The Good Salesman:
“It’s time for ANOTHER sale…”Milton Frock thought with pride.
His spotless leather shoes stepped from the work van onto the asphalt, the leaves rustling in the breeze of the languid Sunday morning. Posted conspicuously across the side of van were the likes of Mr. Frock, a long grin stretching up a strikingly pasty face, a miniature globe in the man’s wiry fingers, the quote in bubbles above a bald pate:
“Frock gets the Sale, rain or hail!”
As Mr. Frock strode up the cobblestone pathway toward the suburban home with maroon sidings, the man’s knobby knees thudding slightly as he limped, he glanced over the name of the occupant, Mr. Sean Blane, a tiny 2’×4” picture posted crookedly on the clipboard. Blane smiled cheekily. Cheeks swollen fat like a plump turkey.
Mr. Frock cajoled because he always loved the heavy ones who always were slow-witted and out of breath, as if they were nine hops away from an inevitable stroke.
Halfway up the path, a beat black cat frolicked in the garden by the house. The cat froze when Frock neared. Even as he stepped a long leg onto the porch, the cat eyeballed him without remorse.
“GET !!!YOU LITTLE FUCKER!!!”
The cat scurried away, meowing mirthlessly…
“Jesus would be proud.”
A Christmas tree, red and green sprites, stood in the living room windowpane. An angel, glistening splendidly, peaked from atop.
“A good, sacrilegious Customer...”
Frock pressed the pants of his pinstripe suit before swallowing an anxious breath.
“ANOTHER SALE” He said, rapping three times, loudly.
He heard scuttling behind the door, followed by shouts, then there was a click and the door opened to a corpulent, unshaven man who raised a suspicious eyebrow. He barked: “Can I help you?”
Mr. Frock opened both hands jovially, as he always did. Something changed in the voice, more amiable, but surely feigning enthusiasm from how Frock sounded before.
“HELLO! How are you doing?!”
The man looked a little disarmed, heeded the padlock expression. “I’m fine.”
“Superb! It’s a wonderful Sabbath morning!”Mr. Frock looked over a shoulder and appraised the man’s neatly cut lawn, the gray, rather gloomy sky above…“A great, wonderful time to enjoy the weather!”
The man bobbed a flabby buccula. “uh-huh…” The man’s face looked about as interested as an egg.
“Christmas is right around the corner!” Mr. Frock trailed off…“Sir, you may be interested in some of the products that I have to offer at low prices.”
The man stared unassumingly as Mr. Frock fumbled the briefcase between the knees and unlatched the pins. He grabbed out a pamphlet…“Hidden treasures!” as he passed it to the man’s chubby fingers… “In there we have ALL SORTS of holiday jems!”
The man shoved the pamphlet back and it fell to the ground.“Well I don’t need any jewelry. I bought enough jewelry while raising my two girls.”
“Oh that’s MOST wonderful …”Mr. Frock’s eyes flashed red for a second as he bent double for the unraveled pamphlet…“I’m sure your daughters LOVED them!”
“Yeah-they did.” The man began closing the door… “Now, you have a good one.”
Frock flustered.
The man had almost gotten the door shut in Frock’s face, which would’ve probably been the best thing that had ever happened to that man’s life, but when the door was two inches from closing, Frock jammed a heel between the frame and mouthed two words:
“Sean Blane...”
The man whipped the door ajar and stood, wide-chested.“HOW do you know my name?”
Frock tucked the briefcase inside an arm and unassumingly said: “I see that you have a REAL Christmas tree.”
Frock opened eyes wide, pointing to the tree.
Blane looked at the tree, perplexity in his fat expression. “Yeah, soooo, What’s that have to do with YOU knowing MY name?”
Frock wagged a finger peremptorily.
