Salesmanship

“I am Timothy LaFontaine-Johnson and I am not a man to be taken lightly. I am a force of nature. There are men who enter into a room and make no noise. Quiet, weak, men who tremble at the thought of a conversation and run from danger. I am not a weak man. My bloodline is strong and my responsibilities are many. I will not fail those who depend on me. I will not shirk my duties. I will sell. I will win. I am Timothy LaFontaine-Johnson, and I will not be denied.”

Tim stared expectantly at the woman in front of him. Her face was hard to read but it definitely didn’t look happy. 

“We have all the kitchen knives we need at the moment, sorry, have a good day.” She stammered as she quickly closed the door. 

Tim could hear the clicking of several locks settling into place. He smiled and packed up his display. It was a roughly made contraption, styled like a tackle box, that came bursting forth from the briefcase he carried with him at all times. On each level of the tiered setup lay a variety of kitchen knives, perfectly polished to a mirrored shine. 

Tim was used to people being intimidated by him. He had too much charisma and they didn’t know how to react to it. It made selling knives more difficult but Tim relished a challenge. He certainly hadn’t decided to become a door to door knife salesman because it was easy. Truthfully, it was a favor to his father. He had begged Tim to take the job, his fourth this year, after he had been fired again for making customers “uncomfortable”. At least that was the excuse given by his manager. But if he couldn’t engage the populace in a lively discussion about how capitalism was causing societal collapse from the pedestal of a Burger King drive-thru window then why be there at all? At least with sales the citizens were freely accessible and moldable.

He cheerily hopped off the porch and continued down the road. On any other day his failure to be invited into the woman’s home would have been extremely disheartening but today it didn’t matter. Every house on the block could slam their doors in his face and he would still be skipping down the street. 

Turning the corner, Tim looked up with glee at the large mansion in front of him. It was a hulking mass of white marble and decaying trees. The kind of house that children avoided every Halloween even though it had no decorations. And inside of that house lived Tim’s meal ticket, Ms. Johnson, an elderly widow with deep pockets. Tim had been visiting her every two weeks for the past couple months and she always ordered several knives. Her deceased husband had been a traveling salesman and she had a soft spot for the position. It was an easy profit.

A glimpse of tan flashed in the corner of his eye and Tim froze on the bottom step leading up to the mansion. Impossible. His hand gripped the briefcase tighter as he turned towards the figure approaching him. The world of door to door salesmen was a small one and in that world there was one man whom Timothy LaFontaine-Johnson absolutely despised. The man standing in front of him now, tan suit perfectly pressed, Reginald Hasselbeck DuPont.

Standing at around five feet tall, Reginald DuPont, or Reggie to his mother, was not an imposing man. But what he lacked in stature he made up for in sheer confidence. A ridiculous confidence, born out of a complete disregard for personal limits or ability. Reggie believed that he was capable of anything and refused to hear evidence to the contrary. Some called it denial, because that’s exactly what it was. There was no failure for Reggie. Any mistake he made was immediately covered up by his overbearing mother, an exceedingly rich socialite who had married the right man at the right time. She was the one who had gotten him the knife sales job. She considered it the perfect opportunity for him to practice making connections, an important skill in the world of people who had no skills to speak of. 

To the surprise of absolutely no one, Reggie was terrible at selling anything. His approach was too strong, he had no knowledge of the product, and for some inexplicable reason he insisted on always asking for the “man of the house”. Despite all of this, every week Reggie had the most sales in the city, courtesy of a “secret buyer” who would clear out his inventory every Friday. He tried to claim that he had a contact at a wholesaler, the checks signed by his mother said otherwise. 

Of course, nobody at the company cared as long as knives were being sold. Except for Timothy LaFontaine-Johnson. He cared very much, and that award was his by right. He had the charisma, the style, and the unyielding stamina required to overpower potential customers and bend them to his will. The only thing standing in his way was Reggie. Well not today. Tim thought as he stood resolute on the bottom step, blocking Reggie’s path.

“Hello Timothy,” Reggie smirked and bent his body into a deep, exaggerated bow, sweeping his arm straight out like a Victorian royal. “I see you’ve discovered old Ms. Johnson as well?”

“I have been selling to Ms. Johnson for weeks Reggie.” Tim set down his briefcase and widened his stance. “And I will be dead in the ground before I let a charlatan like yourself steal my client away from me.”

Reggie clutched his chest in fake horror. “A charlatan? My god Timothy you really think that little of me? If you found her first then by all means make your sale. I certainly have no need for paltry individual sales.” He bowed again and tipped his hat, a bright red trilby.

Tim relaxed slightly. “Oh, thank you, I’m glad to see that you’ve found some reason.” He turned to walk up the stairs.

“I’ll just have my mother buy the house.” Reggie muttered behind him.

Tim spun around and stared at Reggie, horrorstruck. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“All it would take is a simple phone call,” Reggie grinned. “My mother has been thinking about getting into real estate and the land must be worth quite a bit.”

