Craig Smith - Cold Rain

‘Is it true or not, Dave?’

‘I’m going to give you some time to tell your mother what’s going on with the grass. If you don’t, she and I are going to have a little talk.’

‘She’ll ground me.’

I kicked one shoulder up, dismissing the consequences. ‘Would you rather lie to her?’

‘I’m not lying!’

‘Silence is the biggest lie of all, kid.’

I called for the waitress. I made a fuss over the fact that I had been rude. I said we had been having a heart-to-heart. I gave her a wink. You know how those can be? She understood. She had a couple of daughters herself! Lucy corrected her. Stepdaughter. The waitress didn’t miss a beat. She had a couple of them too.

I said we would like to have the check. Anything wrong? I smiled. Nothing at all.

In the car I told Lucy I’d like a Baskin-Robbins.

‘How about you?’

She thought that sounded good. We were about halfway across town when she said, ‘You never answered my question, Dave.’

‘You’re right. That’s because it’s not your place to ask it. It has nothing to do with the two of us.’

Long silence and then, ‘You did.’

‘What if I didn’t?’

‘I don’t understand. Did you sleep with that woman or not?’

‘I don’t want you to take sides, Lucy. What’s going on isn’t about your trusting me or believing your mother. It’s not about you. Believe me, you can be happy about one thing no matter how it ends between your mother and me. You’re not a part of the fight and you’re not a part of the solution. I came into your life twelve years ago. I’ll be there as long as you’ll have me. I hope that means forever.’

Over ice cream, Lucy asked, ‘What do you think Mom will do about the grass?’

‘Depends on which of us tells her about it.’

‘You’re going to tell her if I don’t?’

‘I sure am.’

She looked at me craftily. ‘Because you never keep anything from her?’

‘Never,’ I said.

This time she didn’t answer wise.

Like a good trial lawyer, Gail fought three battles simultaneously. One involved complaints about procedural errors. The second argued definition of terms.

The last objected to findings of fact.

While I resisted an essentially technical defence, I took special satisfaction in one of Gail’s letters of protest. Having scoured the university handbook, she wrote the university lawyer to inform him that while smoking was prohibited in faculty offices there was nothing in the handbook, either explicit or implicit, prohibiting sexual intercourse.

Gail explained that by highlighting issues concerning the university’s failure to follow its own procedures and by insisting they observe definitions as written in their own handbook, we were essentially demonstrating the wisdom of finding a solution other than firing me.

The only trouble with this approach was the vice president’s committee would not really care how the thing played out in court. The committee’s concern would be focused on my actions. If we could make those understandable, even if we admitted wrongdoing, my chances of the whole thing going away would be excellent. Moreover, the appellate process would still be in place. In other words, I gave nothing up, but I had an excellent chance of finding closure for the case in committee.

‘What they want is a victory against sexism. In and of itself, that is more important to the committee than whether you are guilty of either sexual harassment or misconduct. They don’t care if a court brings judgement against the university for failing to follow its own rules. It’s not their money. The president might because he’ll have to find a way to pay you for a wrongful discharge, but the people sitting on your committee are idealists. They’re tired of male professors using the student body as their own private harem.

These proceedings might be confidential in theory, but nobody believes it. The people on that committee want to send a message to every male professor on campus.

That’s important to remember. They don’t want to fire you, David. They want to make a point.’

We had come to the critical moment. It was time for me to decide. Confess or tell the truth.

Gail had carefully kept the issue of my innocence in the subjunctive mood. Her letters on my behalf admitted nothing, nor did they explicitly deny guilt.

Every salesperson I ever knew who was worth his salt had been in a situation like this. You negotiate to a certain point, then hand the victory to your customer.

Even Tubs routinely employed this method of salesmanship. It’s written in all of the manuals: let the customers feel as though they have won a battle or two and you will always win the war.

This was all Gail wanted. If I let the committee members watch me grovel and weep, if I went down on my knees and begged for mercy, they would have no reason to forward a particularly harsh recommendation.

On the car lot, the easiest way to hand your customer a victory was to admit you lied. It assured buyers their view of the world was correct. While it cost the salesperson a bit of lost pride, the commission was usually sufficient to take the sting away. The classic case involved the salesperson delivering a final price. If that did not work, and it usually didn’t, the salesperson’s credibility was shot but not the deal. The solution was to bring in a new face. Management overrules the salesperson: the customer gets a victory and drives the car home.

Tubs was the only salesman I had ever met who would not stand for it. As a matter of principle, he never drew a line in the sand with a final price. He was too clever to get himself trapped by his own words.

His words were his weapons. He didn’t hand them over to the customer to use against him! And he never relied upon a single method to close a deal. His only go-to-close was in fact his go-to-hell-close, and he trotted it out whenever he got good and pissed off.

He called it his A Gun in my Face Close.

I saw it once, early in my sojourn in hell, but it was a thing of beauty, a memory as bittersweet as any I had of the old bastard.

‘I screwed up,’ I said, before I told Tubs anything else.

Tubs looked up at me. He had been examining his customer list, divining whom he should call at just that moment. Tubs was not a man to tell you a screw-up could be turned into an opportunity. He believed, on the contrary, every screw-up could be turned into his opportunity, so he smiled at me in his kindly, paternal way, already counting his fifty percent on my commission. ‘What happened, Davey?’

‘I told this guy on the phone the Mustang convertible is sixty-four hundred, and it’s seventy-four.’

‘Tell him you made a mistake.’

‘I did. He doesn’t believe me.’

Tubs held onto his smile, but it turned icy. He leaned back in his chair. Placidly, he folded his hands over his big belly. ‘Is he still here?’ I nodded. ‘What does he want to give?’

‘Five thousand.’

‘Have you got him sitting down?’

‘We’ve been at it for an hour. He won’t budge. He’s sure I’m lying.’

Tubs blinked. ‘Let me see what you have.’

I opened my hands. ‘Verbal offers. Milt told me to T.O. to you.’ A T.O. was a Turn Over, the act of bringing in another salesperson and thus splitting a commission. A good salesperson usually understood when it was time. Most people loved it when they got to make a T.O. to Tubs Albo. If they had a buyer and hadn’t gotten themselves stuck on a number, Tubs could get a signature and make a salesperson more money with half a commission than a full commission working solo.

‘Can Milt go sixty-four?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t even know about the car until this guy called.’