To Sell, Perchance to Live

To Sell, Perchance To Live

I've never sold anything in my life – except a bill of goods to a professor or two at SIU – but with the tsunami Donald J. threw at our economy, well, a job was a job. I had to give up my pursuit of writing that All-American novel when my bank account went on life support just before climbing out on some random ledge.

Now, my new venture into the world of 'making a living' was strictly commission, which was one very good reason not to take it, but I was desperate for work, and selling jewelry in one of Chicago's most elite shops – excuse me – salons wasn't half bad. This 'salon' was located just off the Magnificent Mile on Oak Street, where the money-ladened of the city came to lighten their purses and wallets on over-priced merchandise to the inflated egos of sales staff whose primary job seemingly was to talk down to customers, hoping they would open those wallets and scream, "Help yourself."

But that's neither here nor there. I had been working for four days and had not made a single sale. Any fool can tell you how much six percent of nothing is. All I had to do was sell one of those four-figured bracelets or necklaces. You see, I wasn't greedy. I was willing to let the old timers handle the twenty and fifty grand items. I would happily settle for the peanuts, but I hadn't even earned a shell.

My supervisor always went out of his way to let me know I wouldn't be getting a Christmas card from him. The word was that he had a nephew all set for this job, but they hired me instead. It wasn't my fault, but try to tell him that. Every afternoon, he'd come by my counter, straighten his lapels, sniff his fresh carnation, glance at my virginal sales book, shake his head, then wander off, probably calling his nephew to tell him any day now. But good things come to those who wait, or so they say.

That special couple entered the store an hour before closing on Friday afternoon. So far, the whole week typified my life. The old pros got all the buyers but were gracious enough to refer all the browsers to me. They were great guys, every single one. It was a shame their parents never had kids worth a damn.

Well, it was an hour before closing when this couple came into the store. I notice them right away, you see, because they weren't your ordinary, everyday couple; he looked like Boss Hogg right out of THE DUKES OF HAZZARD, and she bore a striking resemblance to any ordinary blonde, blue-eyed goddess staring down every ten thousand millenniums straight from the heights of Mt. Olympus.

This guy was about five eight or nine and must've powered in at a good two sixty or seventy. He had one of those cowboy hats sticking on top of his head, you know, as J.R. Ewing wore back in the day when he was sneaking out of some sleazy motel room just after the first commercial break or maybe when he was about to put the screws to some gullible jerk, most like brother Bobby. And they're bringing that show back? A thick, half-smoked cigar was jammed between his teeth. He also wore snakeskin boots, a string tie, and one embroidered western jacket ala Porter Waggoner (Google it). I mean, this guy was the whole show.

On the other hand, she was a different story; tall, built, very built. Statuesque comes to mind. She was wearing a yellow, clingy (extremely clingy) cotton blouse with two buttons unfastened, a dark brown mid-thigh length skirt with a split on the side that reached for the moon and beyond, and tan six-inch heels, open-toed, dripping the reddest painted toes I'd ever seen.

That blonde hair was almost white. It was accentuated by the deepest, richest tan this side of Donald J. himself or John Boehner. I only drooled thinking about the outline of the bikini bottom panties; I just KNEW was on this bronzed goddess from the temple of Acropolis. Just being in the same room with her made me feel that I should go to confession. But I didn't think the priest could handle this one. After I confessed, he'd probably have to go himself.

But what surprised me was that he ignored the old timers and made a beeline for me. Inwardly, I began to drool (or maybe I hadn't stopped yet). The man smacked of oil rigs, longhorn cattle, big business, and dumb governors. He had reached up on the tips of his toes and put his arm around her. She blushed and giggled, her eyes as wide as Texas dollar bills.

"Now, you go on, shugah," he drawled in a thick southwestern accent, and pick out somethin' real nice, you heah?" He gave me a short wink and smiled through that wad of chewed tobacco. He was rocking back on his heels, clasping his hands behind him—the blonde bent over the display case, flashing more cleavage than a Hollywood red Carpet event.

I moved over to offer my assistance and to get a better view of that arched piece of heaven. Art should always be viewed from an angle. "Good afternoon, sir. May I be of some help?"

He waddled my way wearing that smile and stuck out a fat palm. "Howdy, son. I'm J.B. Barkum of Tulsa, Oklahoma." Tulsa, Texas, who knows, who cares? "This, heah, is my friend, Mandy. Say hi to this nice young man, Mandy."

"Hi," she said, her eyes never leaving the display case; my view of cleavage just kept on giving. My silent prayer to the heavens was heard and answered. I looked around, making sure it was indeed quiet. It was, so I continued admiring from afar.

