The Art of Sales

Note: There are supposed to be italicized words at quite a few different points. For the time being, try to picture them there.               

                She knew immediately. “I’m sorry, we’re not interested,” she nodded out of instinct, with a squint. Even before her own final word, Rebecca had begun to ease the door closed.
         “Oh…no! Don’t worry, I’m…I’m actually not selling anything. Good evening, by the way.” The salesman smiled. Rebecca peered at the emblem on his white polo shirt, and then drew up to his face in utter distrust. “Actually, I have kind of a strange, but really easy favor for you, if that’s ok,” he continued. “See, I was just doing some work on your neighbor Mr. Bruce’s security system in his house, and you know we require an emergency contact in case something goes wrong and we can’t reach him. Anyway, we’ll usually just use a close friend or relative or something, but he says all of his relatives are dead, and he doesn’t know anyone around here. Weird, I know. He’s not even that old or anything. Just a little…well, you know—he’s your neighbor. Anyway, he has our top-of-the-line system, and uh, just loves it. But we’ve asked him for a phone number three or four times since he’s had the system, and he’s never been able to give us one. So… uh, the thing is…would you be willing to be his emergency contact?”
         Rebecca’s original inclination to anger became lost somewhere in bewilderment at the situation. The salesman occupied her entire field of vision, thought. He must be pretty successful, she realized, because she couldn’t get a single word in during the entire explanation, edgewise or otherwise. He paused right when he should have, at the end of each sentence, and yet, while pausing, he simultaneously diverted his eyes from her gaze, so as not to allow her any windows in which to object. Still, he didn’t come off rude. He seemed pretty natural on the door, and he was very personable, and not unattractive. And yet, Rebecca thought, she still would have closed him out right away had he actually been selling something. This one’s lucky.
         By this time, Shawn stood back behind his wife in the hallway, at the entrance to the kitchen, watching. His black motocross-racer goatee rustled on his face, concealing whatever expression caused it. Rebecca sensed his presence and turned back to face him, but upon receiving nothing, started back at the door, though more politely. “We really don’t like giving our number out… did you try the guy next door?” She motioned toward the brick townhouse twenty-five feet to her right, just beyond the shared kitchen wall. “He’s always home.”
         “Oh, that’s him,” said the salesman. “Mr. Bruce. This… this is for his system.” He quickly added, “Although, if he’s always at home, you’ll probably never get called. I mean, this is all just a security measure, anyhow, right? Unless he knows something I don’t…” Rebecca frowned. The salesman unconsciously slipped a white business card directly into Rebecca’s hand, and while she was reading it, he pulled the pen from atop his ear and clicked it loudly. The salesman stood motionless with the pen already trained inside his binder, which he held angled up and out of view.
         “Oh, Mr. Bruce. Yeah, I forgot that was his name…” Rebecca shifted her weight and opened her mouth to speak, but instead just looked down at her feet.  “Yeah, he doesn’t… he doesn’t talk much.”
         “I bet.” The salesman added.

                Six hours later, Rebecca came to the unfortunate realization that her hair and back were wet. She had been suffering a nightmare, and was now embarrassingly sweaty. In the dream, she had answered a phone call and walked into Mr. Bruce’s house, only to discover him dead in his own bloody bathtub. The next morning, she told Shawn. “I mean, how could a person not know anyone? Do you think he’s on the run or something?” She fished a couple of toothpicks out of a little white box in the cupboard and stuck them into cubes of cantaloupe, which, after re-tightening her purple terrycloth robe, she placed in front of Shawn on the kitchen table.
                Shawn didn’t have to look up from his toast to detect the hint of jest in her voice, or the fact that it was indeed just a hint. “Maybe he’s a spy,” he provoked, his eyes widening. Crispy crumbs fell from his mouth to join the gathering already built up on the plate.
                “Maybe.” Rebecca accentuated the second syllable and pointed a slender finger at her husband as she walked around the table in order to catch his eye. Shawn acknowledged with a brief nod. “I mean, honestly, why else would you need an alarm system in this neighborhood?”
                “Beats me.”
                Rebecca slid a piece of cantaloupe into her mouth and sloshed, “Well, I don’t see what other explanation could possibly exist. You’ve really never talked to him either? That’s so weird!”
              “Yeah. Well, you figured it out,” Shawn conceded with a groan, standing up from the table. It was still morning, and he wasn’t getting any younger. “Actually, I’ve been hoping you wouldn’t find out, since in fact Mr. Bruce is my supervisor out in Langley. Yep. Been reportin’ to him for years. Unfortunately, though, since you found out, I’m afraid you’ll have to be compromised.”
              “Oh, is that so? What are you gonna do to me?” Rebecca inquired with a sly smile.
              “Oh, that’s not my job. Better let Mr. Bruce handle that one.” He grinned and reached around his wife’s waist and pulled her up to where their faces nearly touched. The two were supposed to be the same height, but over time Mrs. Shawn Morris had gotten used to slinking down just a little, so her husband could feel taller. “I gotta go,” he said, and when the front door slammed shut, Rebecca was left alone facing the kitchen wall. She flinched at the noise, and turned toward the stairs.

