Stanley Elkin - The Franchiser

“Identical.”

“Homogenized as milk.”

“Of course we were angry.”

“Certainly we were furious.”

“Because”

“when Lotte took”

“her life”

“it was like saying”

“we”

“all would.”

“We shoved her in the plot.”

“And left her grave unmarked.”

“We were so mad .”

“Then when Mama died and we returned for the funeral”

“we saw that we’d changed,”

“grown apart.”

“It was silly to stay angry. We were different now anyway. What Lotte did,”

“there was no guarantee”

“that we’d do”

“too.”

“And besides”

“we hadn’t,”

“had we?”

“So we counted Lotte’s death”

“starting from then”

“and waited a year”

“and counted Mama’s death starting from”

“the anniversary”

“of Lotte’s.”

“And waited a year.”

“A double stone ceremony.”

“Because that was only fitting.”

“Because Mama herself always did everything”

“by twos or threes.”

“I didn’t know any of this,” Ben said.

“Well, there you are,” Oscar said.

“Sure,” said Jerome.

“How could you?” one of the boys and one of the girls asked.

“I was your godcousin,” Ben said. “I was closer to you than I am to my own sister.”

“Good old Ben,” one of the girls and one of the boys said. They looked at him.

Of course, he thought, if they had grown apart from each other, then how much further must they have grown apart from him? It was like his eighteen hundred miles compared to their trip around the world. So that’s what it was, a question of family. That’s why the girls had let him sleep with them, why it made no difference finally to the boys. He recalled Julius’s last words to him. He wasn’t one of them.

“So, Ben,” Jerome said, “how’s business?”

“What?”

“Business. How’s business? What do you make of the economy?”

“The economy?”

“We’d like to hear your side of things, get your viewpoint.”

“We would, Ben,” Sigmund-Rudolf said. And, oddly, those who weren’t already sitting hurried to take seats. Only Ben was standing.

“Give us the lowdown.”

“The view from the field.”

“We want to hear just what you think. Would you mind?”

“Well, I—”

“Just how bad do you think it really is?”

“How much worse—”

“Hush. Let Ben tell it.”

“Go ahead, Ben.”

“Yes, Ben. Go ahead. Tell us. How’s business?”

And he told them.

What did he tell them? What could he tell them? That after all these years, after his years at Wharton and his time on the road, after all the deals he had done, the profits turned like revolving doors, and his negotiations with banks, writing and reading letters of intent, contracts, after paying due bills and collecting debts, after picking his people and selecting his locations, and learning his several dozen trades and making what had come to be, starting from scratch, from the G.I. Bill and the serendipitous fillip of his godfather’s fortunate deathbed shove, his money, that — well, that he knew nothing of business, that he was no businessman but only another consumer, like them, he supposed, like anyone. A franchiser. A fellow who had chewed such and such a hamburger — McDonald’s, Burger King, A & W, Big Boy — at such and such a lunchtime, who licked such and such an ice cream — Howard Johnson’s, Baskin-Robbins, Carvel, Mister Softee — during such and such a heat spell or when this or that drive for something sweet had struck him, gratuitous as pain or melancholy, who sought out this or that gasoline station — Shell, Texaco, Sunoco, Gulf — when the gas gauge on one or another of his Cadillacs had been more or less on Empty (as his stomach had been more or less on Empty, as his sweet tooth), who lay down in such and so a motel — Best Western, Holiday Inn, Ramada, Travelodge — when his body had been empty of energy and his spirit of all will save the will to rest, squinting through the dusk and darkness at the sign shining above the Interstates. Who came to sell, almost always, what he had already first used, tried, bought himself — not excepting the Jacuzzi Whirlpool, not excepting the stereo tape deck in his automobile, not excepting the One Hour Martinizing that cleaned his lonely laundry, not excepting the Robo-Wash that bruised the dirt from his car — and all of it testimonial to nothing finally but his needs, to need itself. So they were asking the wrong fellow. He was no businessman. They were asking the wrong fellow. He was not in trade. Or if he was, then it was only because he did business as some people painted pictures — by the numbers. It was already there, all of it, all of them. “The greeting card,” he said, “was invented for me. There’s no franchise,” he pointed out, “called Flesh’s.”

“Skip it, Godcousin,” Cole said. “How’s business? When’s the economy going to turn around? What about the prime rate? What’s with the energy crisis?”

“Oh,” Ben Flesh said, “the economy, the prime rate, the energy crisis.”

“Are you businessman enough to tell us something about that stuff at least?”

“That stuff, yes. But not because I’m businessman enough. The economy is spooked. There’s a curse on free enterprise. The prime rate grows big as shoe sizes in large men’s closets. Ten, ten and a half. Eleven.”

“You don’t see it coming down?”

“Like a belt buckled by someone troubled by his weight. On a diet. Off it. This hole one month”—he touched his belt—“this one”—he moved his finger toward the buckle—“the next. It makes no difference. I don’t understand the prime rate. But it makes no difference. I don’t think so.”

“You were left the prime rate.”

And that, he saw, was what frightened them. “Yes.”

“That was your inheritance.”

“Yes. I know. Yes. I don’t understand about it. It’s only a decision. Thinking makes it so. It doesn’t mean much. Hard money, soft. I don’t know. It’s only an attitude. Don’t you think so?” He was very tired. If they were going to the unveiling he wished they’d go. He too. That would be something to see. Lotte’s stone. Estelle’s. He had to ask them something.

“When I die,” he said.

“What?”

Hadn’t they heard him? He had probably spoken too softly. “I say,” he said, “when I die —I know we haven’t talked about this — To tell you the truth, I haven’t even thought about it — When I die, could I be buried with the Finsbergs? In your plot? I have no place to go. I mean,” he said, “it’d be a hell of a thing if I had to be stowed in my accountant’s office. — You know? I’d like it, I’d like it stipulated that I could lie with you people.”

“Gee, Ben,” Lorenz said, “that’s a hell of a thing to say. I mean, why do you want to talk like that? Die, lie with us? I mean, what kind of crap is that supposed to be? You’ll dance on our graves.”

“Like Fred Astaire,” Ben said.

“Come on, what’s this horseshit?” Oscar said.

“I have no place to go ,” Ben wailed. “I understood your questions about business. I know my name isn’t Finsberg. I know you’re troubled by the prime rates, what your dad did. His putting you under an obligation to me. You don’t have to worry about that. — I’d buy the plot. — I’d pay whatever…You guys are in my will. My sister is. I’m closer to you. My parents are under the ground in Chicago. I’ve known you longer. I could make it a condition of my will. I wouldn’t do that. Why do I say a thing like that? You’ll get the money anyway. I swear to you. I just thought—”