"S, you'll have to excuse her. She's excited right now. You see, Mandy and I met last night, and I promised her I'd bring her down, head, so she could pick herself out a little trinket.

I nodded, then pointed out that there was no smoking. He laughed and held the cigar out in front of his face. "Then we are on the same page, son. I don't light 'em; I chomp on 'em." He rocked and laughed just before placing the cigar back in his mouth.

"Now, go on, honey, pick yo'self out somethin'. We wastin' this man's time now."

It wasn't a waste of time as long as she stayed in her present position. But alas, she moved, as I knew she would eventually do. She began perusing the cases with tremendous gusto, pointing to every tray: bracelets, necklaces, pendants, and rings. That woman wanted to see everything.

Whatever she wanted to examine, she pointed it out, and I put it on her. God, she smelled great, like spring with a sea breeze. She modeled it in the mirror on the counter and then for J.B. Barkum, who just smiled his approval and rocked back and forth on his heels.

Rubies, diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, and any other stone she could find, she tried on. She would have tried on moon rocks if we had any. And if we did, they would have looked spectacular on her.

Finally, she decided on a pendant with a gold setting. It contained a diamond that seemed the size of a baseball, encircled by tiny, exquisitely shaped emeralds suspended on a delicate platinum chain.

She brought her prize to J.B., who stopped rocking long enough to nod his approval and waddle again towards me. The whole ordeal took about forty-five minutes. I didn't mind, however, because my six percent would be more than enough compensation. Besides, every time Mandy made a selection to be tried on, she bent over the counter for what seemed an eternity, a heavenly eternity.

"Good news, son, good news." He took the trinket from Mandy and held it over the glass counter for my inspection. "Mandy, heah, decided on this, heah little thingamabob."

Mandy's pretty little mouth dropped when I announced the twenty-five-thousand-dollar price tag, but J.B., that good ol' boy, kept smiling and rocking.

"Oh, J.B., it's too much." The shallowness of her statement was only exceeded by its insincerity.

J.B. just threw his head back and laughed. Gotta love you some J.B., I know I did, but lil ol' Mandy got me worrying about good ol' J.B. I felt she was reeling him in on a very tight line, but then again, six percent of twenty-five K kept my nose to the grindstone.

"Now, Mandy, honey, don't worry your head over money matters. You're too pretty for that. You want this one?"

She nodded her head, nervously biting her bottom lip.'

"You sure now?"

"Oh, yes, honey, more than anything," she meekly said. Too meekly.

"Then wrap it up, son. We're taking this hog to market."

Mandy screamed her approval and threw her arms around J.B. (no mean trick in itself), who just laughed it off and rocked. After he separated himself from Mandy (God only knew why), he reached inside his jacket and brought out a brown alligator-skin checkbook.

"How much will that be, son?"

"Uh, with tax and all, twenty-seven thousand, five hundred, sixty-two dollars and fifty cents, but, sir – "

"What is it, son?"

"If you pay by check, we must call the bank to verify the account balance. Do you have a credit card?"

"No, sir, don't believe in 'em. Plastic just never made sense to me. But you go on and call the bank," he said while tearing off the check. "I understand—no need to apologize. You go on now and make that call. The numbers on the check somewhere."

"We don't have to call, sir. We use ACH, the automatic clearing house. I scan the check, and it will tell me we are good to go."

"Have mercy; what will they think of next?"

I smiled and tried to walk to the register without my rubbery legs reacting to this commission. I fed the check through the scanner, but I did it upside down. My, oh, my, that commission reared its head again. Once I got it through, there was no response, verification, or NSG notification. I tried it three more times, and the same thing happened. I took it back to J.B. and told him my dilemma. He just laughed.

"Son, my bank is the Tulsa Drovers of Oklahoma. Hell, it's run by Bobby Ray Deaver. He's a good ol' boy. Don't go in for any of this new-fangled technology stuff. You jest gon' have to call him. Numbers still on the back."

I called. Disappointment reared its head once again. The voicemail told me the bank was closed until Monday. My anxiety wasn't alone. Mandy was almost biting a trapdoor into her bottom lip.

"No answer, Mr. Barkum. They're closed until Monday."

J.B. stops rocking, thinks, and then starts laughing. "Of course. I'm gettin' as absent-minded as a politician under oath. Bobby Ray closes down early Friday during June. He's out fishin'."

"Fishing?"

"Yes, sir. Tournament every June on the Red River. But not just fishin', handfishin', or some call it noodlin'."

