Clancy Martin - How to Sell

I looked at Jim. He shook his head. Shrugged. Gave me a thumbs-up sign. He handed me a pen and a pad of paper.

“Schopenhauer,” I said. “Schopenhauer is his name. That’s right, sir, like the philosopher, Arthur, yes, that’s right, sir. I did not know myself until poor Schopenhauer told me. Impressive that you would know that, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so. But our man is Swiss, not German. But the problem is this fire, you see. You would not have heard about it — oh, you have heard about it? Yes, that’s right. Well, that’s the holdup. Our man Schopenhauer was there. Yes sir, we just heard this morning, it’s terrible. He was in the fire, you see. We don’t know all the details yet. The owner is talking to his wife this morning. My understanding is that he was only injured. Yes, you are right, it’s awful, just awful. Of course this is not your problem, sir. I understand that. But you see, he is brokering a shipment of about one hundred Rolexes for us at the moment, and your wife’s new watch is in that shipment. There are about ninety-nine other people also waiting for watches, if that is any consolation, sir. No, yes, I see that, I have it right here, your ordering date. I know how long we’ve had your money, sir. The watch is here, sir, it is in Chicago waiting to be shipped to us. As soon as it clears customs it will be on the next plane to Dallas — Fort Worth. Yes sir. They have other brokers. We do need our regular broker, sir, you understand, customs is very complicated. I don’t know if Schopenhauer’s office is even aware of the situation yet, sir. The fire was just last night. Our owner is on the phone now solving the problem, sir. If you can just bear with us. I know how long you have been waiting, sir. But we have our health, don’t we? Better than poor Schopenhauer can say. No, that was not a joke, sir. Do I recognize the seriousness of the situation? Schopenhauer is a dear friend of mine, I have known him for ten years. Well, thank you, sir, I appreciate that. I am sure Schopenhauer would say the same. Don’t worry sir. Thank you, sir. Thank you, Mr. Myers. Goodbye.”

“Perfect,” Jim said. He was very pleased. He grabbed me happily by the shoulder. “Great! Now we can tell him the paperwork was burnt up in the fire. That guy — what is his name? — that Chicago broker could have accidentally taken the paperwork with him.”

“It was a nightclub.”

“Doesn’t matter. We can all be mad at him! What kind of a moron takes his important papers to a nightclub? Where did we find this joker? We are never doing business with him again! But the watches are in limbo until customs gets the new papers. It could be weeks, even months. But it’s not our fault. It’s that damn broker. And hard to be too mad at him, after all, with his burns and recovery. There you go. That’s exactly what I was trying to teach you. Let’s use that same line on everybody this morning. They all get the fire story. What’s that guy’s name? Here, write it down for me. I like how it sounds, what did you say it is? French?”

I showed him where I had written it down on the page of legal pad that would go into Myers’s file. “It’s German,” I said.

“Huh. That spelling doesn’t help. How do you say that? Say it for me again. I like that name. Let’s use that a lot. Poor ole Shoopenhauer.”

“Schopenhauer,” I said.

“Right, got it. Shoopenhauer. Burned up in the great Chicago fire of 1987.”

He picked up a line. “This is Brad Reynolds on Rolexes, how can I help you? Mr. Branson? Oh, yes sir, one moment, let me look up your information on the computer, sir. No sir, I’m afraid Jim Clark is out at an auction today. But I can certainly help you, sir. A men’s Explorer? Beautiful watch, I used to own one myself. Now, sir, your watch has arrived in the United States, but let me explain to you about the customs process. You see, there was a fire last night in Chicago. Oh, you heard? Yes, ghastly. Just terrible. Well, the problem is this.”

•

O ut on the highway, on the runs, was like working the back-of-the-house. The back-of-the-house had a camaraderie and ease that the sales floor lacked. In back you could feel that the customers were not people. Being out on the highway, doing the runs, you listened to whatever music you pleased, you could stop at Hardee’s and eat an order of chicken strips with that mustard sauce, you could find a park and stop there for a while — there was a cemetery near Granddad’s where I often stopped in the late afternoons — and read a chapter of a book or just lie on your back and watch the clouds. I wished Lisa could come hang out with me there. Even in the cold I would lie there, some afternoons, for half an hour, between the gravestones, and smoke a joint, and smell the winter air.

As Christmas approached and my phone sales improved they let me leave the store less and less. I was often at the top of the daily phone sales board, and a couple of times I made the top of the week. That meant a five-hundred-dollar cash bonus. So Sheila kept me on the phones all day long, but in the evenings I still did my Dallas runs.

This December night it was after eight and I called from Kizakov’s to tell Jim I was going to drive straight home after I made the last Dallas drop. But he wasn’t there. I asked for Lisa and she wasn’t there, either. So I changed my mind about going straight home and thought I would swing by the store and see if they were back yet. They probably just went out for a quick bite of dinner, I thought. Maybe all three of us could go get a beer before we went home. And then Jim and I could ride home together.

In the parking garage I saw the two of them. Lisa was sitting on the nose of Jim’s car with her hands between her legs and Jim stood a few feet away from her. It was dark and cold in the garage but light came through the open-aired space from the next building over. When you were getting into your car you could look into their office windows at night.

Jim and Lisa had not seen me. I had parked the car at the other end and was heading for the elevator when I saw it was them. I moved between two cars to watch them.

Lisa was crying.

I could hear Jim saying, “Oh, Lisa. What were you…?”

I held my breath to listen more closely.

She said, “I don’t know what to do now. I’m afraid to go home.”

I listened closer still.

“I didn’t even remember my stupid shirt,” she said. “I’m such a moron. I didn’t even want to tell you.”

“I want to help you, Lisa,” he said. He ran his fingers down the side of her face. “I mean, I’m here for you. That’s not what I’m saying. But this time you need to clean up this mess of yours yourself.”

I drove home. I should get on I-35 and drive back to Canada, I thought. Due north. While you two go enjoy your own private lives together.

I t was the next night, after closing, and Lisa and I were alone in Mr. Popper’s office. She sat on his desk. Her feet didn’t touch the floor. Her yellow shoes dangled from her toes. Those curvy, high-arched feet of hers, in her black hose.

She brought it up all on her own. That was welcome.

“I need some money, Bobby,” she said.

I had a little bit of money. It was money that had accumulated from my lunch-money borrowing from the cash drawer, and from a few larger receipts I had torn up and pocketed all of the cash. A tennis bracelet for nine hundred was my biggest hit. I had about fifteen hundred dollars hidden in a shoe box in the closet of my bedroom at Jim’s. Along with the Christmas presents I had stolen for Wendy and her family, and a rope of pearls I thought my mom would like. The exact amount of cash was thirteen hundred and sixty dollars. I often counted it at night before going to sleep.