Jim Gavin - Middle Men - Stories

Larry looked sympathetic. Finishing his coffee, he said, “I’ve known your old man a long time. He’s a good salesman, but Christ, he’s been doing it for thirty years. You get good after a while. Nobody’s born with a priori knowledge of plumbing fixtures, or anything else. That’s been proven by philosophy.”

“We rep twenty-five lines. It’s a lot to learn.”

“So? You seem like a smart guy. Jack said you went to school.”

“I never finished. I’ve been bartending and coaching soccer.”

“Soccer?”

Larry said “soccer” with a vague distaste that Matt was used to. American men of a certain generation still associated the sport with communism and homosexuality.

“A JV team,” said Matt.

The waitress brought the check and Larry grabbed it.

“I’ll buy lunch,” said Matt.

“Lunch is taken care of.” Larry smiled. “We’re going to the luau.”

“It’s an actual luau?”

“Yeah. They got beer, roast pig, everything. You’re lucky I got you in there. These luaus are invite-only.”

“Who’s doing all this?”

“Lamrock.”

For a moment the name lingered in the air, like someone had a struck a bell. Matt had heard of Lamrock. Plumbers throughout Los Angeles spoke his name in reverent whispers, though Matt could never quite figure out who he was or what he did. He asked his dad once, and Marty Costello said, “Lamrock’s Lamrock. He’s just somebody who knows everybody.” During his first week at Ajax, Matt was standing on the loading dock with Jack, going over an order Matt had screwed up, when Linda, one of the inside sales girls, came running toward them. This was when she could still run — a month later, on her way home from work, she got caught in a drive-by on Redondo Beach Boulevard. Now there was a bullet in her spine and she was in a wheelchair. “Lamrock’s on the line,” she said, breathless. Jack, who usually kept no fewer than three people on hold at any given time, immediately ran back to the office.

“So who is Lamrock?” asked Matt.

“He’s my guy in Boyle Heights.”

“Is he a contractor or a wholesaler?”

“He’s kind of both, and more too,” said Larry, throwing a fifty on the table. “Lamrock’s got his hand in a lot of pots.”

• • •

Going west on PCH, they stopped at a liquor store. Matt waited in the car, listening to Jim Rome take a call from Terrence in Sierra Madre. Rome was an old SoCal, and before he got into radio he did time as an outside salesman. For some reason this gave Matt a strange sense of hope.

Larry came out wearing a new pair of wraparound sunglasses that made him look like an android assassin from the future. He bopped his head to unheard music and carried an armful of chips and Hostess cakes.

“Ho Ho?” he offered, getting back in the car.

“I’m stuffed.”

“Do I look cool in these?” asked Larry, with a big a smile. The tag was still dangling in front of his nose.

Matt nodded.

“I bought us some Scratchers.”

They both lost. Larry blew the silver scratchings across the dashboard.

“Sometimes I think I’ll never win the lottery,” he complained. “It’s always some little Mexican guy from Guatemala with a million kids.”

Matt, who was only eighteen units shy of his degree in history, winced slightly at this.

“You know what I mean,” said Larry, sensing his disapproval. “Lord knows I’m cheering for those fucking people.”

Matt’s Nextel chirped. It was Jack.

“Is Larry still shitfaced?” he asked.

“He’s right here.”

“Good, I hope he’s helping you out. Tell him if he doesn’t write some business today, I’m going to drop Brentford and start repping Kenner.”

Larry grabbed the phone out of Matt’s hand.

“If you had the balls to bring in more inventory, your supply houses wouldn’t complain so much about late shipments.”

“My balls aren’t the problem,” said Jack.

Taking back the phone, Matt said, “We’re on our way to Eagle Pipe. Hopefully, we’ll get an order out of Armando.”

“Hope is for pussies. Just get the order.”

Jack chirped off. As Matt turned Jim Rome back on, Larry opened one of his bags.

“Cheeto?”

• • •

In his faded Chivas jersey, with its red and white vertical stripes bulging across his massive belly, Armando looked like a walking fumigation tent. He stood behind the will call counter, holding a sprinkled donut in one hand and a ping-pong paddle in the other.

“I think I remember you,” he said, squinting at Larry. He put down his paddle and shook Larry’s hand.

“Didn’t Chet what’s-his-name used to manage this branch?” Larry asked.

“Chet died last year,” said Armando, making the sign of the cross with his donut. “He had a stroke on the eleventh hole at El Dorado.”

“Chet moved a lot of Brentford,” said Larry. “Back when he was alive.”

“So did I, before the recall.”

“The ballcocks. Jesus, man. You know we’re taking care of that shit. The best we can. Has Matt talked to you about the new Ultima?”

“I gave him the new catalogue,” Matt said.

“A monkey can pass out catalogues,” said Larry. “You go over it with him?”

“Yeah, he did, pretty much,” said Armando, slapping Matt on the shoulder. “You guys want a drink?”

Like a lot of guys in the industry, Armando had worked his way up from the bottom. He started as a driver, moved into the warehouse, worked the will call counters, did purchasing, and eventually became a manager. He had a knack for remembering part numbers. All day long he’d sit behind the counter like a bard, singing to the lesser poets in back (“Compression stops, OR12s, half inch!”). More importantly, for Matt, he was a big soccer fan. Matt followed the Mexican league, so they always had something to talk about. It was so much easier than actually asking for an order.

Back in the warehouse the air smelled sour from the diesel exhaust of forklifts. A few guys were eating chorizo-and-egg burritos at a cheap plastic table that had as its centerpiece a gleaming metropolis of half-empty Tapatío bottles. Armando opened a fridge and grabbed two Cokes.

“Is that the last cerveza , amigo?” asked Larry, peering inside.

“Take it,” said Armando. “I got more in back.”

“I told Armando we would get him the new Ultima to display up front.”

“We can do that,” said Larry, trying to twist off the cap. “We can definitely do that.”

“I want it free,” said Armando. “Mike from Southwestern hooked me up with a free Kenner model.”

Mike Melendez, a snake, worked at Southwestern Sales, a rival rep company from Gardena. He had a knack for showing up at wholesalers a few minutes before Matt arrived, offering deals on Kenner products and reminding purchasing agents about the nightmare that was the Brentford ballcock recall.

“I don’t know if we can do that ,” said Larry, bending forward to get better leverage on the cap.

“Those aren’t twist-offs, man,” said Armando.

“I’ve got an opener,” offered Matt, but it was too late.

Larry had ripped off the cap, along with a layer of skin on his right palm. Blood dripped down his hand as he took the first sip. “Just bring it in on consignment.”

The word “consignment” made Matt think of the circles of hell; he still only had a vague idea what it meant in the commercial sense.

“That works for me,” said Armando, shrugging. “Let me write it up.”

This happened now and then, a sale. It always made Matt more giddy than he expected, and in those moments he understood why some men kept grinding away year after year.

Later, over a game of ping-pong, they talked about Brentford’s new urinals and Armando suggested they chase down a mechanical contractor he knew in Carson who was bidding a job for L.A. Unified.