A day in a life of a fictusin salesman

A Day in the Life of a fictusin Salesman 

"An actor's performance must be larger than life. The script must be larger than life. Everything must be larger than life." 

- Bette Davis 

Chapter 1 The Crimson Line 

I remember that evening before only in fragments, but what I do remember is down to the smallest detail. Years later, I still don't understand how I could have suspected nothing. I was leaving our office on Third Line, pleased with myself, barely hiding a smile - management had just held me up as an example, and I had responded by professing my love for my work. I'm sure there wasn't anyone in the whole city who deserved praise more that day - the day when I sold a hundred pieces of fictusin - I bet you've never heard of it, yet it is the foundation of modern cuisine, a synthetic spice that's added everywhere these days. I was very proud of my profession and was genuinely good at it. 

Right after work, I rushed to "Under the Crown" - the coziest place downtown where three of my best friends had spontaneously gathered that evening, and we spent the rest of the night working our way through pork knuckle with sour Bavarian beer, laughing inappropriately loud at silly jokes. I got home after midnight and found Lisa - my beloved wife - angry in our creaky wingback chair. Cosily wrapped in a burgundy plaid blanket, Lisa tried to act displeased and scold me - why so late? But she quickly gave up - she was just too happy to see me. And in her large black eyes was reflected a strong, tender feeling. Sincerely - even years later - I'm ready to swear that I saw it. I remember perfectly how I fell asleep next to her and dreamed of living another such day again and again - until deep old age. I also remembered how I kissed her goodnight. "Nothing is more sour than a kiss when you know it's the last one. Just as nothing is sweeter when you don't know about it," she mumbled, but I heard these strange words already from the depths of the well of oblivion. 

Later, I returned to this phrase hundreds of times, and to our kiss, our farewell - a crimson line dividing my life. Years have passed since then, and I still like to lie to myself that I could have prevented everything that evening, just said "stop" and left everything as before. 

I didn't know that night marked exactly five years since my escape from the family mansion. Five independent years - without parental help - I was sure I had lived them worthily, confidently, and surprisingly easily. I managed to get a job from my very first interview - they gave me, someone with no experience, the position of junior sales manager right away. By some inexplicable coincidence, a cozy, surprisingly cheap apartment downtown became available immediately. And most importantly - I met Lisa. 

I just got a little luckier than others - I thought. My life was full of selfless people ready to come to my aid at any moment. I didn't have any serious enemies either; anyone who showed hostility toward me would change within a few days and radiate friendliness. 

I wasn't a religious person, otherwise I would have thought about a guardian angel, or rather a whole host of angels. One measured day was replaced by another, cloudless one, all so unlike the horror stories of "adult life" that were endlessly repeated at home. Everything came to me without particular problems, though I didn't notice it. I couldn't imagine then that my happy days were numbered - literally, signed and written on the lifeless pages of documents. 

Chapter 2. Alone 

I woke up the next morning when the front door slammed loudly. I drowsily rose from bed and saw through the blinds as Lisa got into a funereal black jeep, and the door was carefully closed behind her by a stocky Asian man in an amazingly tasteless colorful bomber jacket. 

It was strange, but I wasn't in a hurry to worry - I wandered to the kitchen for coffee and breakfast, expecting that my awakened brain would help find a simple explanation for everything. But there was no usual breakfast in the kitchen, nor could I find the coffee machine. Even the coffee service had disappeared from the kitchen - I suddenly realized that I couldn't find anything that had ever been bought with my wife's money. 

Worried, I dialed her number but only heard that it was "not in service." Her mother's number wasn't working either, and all of Lisa's friends simply rejected my calls. 

Following a bad feeling, I went into her room and just in case opened her wardrobe, which turned out to be empty. The other cabinets and shelves were empty too, all her cosmetics and jewelry, clothes and shoes - everything had disappeared from the apartment as if it had never been there. I remember frantically walking around the room driven by an itching feeling that this was only the beginning. And with each hour I became more convinced that the feeling wasn't deceiving me, watching as cracks widened in my usual way of life, seeing how the events of that fateful day unfolded before me like shoots of poison ivy. 