“Because I KNOW… I was told by someone at the office that this Blane fellow owned a REAL tree and MIGHT be interested in buying an artificial. You know—”
Frock leaned forward, his eyes peering seriously at Blane…
“In light of what happened to that family up on the north side, who had a REAL tree and it caught fire, setting the complex ablaze and consuming over twenty poor, poor lives.”
“Are you SHITTING me?!” Blane looked like a lame person who had just managed to understand his first joke.”I didn’t know THAT MANY people DIED. That’s insane…” Blane’s face wrinkled in real concern… “But WHO from your office sent you over here in the first place?”
Frock’s eyes shifted as he remembered the name…“BIG man, delivery driver, says he knows you from the old days.” He spread both arms…
“Was it Charlie?” Blane touched the chin, “Orange beard?”
“That was HIM!!!” Frock ‘s eyes lit up marvelously...“He said you MIGHT be interested, for SAFETY reasons…”
“Man, I haven’t seen that sonafabitch since I worked at the steel mill…’ Blane expression was a teaspoon surprised but resoundingly euthanized by the conversation and the mention of an old work associate named Charlie, who according to Frock’s records really went by Charles Dove, a customer Frock had once long ago visited on a old country road selling a catalogue of hunting supplies…
“Yeah, I have two daughters who visit sometimes….” Blane opened the door the rest of the way and waved Frock in…”And they both have babies, so I might check out what you have.”
Frock entered and Blane directed them into the parlor with the gigantic cone-shaped tree. Blane closed the door...“I can’t believe TWENTY people from the town died!”
“Oh yes, SO tragic,” said Frock, curling a lip.
“Sit down over here…” Blane cleared a giant stack of newspapers and junk from the couch and walked to the edge of the hall…
“Would you like anything to drink?”
“Just water. Thank you.”
As Blane got drinks, Frock gazed around the cluttered parlor, untidy, just as the apparel of his customer. He sneered: “What a SLOB...”
He wondered whether Blane had always lived so odiferously.
On the adjoining walls were two dear mounts, beady black eyes staring blankly. One was a ten point, the other, a twelve…
Blane had probably hunted along with Charles Dove back when they were acquainted…
The deer mounts only added to Frock’s notion of Blane’s simplistic life. Blane hunted simple minded animals because that’s all he could comprehend killing… Yet he was no different than the thousands before that Frock had sat down with and sold to…
He straightened both shoulders as he heard clamorous footfalls.
“Thank you “accepting the water, swigging half the glass.
Blane chugged lemonade. He rested back into a lazy boy…
“So what do you have for me, Mr..?”
“Frock” He placed the water on the side table and recovered the pamphlet, placing it into Blane’s hands…
“The trees are toward the back page.”
“Here we go...”Blane set the pamphlet on a knee and looked over the shimmering artificial Christmas tree and frowned, squirrel cheeks sagging dopily.”No, I don’t want gold...or silver …tree.”
Frock nodded, already well aware of the tree Bain would, in fact want. He was a plain man, so he’d want a tree that looked like a real one…
It was just like matching up Mr. Dove with the Titanum Cross bow in the hunting catalogue…
Blane shook his head disapprovingly. Frock gazed around the living room, family portraits suspended over the decommissioned fireplace; his two daughters…grandbabies…family friends... Frock would one day visit them all, eventually, a knock at the door... He was the best damned salesman in this godforsaken World. One thing Frock had learned was the truth that people want new, unnecessary things they would probably be better off not having in the first place...
“I’m not sure if I want a tree that looks like a pickle.” Blane flipped to the back page.“Don’t you have anything that looks plain, like a normal Christmas tree?”
“Oh, Mr. Blane you may be IN LUCK! ” He took the pamphlet from Blane’s fingers.“It’s NOT advertised in here… But I have a VERY special one in the back of my truck…”
“For all you could tell, it looks exactly like the big tree you have, except this one won’t shed or run the risk of burning your house to the floor!”
“No kidding.”
“Mr.Blane, I’m not the type of man to kid a customer.”
“How much does this “special” tree cost?”
