The Purchaser

“Yeah, my name is Ted, and I’m an alcoholic.” There was a spattering of applause with varying enthusiasm. Some in the meeting knew something of his story, some had no idea what the fuss was about and couldn’t have cared less. This suited Ted just fine. If he’d known that there was free coffee at the meeting, he’d have saved himself the $1.69 he’d just spent on a cup at the gas station, but this suited him too, and, in fact, felt right.  He had a little of his own money now, a little of his own head, a little of his own soul. He’d been asked to tell his story today. Like anyone’s story in these types of meetings, it usually started with a brutal hangover.  

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It was back on the morning of August 16^th of the previous year when he’d gone into the Wawa to buy smokes and a Mountain Dew. It was hot and the AC in his car had crapped out. He’d been observing his losing streak from drinking to job to girlfriend.  He’d already figured the car was next.  There was pure tequila in his sweat. He’d been in a short horizon place for some time, unable or unwilling to examine his condition beyond the caffeine-nicotine buzz he was craving that morning. The woman behind the register looked to him like Yoda and he had to divert his gaze. There was a beep. 

“You’re all set sir. Have a good day.”

“What? But I haven’t..” His ten dollars were crushed in his palm.

“Next.”

And he walked out without paying. His hangover saved him. He hadn’t the energy or verbal capacity to dig into finding any kind of explanation and he instead found his feet taking him out of the store before Yoda had a chance to recognize her obvious mistake. In fact, he had to hurry as he felt unsafe if he remained in the Wawa parking lot. Please, Buick, please start first try, please. It did. He pulled into traffic, windows down, lighting a smoke and singing into his green plastic morning bottle.

Ten free dollars. Forty-ounce bottles danced through his mind. Pint of vodka?  Liter?  What time was it? What day is it? Look at this day, he thought. What beautiful sunlight! Oh! And the breeze!

The clerk at Liquor Sweep greeted him with sour familiarity. He’d seen a liter of Nikolai for $8.99 last time he was sure of it. And there it was. He grabbed it, clamped down on his sense of triumph, and brought the bottle to the counter straightening out the corners of his cash as the clerk scanned and pressed buttons. There was a beep.

“Have a good one.”

“You mean?”

“You need a bag?”

“Sure, thanks.”

Out he went. Ten dollars still intact. He felt the same rush to get away from the store, but he was a beat behind things now. The Buick started first try. He felt a grave seriousness come over him. Heading east on Chestnut Street he drove without knowing where he was going, dazed. His mouth hung open as his brain softened. He spotted the Yocco’s Hot Dog sign a few blocks ahead and felt drool tag the front of his shirt. He was hungry. He still had ten dollars.

“Welcome to Yocco’s.”

“Could I get two classic dogs, please, and a large pierogies?”

“That’ll be seven eighty-three.”

He pulled around the building to the window and waited. She seemed happy to see him when she pushed open the bi-folding window and handed him his bag. She was young, probably in high school, and had the acne prerequisite of all fast-food workers. There was a beep.

“Have a good day.”

“Seriously?”

“Why?” She suddenly looked worried.

“No, nothing, thank you. I was thinking of something else.”

“Totally,” she said. “Me too.”

He smiled and pulled away.

It was a magic day, or a dream, or his 10-spot had powers. He felt alone, twisted and nervous. There was no point in the obvious questions, there was no one to ask anyway. What does it feel like to win in Vegas? It must get scary. He was afraid whatever spell had settled around him would be broken if he made a wrong turn, told someone, didn’t tell someone, went home, stayed out. It was dizzying. He pulled into the parking lot of a hardware store and then thought better of it. Too open, too visible. He turned in the direction of South Mountain and into a park where he could be alone and hidden, where he could be quiet.

He ate a hot dog, barely tasting it. He twisted off the cap of the Nikolai and looked around. His hands shook a little making him nervous about the pour, but he took a deep breath, held it, and started working the vodka into his Mountain Dew bottle. Satisfied, after a moment he took another look around and drank off a good portion.