Tim’s body was white hot with rage, he walked down the steps back towards Reggie and stood inches away from his face. Well, as close to his face as he could get, he was actually having an intense staring contest with the bald spot on Reggies head. Reggie smiled up at him, unflinching.

“You’ve never made an actual sale in your life,” Tim glared. “And you won’t make this one either, you are a failure as a salesman.”

Reggie’s eye twitched slightly but his smile held. “I will ignore that completely unnecessary slight, Timothy, because I like you. And you know as well as I do that it doesn’t matter what the sales pitch is. Ms. Johnson always pays.”

Tim’s shoulder’s sagged as Reggie pushed by him.

“So then, Timothy, you will let me pass, I’ll make my sale. And poor old Ms. Johnson gets to keep her house. Everybody wins. Well, you don’t, you lose quite handily but that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

Tim frantically searched his brain for a solution. Reggie couldn’t win. He had to have a weakness, a trigger. Tim’s face lit up and he called after Reggie. “Don’t you want to win without your mother’s help?”

Reggie froze on the staircase, his fists clenched tightly.

“You haven’t done a single thing in your life without her helping you every step of the way.” Tim saw the hesitation and poured it on thick. “Do you have no honor sir? No sense of self reliance? Be a man and face me.”

The red trilby flew into the air as Reggie turned and briskly walked back until he was face to stomach with Tim. He stepped back a few steps until he was face to face.

“What do you propose?” 

“A duel,” Tim said. “A gentleman's game of roshambo, winner gets the sale fair and square.”

“I accept,” Reggie’s face was bright red. His usual confident demeanor was replaced with sweaty, impotent, anger.

Clouds rolled in front of the sun, plunging the otherwise cheerful neighborhood into a bleak grey. Every nerve in Tim’s body was on edge as he stepped out into the street. Reggie strolled into place across from him and they stared into each other's eyes. Currents of raw, visceral emotion coursed between them. This was Tim’s moment, the culmination of every effort he had made until today. His honor, his business, and the LaFontaine-Johnson name were on the line this day. He raised a trembling hand and formed it into a first.

“Ready?”

Reggie raised his own hand into the sky and brought it down slowly, methodically, into place on top of his palm. “I was born ready Timmy-boy.”

The two men beat their fists into their hands in rhythm and spoke in unison.

“Rock.”

A car honked behind them, some wage slave who couldn’t grasp the gravity of the situation, they would have to wait.

“Paper.”

Sweat ran down Tim’s face and stung his eyes. He realized that he hadn’t taken a breath, it would have to wait, he couldn’t spare a moment of concentration on something as pedestrian as breathing. He could feel the eyes of the whole neighborhood watching him, their fates intertwined. He was their champion, a lone knight defending the realm. 

“Scissors.”

Tim’s vision went white and he screamed into the void. He could see Reginald yelling as well but he couldn’t hear him. All around him was dead silent.

****

“Walter! That jackass is back and he found a friend.”

Ms. Alice Johnson stared out her window, feeling supremely annoyed. Her husband Walter walked up beside her and looked down at the two young men standing outside their house. Each man wore a suit and tie, one black and the other tan. The tan suited man wore a ridiculously red trilby hat. They both seemed to be in an intense argument.

“What jackass? Why are those two idiots on our front lawn?”

“I told you yesterday Walter,” Alice sighed. “The one in black has been coming to the house every two weeks for the past few months. He always shows up with some big prepared speech and then just stares at me. I think he sells knives. I’ve been giving him that prop money you have left over from your last job. I thought he would get the hint but the poor boy keeps coming back, I think he’s mentally ill. Very nice boy though, always polite. I don’t know who the other one is.”

“How have I never seen him?” Walter squinted down at the two men who had now stepped out into the street. “And why am I just hearing about him now?”

“He comes over while you’re at work. And I’ve told you about him several times you just don’t listen.” Alice remarked. “What on earth are they doing in the street?”

“I think the damned fools are playing rock, paper, scissors. Two full grown men playing children’s games” Walter chuckled. “With any luck a car will smack some sense into them.”

“Walter!” Alice smacked him in the arm. “Don’t wish harm on that nice boy.”

She was distracted by a scream coming from the street. Both men stood across from each other, pounding roshambo into their palms and screaming into each other's face. They froze and for a moment just stood there staring at their hands. Then the one in tan started stammering and the young man in black raised his hands in triumph. He picked up his briefcase and began walking up the steps towards the house.

“Oh dear, Walter go get the prop money please.” Alice sighed.

A loud warrior cry rang out from below as the tan man lunged towards the black suited one. Both men fell to the ground and rolled down the hill, kicking and slapping each other as they landed in the gutter.

Alice grabbed Walter’s arm. “Oh dear, should we help him?”

The two men continued rolling out into the street, haphazardly swinging wide, useless slaps at each other. Neither doing any visible damage.

Walter sighed and grabbed Alice’s hand. “I’m sure he will be fine. Neither of them look like they know how to fight worth a damn.”

They turned away from the window. Leaving the two titans of industry, Timothy LaFontaine-Johnson and Reginald Hasselbeck DuPont, flailing away outside. Fighting the greatest battle of their age.