“For you, Mr Blane, there is NO CHARGE!!!”
“Are you kidding me? What’s the catch?”
“NO catch, I could go and grab it right now…”
Mr Blane stared at him awkwardly. He was not the sort to ask or care for free handouts, and now it all seemed a bit coincidental that this complete stranger now stood in his house, wanting to give him something completely FREE…
“There’s NO catch..?”
“NO catch. Matter of fact, I’ll be right back!”
Before Blane could mouth another word, the screen door thudded shut as Fock zipped out the door to the van… Blane sat in the silent parlor, wondering about the strange, lanky man he had just met… He couldn’t quite figure it, but something seemed “off “about what was happening...
In a way, he wanted to protest but Frock had mentioned Charles, and Frock seemed altogether good-hearted… So when he reemerged through the door with a long, rectangular box, Blane silenced the wanton suspicion and helped Frock lug the package in.
“WOW, this is heavy…”
“Although very easy to set up!”
When they got it into the living room, Frock leered and shoved the clipboard into Blame’s belly. “All you have to do is…Sign.”
Blane’s thoughts about rebellion returned... He stared back at the box, then the tree with the angel. He didn’t really like ‘fake’ trees since his wife Mary, now long passed away from a twelve year battle with Leukemia, loved the piney smell of real trees, and because of her, he to-this-date had upheld that tradition…
“I was thinking about this tree being the last one I put up anyway… Maybe you can give that to someone who needs it...”
“Mr. Blane.” His voice sounded hypnotic, distant, “you NEED my tree…”
“But Mr Frock, I don’t even know WHO you are; does it make sense for you to give me this?”
Mr. Frock dropped his chin.. He shot back a lofty look at the family portrait with the two grandbabies, the two daughters…
Mr. Blane’s deceased wife…
Suddenly, Blane’s forehead creased in sharp pain.
He dug a finger into an ear as he heard a screeching static.
Frock’s voice, “You need the tree for your family…”
All of the sudden, Blane’s pallor changed and he signed the paper without question. His eyes looked like they had seen the twilight zone as he moved, dazed, as Frock exited the front door and Blane mechanically waved a goodbye.
Frock leered curtly. “I give Her greetings…”
“Bye now, good sir..”
Frock’s comment about Mr. Blane’s dead wife never registered the conscious mind as he shut the door to absent-mindedly unpack the new tree.
Mr. Frock’s van vanished before the front door had closed entirely.
He cackled to himself. “ANOTHER good sale!”
And the good salesman, Mr. Frock’s pupils narrowed into pinpoints, pearly black.
Mr.Blane ripped open the cardboard to find some stuffing… a three foot tall Christmas tree… a business card.
Frock stood with a thumb up, smiling widely.
Blane tossed the card aside and returned unpacking the tree.
He slowly unraveled the chord. In a hand, he held the plug and reached for an outlet on the wall. His fingers brushed against the metric surface.“Dammittttt !” He recoiled as electricity shocked the fingertips...
The tree flickered for a moment, and then lit up red and green... It was a funny sight, seeing the artificial next to the full sized tree. It was like a little miniature of Christmas…
Blane stuffed the box into a trash bag. He set Mr. Frock’s card on the side table, by the new tree, making a mental note to take down the old tree before he tossed the bag out with the rest of the garbage… Mr. Blane went upstairs and fell asleep...
He snored far away in deep, heavy slumber as the new tree flickered on and off...
Then the parlor’s lights followed…
And finally the whole house--
POPPPP
A spark landed from the outlet onto the carpet and a small flame started in the living room... The room blazed into wild flames until the real and the fake tree ignited into a raging glow…
The plastic of the fake tree dripped onto Mr. Frock’s business card.
First, his bald plate melted away, then his lanky body, then finally, the entirety of the quote from his van:
“Frock gets the sale, rain or hail…”
Believe me, I’m the One who struck the Nail!
….