After three perogies and the other hot dog his brain came back to him. He could hear birds and see a breeze gently petting the pines. I am living inside of a miracle, he thought. I am not in control. But perhaps I could begin to understand. I must conduct experiments. What would a scientist do? Do I know any scientists? Absurd. He put the Buick in gear and pulled out.

Back to the Wawa for scratch-off lottery tickets.

Later that night, lying on the floor next to the bed in his room, as the last of the Nikolai finished him off for the day, he felt he understood some things: the scratch-offs had won him nothing, but he could acquire them endlessly without paying; he also found, nervously, that he could purchase more than what was backed up by the talisman ten dollar bill in his pocket. Maybe the bill was meaningless, but he thought it best to keep it on him for now just in case. He couldn’t seem to spend it anyway.

Peeling himself off the floor the next morning, he begged himself not to get stuck. His thinking was immediately feverish. Do something, anything, run through a wall, buy a new car, punch your roommate in the mouth, get crazy if you must, face the sun! We’re turning this franchise around.

“Another hangover, asshole?” This was from Miller, down the hall in the kitchen, who must have heard his stirring. Miller was a pig, his roommate and de facto landlord. He was a week late on his $700 rent and so the pig’s abuse had begun to ramp up. Miller seemed to cherish this opportunity more than the money.

“You’ll get your money today.”

“Yeah, shit. I’ll toss all your worthless crap on the sidewalk.” 

“It’s a beautiful day, Miller. Why don’t you try and enjoy it.”

“I’d enjoy kicking your ass, but then I’d have to wait longer for my money.”

“You’re a prince, Miller.”

“Prince Fuck You, Ted!”

Ted shuffled into the bathroom for a shower and thought about 700 dollars. Could his new powers work at an ATM? What if not? Could he ‘buy’ something for $800 and sell it for 700? That sounded like a lot of work. Maybe this was his new life. What a difference a day makes.

‘Insufficient Funds’ the ATM informed him.  So that answered that. No endless cashflow for Ted. He sat on the curb in front of Wells Fargo, scalp sweating in the sun, and felt strong disappointment. Sipping a chocolate milk he ‘bought’ at the Wawa, he lit a cigarette and tried to do some thinking. $700 worth of groceries for the apartment wouldn’t appease the pig. Plus, he’d have to explain why he could afford all the stuff but not the rent. So far, the magic had worked only at registers, check outs.  But what about other kinds of purchases? What about a new….?

“Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you.”

Ted looked up and saw a bearded man in overalls and work boots.

“Yeah?”

“Is that your Buick?”

“Uh huh.”

“2005?”

“Yeah.”

The man shuffled his feet and scratched his head. “Are you interested in selling it?”

“I’m sorry?” Ted was not understanding.

“I love these cars so when I see one I figure it can’t hurt to ask.”

“It’s my car,” thought Ted out loud.

“Yeah, I get it. Sorry to bother you.”

Ted watched the man turn and start to head into the bank.

“Wait. Sir.”

The man turned back. Ted stood and started blinking, trying to get words to work.

“Do you know what’s going on? I mean, are you part of it?”

“I don’t follow, son.”

“I just, there’s been weird stuff, I’m saying I need rent, and I can’t seem to… how much is the car worth?”

“Oh, well, assuming it’s working alright, can you pop the hood?”

An hour later they were standing in front of Gladys at the Penn Agency signing the title papers. William Sollis and Ted had agreed on twelve hundred dollars for the Buick (it had been 1500 until the broken AC came to light). 

“So, Theodore, you are the seller, correct?”

“Yes,” said Ted.

“And, Mr. Sollis, you are The Purchaser?”

“You got it.”

“I’m The Purchaser,” said Ted, more to himself than to anyone else.

Both William Sollis and Gladys looked at Ted quizzically.

“Wait,” said Gladys, “so who’s Theodore?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” said Ted. “You got it right the first time, Gladys. My mind was somewhere else.”

“Ha, you and me both, honey.”