              Four hours later, on her lunch break, Rebecca decided it was in her best interest to find out everything she could about her mysterious next door neighbor. Thanks to the salesman, she now knew that his last name was Bruce. “Bruce. Hmm.” But other than that and his house number, two higher than hers, there was nothing else to go on. A simple white pages search online added his phone number, useless to her, and a first initial: R. “Also not much help,” she thought, pushing off from the desk with both hands and rotating away from the computer. She swiveled her chair around to face Lydia, her officemate, who was taking jabs at a cherry tomato in a Tupperware bowl. It looked over-ripe. “So, how would you go about finding out information about a certain random person you may or may not have ever met?” Rebecca asked.
              “And here I thought you were married,” deadpanned Lydia.
              “What? No, I am, I am. It’s just…” Rebecca rushed to her point. “Our next door neighbor is really creepy, and no one knows anything about him. He doesn’t talk to anybody, and evidently, he doesn’t even know a single person in the whole area. I guess I just got curious. But it’s weird, though, right?”
              “Is he in the witness protection program?”
              “See? That crossed my mind too! I don’t know. I hope that’s all it is. I’m just worried that he might be dangerous or something. You never know.” Rebecca chuckled inwardly. “I, I guess I owe that salesman who tipped me off. Said he didn’t blame me for not associating with the guy much, or something like that. Otherwise, I never would have thought… I mean, I thought he was just a hermit, you know? But now that I think about it, he does seem a little…” Rebecca prevented herself from leaping any further, and started the conversation over. “But anyway, how should I find out about him?” She gazed at the side of Lydia’s unswerving head for a good five seconds before realizing how foolish she must have looked caring about this so much. She scooted back to her own computer.
              The answer to Rebecca’s pressing question came a minute later. “Look, why don’t you just take that big bonus check you’re getting tomorrow and go ring his doorbell and invite him for steak dinner. Say you had extra. Everybody likes steak.”
              “I can’t go over there after two years and just introduce myself just like that. Besides, we need every penny of that check for the long-overdue beach weekend we’re taking. We’re leaving tomorrow, so that should be…” Rebecca’s thoughts trailed off with her speech, and back at her desk, she inaudibly vowed to two separate things: to try and stay focused on her work, and not to talk to anyone else about this situation, especially Lydia. Still, though, what would be the harm in just going over and introducing ourselves, she wondered. True, that simplest of solutions made the most sense logically, and she could just picture Shawn telling her the exact same thing. Just go over there and say hi. Simple as that. But what if...?
Logical or not, the whole concept of ringing Mr. Bruce’s doorbell made Rebecca’s stomach lurch, and she didn’t really know why. It was out of the question, though.
         
