  I had dropped men off in Marion, Arkansas a number of times, but had never worked there myself. Just a few miles up Interstate 55 from west Memphis it was almost close enough to be a bedroom community, but in fact it had its own rural life style untouched by the closeness of the metropolis. I usually just dropped the men off at the service station by the interstate exit, but Barney drove me around a little first. It was before noon on Saturday and we were in no hurry. The older section of town had the big trees and the welcome shade of all small towns. Downtown was only a few stores and there was a railroad separating it from a few shabby stores and a gas station on the “colored” side of the tracks.

  I set out briskly away from the main street in the direction of the newest subdivision. The first door was a red brick house with a well manicured lawn just out of the big trees. I could see bicycles in the garage.

  “May I speak to your husband, please?”

  “He should be home any minute, will you please come in? A middle-aged woman, heavy, rather formally dressed for a sweltering June day led me into a modest, but air conditioned house. It was fairly dark as one had to draw heavy drapes against the sun to get air conditioning to work properly in this climate.

  I sat in a comfortable living room—clean, formal but not expensively furnished. Mrs. Sipes brought me a glass of iced tea without asking if I wanted it. It was pre-sweetened.

  At the stroke of noon Leon Sipes came in the driveway and parked under the only shade tree in the yard by the side of the house. He entered the front door and was met by Mrs. Sipes. I was introduced. He wore a low crown, narrow brim straw hat, a white shirt and tie but no coat. He wasn’t sweating as much as I was but had a remarkable farmer’s tan. It wasn’t noticeable until he removed his hat, which he did immediately upon entering.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lazar. Have some more tea while I wash up. It’s really a scorcher out there today.”

  I was only too glad to comply. The refill melted the remaining ice cubes making it less of a treat, but I didn’t complain. He washed his hands and returned to sit in the living room.

  During the small talk I learned that he was an insurance agent and assumed I had come to him as a client. When he learned that this was not the case he became noticeably less solicitous but still polite.

  “We were just sitting down to dinner, Mr. Lazar. Please join us,” he said, walking into the kitchen where the table was set and the three teenage children were seated. An extra place was set. I had been invited to lunch before, but never by anyone with such a single-minded determination to continue with the day’s routine in spite of my presence.

  “I’ve already eaten, but this looks too good to pass up,” I said, sitting down.

  A lot of people eat their big meal of the day at noon. This was clearly the case with the Sipes. The large table was dominated by a platter of fried chicken, piled high. There were mashed potatoes; gravy, hot and steaming; crowder peas, which are like blackeyed peas only a lot better; snap beans; sliced tomatoes; biscuits, which I’ve always had a weakness for as no one ever makes them who doesn’t do it well; and a pitcher of buttermilk.

  Leon said a brief grace and then began passing out the food. My plate went around the table first, each dish served by the one seated closest to it. My appetite returned as I sat waiting for the others to begin. Mrs. Sipes took the first mouthful and in an instant all conversation ceased.

  Wondering what they saved for Sunday dinner, I inquired after the meal was in progress. “This is better than Sunday dinner at home, what do you do tomorrow?”

  “Leon likes fried chicken,” Mrs. Sipes said with a smile.

  I ate a couple of pieces of chicken, two helpings of crowder peas, my share of the potatoes and tomatoes and three biscuits, laden with gravy, all this on top of a cheeseburger and fries consumed in the car from Memphis. I was seriously concerned about my ability to continue working with such a full belly. When Mrs. Sipes brought out the peach cobbler and ice cream I began wondering where I could find a shady place to take a nap.

  An hour after leaving the Sipe’s I was unable to continue. The full belly and the heat were a combination that sapped any ambition I may have had. I needed a drink of water badly and couldn’t seem to find anybody around to give me one so I circled back to the downtown area
to the drugstore on the corner. There were a couple of older men playing checkers on the bench in front of the store. An old negro seated next to them pulled out a railroad style pocket watch and said the time out loud, without comment, as if none were needed. “3:08,” he said with gravity.

  One of the other men checked his wrist watch but didn’t say anything. I went inside and ordered a cup of coffee. The water, thank God, was automatic. When I got my coffee I swiveled around and could see the three men looking down the track, the game recessed for the moment. I could not hear a sound of the train they were expecting. In a minute the bell on the crossing gate began clanging and I got up to get a better view.

  The horn was loud and quite close. A car went around the crossing bar to avoid a wait. On the other side of the tracks there were small groups of people stopping their routine to see the train. Several children had ridden their bicycles up to the tracks from the houses beyond. The pharmacist came out from behind the counter and walked to the front of the store, looking at his watch, too.

  I stepped out the door just as the train entered the rail yard at the edge of town. The shock of the sudden heat was reinforced by the roar as the triple engined freight drew abreast and then gave a long blast of his horn, right in the middle of town. The ground trembled as the 40 cars passed through at 60 miles per hour, not even slowing down for this town that was there because of its railroad.

  The wind from the passage stirred up all the papers and boxes that littered the railroad right of way, carrying them a few feet further down the line before dropping them to the ground to wait for the next train. Every dog seemed to be marking the event with an effort of his own, creating a cacophony of barks and howls that almost harmonized with the rumble of the freight as it passed. A man sitting in the caboose waved with his cigar as he whizzed by the drugstore, and the three old men waved solemnly in unison as they watched the caboose pull out of the yard at the other end of town.

  When the train was out of sight the three old timers returned their attention to the checkers game. I went back into the drugstore and as the door closed I heard the negro man say, “3:16.”

 

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