I was genuinely glad to hear Tony's voice, one of my friends from yesterday. Awakened by the early call, he answered irritably, kept trying to hang up. Tony called me inadequate and suggested that only losers call early in the morning. I calmed down a little - this was all Tony, rough but wise and always ready to help. Tony, whom I rightfully considered my best friend. 

"I can advise three things," he said after listening to me carefully. "First, hang up and let me sleep. Second, take your whiny ass and come to my place. And third, buy some food on the way, or there won't be any business." 

Chapter 3. Final Settlement 

I spent another quarter of an hour examining the empty apartment but couldn't find any message or note left by Lisa that would explain in any way what the hell was going on. I called my boss to take a day off but he dropped my call, and I decided I would call later. At that moment, Tony called. Without a hint of irony, he apologized for forgetting what day it was. I was immediately struck by the businesslike notes in his voice. After the first words, it was as if I lost the power of speech, and in complete confusion, I listened as he said that our contract had expired that night and he was forced to terminate his services as a psychotherapist. 

"Services? Contract? What..." I mumbled into the phone, not understanding anything. I hung up, thinking the joke had gone too far. Called the boss again and he dropped me again. Feeling cut off from the rest of the world, I opened my email and unexpectedly found a message from an escort agency among the incoming mail. I was about to delete the message, but something stopped me at the last moment. The text was written in an unusual font that seemed familiar to me. "We invite you to leave feedback about the services provided," I read and opened the agency's page. At that moment, I only dreamed of one thing - to be paranoid, but among the list of escort workers, I found my wife. And immediately felt a sharp burning in my chest - the emotional pain was real, as if I had drunk molten lead in one gulp. I couldn't believe in reality, but I didn't try to pinch myself; rather, every day of the five years I spent with Lisa seemed like a dream. 

Mechanically dialed the boss again - unsuccessfully, accounting didn't answer me either. It was payday and I decided to go to the office no matter what. 

To my surprise, the accountant was at her desk, recounting the balance amounts on the accounts, as always forgetting to count calories, consuming another raspberry donut without taking her eyes off the monitor. As if not expecting my visit, she answered absently, explaining that her phone was acting strange today. She hesitated when I reminded her that I came for my salary, until finally she squeezed out that today's salary would be my last. 

Chapter 4. Route to Nowhere 

That evening, I sat on the hard plastic of route nineteen and tiredly looked out the window. The bus was crossing the Arch Bridge - the suicide bridge, and far below, the moonlit path raced with us, cutting through the darkness of the ocean bay waves. Opposite me - a grim-looking Mexican, his arms and face covered with prison tattoos. His gaze is lazy and sleepy, he's absolutely not interested in my two suitcases; for such people, the bigger the suitcases, the less chance of finding anything worthwhile. If he only knew what was in the suitcases - seven and a half million dollars, perhaps everything would be different. But now I care neither about the Mexican nor especially about the moon, I'm re-reading the note that the accountant handed me along with the suitcases. 

"You always had a choice," - with a sinking heart I recognized my father's sweeping handwriting: "You could have left your comfort zone, but you chose an independent life and I don't blame you, do you blame me for what happened after? I hired the best of the best, these five years of your life were the result of their teamwork - you left home too early and we wanted to make sure you would be ready for this life. Now your time has come, and all this money is yours. I understand, everything happening to you is a big stress and I'm not sure I know your reaction. If after learning everything you still decide to move, start life anew - on the way you'll meet Pablo - he's easy to recognize by the prison tattoos all over his body. He doesn't speak much English, but he knows his work perfectly, you don't need to worry about the money. This is where the family's help ends. The choice is yours." 

This note was the crown of that day, I received it along with my "final salary" - suitcases of money and my boss's confession that fictusin was just a fiction, and the work I was so proud of was just a pretext for my family to provide me with money. 

Curtain. The seventeenth bus was carrying me farther and farther away. I watched as the moon disappeared into the clouds, and far beyond the horizon, lightning flashed from the approaching storm. I still didn't know at which stop I would get off, but it didn't matter to me as long as I followed the route.