                Seven hours later, Rebecca sat cross-legged on the beige bedroom carpet in front of an empty suitcase while Shawn watched baseball downstairs. She usually insisted on packing everything herself, claiming that Shawn didn’t put enough effort into it. She was probably right. The last ski trip they’d been on together, he hadn’t even thought to bring gloves or a hat. They had had to buy new ones at the ski shop at the lodge, and of course they were overpriced. Since then, she assigned her husband more straightforward tasks. “Don’t forget to hook the storage thing on top of the car,” she called down the stairs. An indiscernible grunt rose faintly up from the living room, which Rebecca recognized as an acknowledgment of duties. She nodded to herself, and searched around the room for items to fill the suitcase, which had lay empty for nearly twenty minutes. Her eyes soon landed on the cherry jewelry box straight ahead on the dresser that Shawn had given her as an anniversary present some months before. Rebecca let out a deep breath. They were young, and far from wealthy, but they had saved up and done pretty well for themselves in their almost five years together thus far. How proud they were to be able to show off to their friends and family that they had even been able to buy this townhome all on their own. ”What a perfect little neighborhood,” her mother had called it as she stepped out of the car and squeezed Rebecca’s shoulder in a matronly side-hug. “But how did you ever get this place so cheap?”
         Rebecca was startled by a dark thud from somewhere beyond the wall. “Shawn?” she yelled down, her voice rising like the upswing of a siren. Had that sound come from downstairs or next door? She couldn’t be sure, but her heart jolted her up onto her feet just the same. Making a broad jump over the suitcase, Rebecca swept up the entire jewelry box and shoved it into a corner of the bag, covered it with a shirt, then flipped the lid closed and ran down the stairs. In the living room, the sounds of Shawn’s baseball game echoed dully off the white walls all around her. He wasn’t there. What was that noise? Just then, her greatest fears momentarily confirmed, the screen door clattered, and a dark figure took shape outside. Rebecca’s brain throbbed a single pang of blinding shock, and she spiraled downward, ever downward as if into a bottomless black vortex. Her vision blurred, and she lunged her foot out to avoid collapsing sideways onto the carpet and abandoning all hope. This was it. At the very apex of her dismay, Shawn, her husband, entered the house.
                “Where were you?” She breathed out in confused irritation, panting, her hands on her spread knees. Only the unknowing commentary of the baseball analysts filled the room.
         “I was out putting the turtle shell thing on the car, like you asked,” replied Shawn, matter-of-factly. “What’s going on?”
         “I don’t know. Nothing. Sorry, it’s nothing. I’m just… excited to get away is all.” She shook her head, admitted that, “It’s been a stressful week,” and turned to walk back up the stairs. Rebecca was well aware that she’d been overly anxious over the last couple of days, but this was too much. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d ever been so afraid. “Hey baby, do you think you could finish packing for us? I think I’m gonna go lie down.”
         “Sure, babe. Hey, you’re not gettin’ sick, are you?” His goatee rustled again, and he moved in closer toward his wife, embracing her limp body once again around the waist.
         “Maybe I am,” she conceded aloud.
         “Well, don’t forget to show up at work tomorrow, or else we don’t get that check.” He gave her a final squeeze. On her way back to the bedroom, she reached her hand around the kitchen corner and unplugged the phone from the wall.
         You mean I don’t get that check, Rebecca thought.
         
                Twelve hours later, by the second time his wife hit the snooze button, Shawn had already poured himself a bowl of cereal. He read the sports section and smacked horribly as he chewed, knocking free the milk droplets suspended in his goatee. He yelled upstairs, “Hey Bec, it’s eight o’clock! You better be gettin’ up, babe!” He slurped up his milk, dropped the bowl and spoon in the sink, and headed up to find his shoes. Rebecca stood at the bathroom sink, spitting toothpaste down the drain. She looked to be more ready for a jog than anything else, in her gray cotton sweatsuit, and her hair in a disheveled, but playful-looking pony tail. “That was fast,” said Shawn, surprised. “You were completely out of it fifteen minutes ago. And since when do you wear sweats to work?”
         “I know, I don’t. I don’t know. I overslept. I’m sorry. I’ve gotta go, babe, give me a kiss.” They kissed, and she scurried down the steps, turning toward the front door.
         “So we’re planning on leaving by six, then, right? Right after work?” Shawn called down. The door slammed, and she was already gone.

                Shawn found the front door unlocked when he returned home from work at four o’clock, eight hours later. How did she beat me home? He called out, “Hey babe, if you’re ready, let’s hit the road! The sooner we get there, the sooner we can get you into that black bikini.” But while he was removing his jacket in the entryway, he caught the outer fringes of an unclear conversation. He stepped into the kitchen and came to a dead halt. There was his wife sitting, pale and frozen at the kitchen table with a familiar-looking young man in a white polo.
The intruder rose from his chair to greet Shawn as he entered. “You must be Mr. Morris,” he said. “You’re a very lucky man.”
                “What? What is this?” Shawn implored.
                “Actually, I was just on my way out,” said the salesman. “But congratulations on your new system. A technician will be by between eight and twelve tomorrow to hook it all up. And hey, good timing with that big bonus check, huh? That worked out well.” He offered his hand to Shawn, who didn’t notice it. Shawn’s eyes were fixated instead on the salesman’s stoic face. Rebecca’s eyes were locked downward on a stack of papers sitting in front of her on the kitchen table next to the phone. A white business card hovered atop the pile.
                “Wait. What? No… No, no, no, you can’t just come in here and…” Shawn stammered in place, his fists clenching.
                “Sir, your wife called me. You know how women are.” He gave Shawn a wink as he brushed by him and out the door.