William Sollis agreed to drop Ted at a TGI Friday down at the I78 overpass. It wasn’t the sort of place Ted would normally choose for drinking, but it was conveniently located next to the BMW dealership. As soon as Sollis was out of sight, he walked across Friday’s parking lot to a small hill that afforded a special view of the BMW lot. He took some deep breaths and allowed his eyes to scan the place like a boy in a candy shop. If this works, he thought, if this works, god! I will be The Purchaser. He gripped the loose ten-dollar bill in his pocket and walked into the Fridays to gird his loins.

He laid out one of Sollis’ crisp one hundred-dollar bills and ordered Johnnie Walker Blue neat and a beer.

“Buying a car?” The bartender poured a corporate-owned shot of Blue and had seemingly nothing else to do.

“I think so, yeah.” Ted was unsure he wanted the conversation, but maybe it would calm his nerves.

“I see guys stand out there, look at the shiny cars, even talk to the salesmen first sometimes. It’s a lot of money to lay out on a sober stomach. They almost always come in here.”

“I guess so.”

“What are you looking at?”

Ted almost choked. “7 Series.”

“Whooo,” whistled the bartender as he took Ted’s money and opened the register with a beep.

When the bartender brought him his change Ted realized all he had done was break the hundred into smaller bills. “Even here,” thought Ted. He left a nice tip, drained his beer, and headed out.

Walking from the Fridays to the BMW lot, Ted was surprised to feel himself welling up with tears. He was tired, fried. He’d essentially had a superpower for a day and a half, and it was already wearing him out. What could possibly go wrong at the lot? They’d laugh at him? Throw him out? He thought about Stacey, his ex, who’d left him because of his drinking, or because he got fired from the warehouse, or that he lived in a dump with Miller, or because he was a loser who couldn’t stay sober for a funeral. Pick it. He had a knack for self-pity, at least lately, and to be honest he had never expected her to stick around as long as she did. When she’d left him, she did it with tears in her eyes and when he thought about it now, he realized that the woman had truly loved him in a way that he could never love himself. He’d driven her away with his slurred mouth and flaky ways. He’d given her no other choice. It killed him now to remember the scene. As he reached the lot he was sobbing, uselessly waving his hands from his sides as if to say what did you expect?  He didn’t know whether he was speaking to her or himself. What did it matter? 

He leaned against the black sedan he’d seen from the hill and cleaned up his face with his shirt. He looked at himself, his dirty flip-flopped feet, his cargo shorts, his now tear and snot-marked V-neck t-shirt. He lit a cigarette and glanced at the ticket in the back seat window. $110,000. If this works, he thought, if this works. He smoked and waited.

And waited. 

And waited. No one walked out to him. There was no one on the lot. Annoyed, he walked to the front door of the dealership and walked in. The cool air hit him. No one was there. 

“Hello?”

He heard a faint beep spring from the back of the showroom but then nothing. He walked up to the concierge desk and gasped. There, alone on the white faux marble sat a key fob and a title paper. He turned his head in all directions. All was complete stillness and silence.   

He picked up the fob, aimed it at the car through the glass windows, pressed the lock button and saw the lights of the car blink. He picked up the car title and read it. Inside the box labelled ‘Registered Owner’ were printed the words THE PURCHASER.

________________________________________

Ted was a superhero now.  He was THE PURCHASER. He could buy anything in the world, all the things that were for sale.  

From the BMW lot Ted drove home and paid off the Pig Miller with the money from the sale of his Buick to William Sollis. He never saw that place again. With renewed enthusiasm he let poetic ideas take over. Chasing sunsets for a few weeks, he ended up in California by early November. There began a string of run-ins with the police involving sloppy driving and sticky situations where he lacked needed cash (an annoying glitch in his superpower’s reach was the common necessity of having to sell things off for hard currency). Luckily his powers worked when bail was required.

He reached out to Stacey and even convinced her to get a plane out to see him for New Years, but it came to nothing. He’d become a bloated, red-faced disaster. She paid for her own ticket home.

Alone, violently alcoholic, and morally bankrupt, Ted finally tried to take his own life toward the end of February. He woke up in a hospital hallucinating. He was sure he had swallowed himself and the nurses were agents inside his own body trying to kill him. After a stint in the nut ward, he ended up in an expensive Malibu rehab. 30 days later he paid his bill with what he would later realize was his last drop of superpower.