The look on my face must have said it all because J.B. laughed again, this time louder and more boisterous. "Son, don't worry, you don't hafta understand; just give ol' Bobby Ray a call on Monday mornin' first thing. He'll be there with some stories to tell."

Mandy looked crestfallen as I handed J.B. back his check. He refused to take it. "Oh, no, son, that there is yours. Just call Bobby Ray, and we'll be back here Monday to claim her pendant, dear Mandy head." She leaned down and kissed J.B. on the lips. He glowed, she titillated. "Better yet," he said, pulling out a business card and jotting down something on the back. "This heah is my room number down at the Hotel Nikko. Call me when you talk to Bobby Ray, and I'll come to a-runnin'."

He turns to Mandy, still titillated, and they depart back out the door. Mandy clung to that arm as much as I did to that check. All I could think of was my sixteen hundred and twenty-five-dollar commission. I was walking on air all the way home and staying awake all weekend. Christmas in June was my thought. Sounded like a movie starring June Allyson.

When Monday morning finally arrived, I was very excited. I literally ran to the bus stop and paced up and down until it arrived. I was impatient on the Broadway 36 bus, and the ride was dull. Upon my departure from the bus, I ran to the shop—excuse me—salon.

I waited another fifteen minutes before I placed my phone call to Tulsa. After an infinite number of electronic clicks and beeps, I got a voicemail once again. Fifteen minutes later, I received the same result. Now, I was beginning to panic. The pendant! Oh, my God! I hurried to the display case, removed the article, and examined it carefully. It looked the same, but… I carried the pendant back to the jeweler.

Kurt Snyder was in the process of downing his morning boiled egg and cup of tea.

"Kurt?"

"Good morning, Robert. Take my word, don't ever get overweight and have to eat this for breakfast."

"Kurt, I need some help."

"Don't we all?" He saw I wasn't in the mood for any deep philosophical bull. "Sorry. What can I do for you?"

I handed him the pendant. "I think I've been switcherooed."

Kurt took it from me and held it to the light. He then took out his eyepiece, turned on his table light, and scrutinized it carefully. When he put it down and removed his eyepiece, he turned his attention back to me.

"If you were, something else was switched. This is the real thing, buddy boy."

"What? The real thing? You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. You sound disappointed."

I didn't answer. I hurried back to my counter, trying to figure things out. There must've been an error somewhere. I decided to try Tulsa Drovers once more. This time, Bobby Ray himself came to the phone. I told him what I needed. There was silence for a minute, then he broke out laughing.

"I'm sorry, son, but that dog won't hunt."

"Am I missing something here, Mr. Deaver?"

"No, suh, you're not missin' a darn thing. But would you answer me a question?"

"If I can."

"Blonde or brunette?"

"Excuse me, I don't understand."

"That's okay. You call J.B., and he'll explain it all to you. Now, you have a good day, you hear? J.B., that boy somethin' else."

As soon as the click resonated in my ear, he pulled out J.B.'s business card and dialed the number of his hotel on the back. The phone only rang twice before it was picked up.

"J.B. Barkum. What can I do fo' you?"

"Mr. Barkum?"

"Yes, suh."

"I'm Robert Cleage from Desmond Jewelers."

"Oh, yeah, the jewelry store. The nice young fella from Friday. How you doin', son?"

I thought about correcting him, not at the store but at the salon, but I thought better of it. "You tell me, sir. Your check didn't clear at Drover's."

"Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. Almost forgot. I am truly sorry, son."

"You knew?"

"Oh, hell yeah. I ain't as foolish as I sound."

"Then, why did you write it if you knew it couldn't cover the cost of the pendant?"

He chuckled. "Well, son, it might not have bought that pendant, but it did buy me one helluva weekend." He laughed again, but I knew he wasn't laughing at me but at the whole situation—a laugh he had probably laughed before. Maria approached me with an envelope as I eased the receiver into its cradle. "A messenger left this for you."

After saying, "Thank you," I took it and opened it up, still dazed by my conversation and another sale drifting off into the sunset. "Jesus," was all I could utter.

Leaning on my counter, slitting open the envelope, I caught my supervisor slowly moving towards me, cantering on his toes like the leader of a hyena pack.

Inside the envelope, I found a note from J.B. Barkum. I read it silently: 'Sorry for the inconvenience, son. Truly, I am.' I signed it. Also in the envelope was a cashier's check for twelve hundred dollars made out to me.

"Still no sales, I see, Mr. Cleage."

"No, sir, Mr. Grant, no sales. None that you would notice anyway, none that you'd notice." I folded the check and note and placed them in my jacket pocket. I approached a young couple coming through the door, thinking this could be the one.