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THE OLD SALESMAN by Edward M. Baldwin Copyright © 2003
THE OLD MAN was running late. He’d hit the snooze button one time too many, and now he was running late by seven minutes. He sprang out of bed—that is, with as much spring as his tired, seventy-six-year-old bones would allow—and gingerly made his way to the bathroom. The old woman, which is what the old man called his wife much of the time, knew that he was running late, but she pretended to be asleep for a little while longer. Thanks to fifty-four years of marriage, she knew all of the ways to make her husband’s day a smoother, more tolerable one, and keeping out of his way for a few minutes when he’s obviously bothered and annoyed was one of them. The old man was a salesman. Ages ago, he had entertained the notion of retiring as a longshoreman, but he was unfulfilled at the port. After six years of loading and unloading ships, he made the switch to debit insurance, and, finding that he loved sales, it had consumed much of his life. And though no one would know it from their neighborhood, he and the old woman were quite “well-off because of it,” as most others in the neighborhood would readily put it. Their house was somewhat meek and unpretentious, but by far the best in the area. They afforded the best yardman and gardener money could buy, and with a complex and thorough preventive maintenance schedule, they made sure that their house stayed in mint condition. They were never ones to spend money needlessly, and they were definitely the richer for it. A large sum of their modest fortune went to the educating of their two sons and three daughters, while the rest sat comfortably in a savings account at the neighborhood longshoremen’s credit union, threatening to burst at the seams. By the time the old man finished his morning ritual of preparing to leave the house, the old woman had his morning sunny-side-up, toast, and coffee waiting for him at the kitchen table. He nodded his thank you and gave the old woman his usual peck on the cheek. Then he sat down to eat, making a tad more haste than normal. The old woman, having only coffee, sat down and gazed fondly at the old man with the same sincerity of fifty-four years ago. “I’m runnin’ a little late,” he grunted, chomping on his toast. The old woman only nodded at this, and then took a sip of coffee. After the short breakfast was finished, she met him at the door, handing him his briefcase. “Have a successful day, dear,” she said, something she had been saying forever, each time he headed off to work. “I’ll do my best, old woman,” he shot back, giving her his first smile of the day and another peck. “I’ll do my best.” The old woman returned his smile, knowing that sale or no sale, the day would not be considered a failure by either of them because he would’ve indeed done his best. And even though she’d readily admit that the days he came home with a sale or two—the only days marked with his signature statement And more to come, my love—were days she was most happy for him, her pride never faltered on the days he came home empty-handed. The old man carefully walked down the four porch steps and out the yard to the sidewalk, where he slowly made his way toward the bus stop that waited three blocks away. His muscles and joints had been bothering him for the last fifteen years or so, but he had learned to ease the discomfort by walking with a sort of waddle. He resembled a briefcase-wielding penguin heading for its morning swim, but the old man didn’t care. Comfort was the only thing that mattered, and he was thankful for being able to walk at all. When he reached the bus stop, he checked his watch to see that he was only two minutes behind schedule, but he knew that the bus hadn’t come yet. His personal schedule gave him a twenty-minute grace period, which is to say that he’d actually have to be running twenty minutes late to be considered “right on time.” Delicately, he sat on the bus stop bench with a mild groan and placed his briefcase over his aching thighs. Ignoring the hypodermic needles and miniature cellophane bags scattered at his feet, discarded by the neighborhood nightlife, the old man opened the briefcase, removed a book, and began reading silently, his lips moving involuntarily. He never was a very strong reader, and because of it, he had developed the habit much later in life. After two minutes, a couple of boys from the neighborhood approached the bus stop with school backpacks mounted on their shoulders. Their school bus always showed a minute or so before the city bus did, and they were very familiar with the old man. Both boys wore the unmistakable expression of one dreading yet another day at school. Their expressions always brought a grin to the old man’s face as he remembered a different time, when the opportunity for “schooling” wasn’t to be taken for granted. The old man looked up from his book with a smile. “Mornin’, Rap Master,” he said to the taller of the two with a respectful nod. And then to the other, “Mornin’, Werewolf.” Rap Master and Werewolf had come to like the old man a little for addressing them the way they wanted to be addressed, so they had no qualms about returning the greeting with cordial grins on their faces, but they kept their distance just the same, standing a few yards away with hands thrust deep in the pockets of their jeans. Less than a minute later, three more children arrived at the bus stop: Elizabeth, Hanna, and Spiderman. They all spoke respectfully to the old man, but the two girls joined him on the bench, sitting on either side of him, while Spiderman took his usual place between Rap Master and Werewolf. Elizabeth leaned into the old man, examining the cover of his paperback. “That’s a new book,” she said. Hanna frowned. “No kiddin’, girl,” she scoffed. “He finished the other one yesterday. Whey was you?” Elizabeth glared at Hanna, but said nothing. “What’s this one about?” Hanna asked. The old man cleared his throat and spoke loud enough for the boys to hear. “It’s about fishin’,” he announced. “What’s about fishin’?” called a gruff voice approaching the bus stop from behind the bench. The old man craned his neck as much as he could to see Loverboy and his younger sister, Jeanette, strutting towards them. “He got a new book today,” answered Elizabeth. “And he say it’s about fishin’.” Instead of walking over to the rest of the odd-named bunch as he usually did, Loverboy followed his sister to the bench, stood behind Elizabeth, and peered over the old man’s shoulder. “Fishin’, huh?” he said, still trying to sound cool, giving his voice a healthy coat of disinterest. The old man looked back at Loverboy the best he could and asked, “You ever been fishin’ before?” Loverboy erected himself and jutted a hand in his pocket, looking as cool as ever. “I go fishin’ wit my uncle almost every weekend,” he admitted proudly. The old man nodded, and then launched into a series of questions about Loverboy’s fishing experiences, and the suave eighth-grader was more than happy to share his fishing prowess, complete with colorful accounts of the ones that got away. When Loverboy had finished recalling all of the fishing experiences that would’ve made Poseidon himself proud, the old man showcased the cover of his paperback copy of The Old Man and the Sea. “Well, the fellow in this book ain’t nearly as lucky at fishin’ as you, Loverboy,” he explained, ignoring the kink in his neck as he turned to look the boy in the eye, “but I’m sure you’d agree, being the fine fisherman you are, that the deck was definitely stacked against him.” Seeing the discomfort on the old man’s face, Loverboy walked around to the front of the bench so that the old man could go easy on his neck. “So it’s about a old man fishin’?” he asked, a twinge of coolness fading from his voice. The old man nodded. “How old is he?” Hanna asked. “Is he old as you?” Elizabeth chimed in. At this, the other three boys snickered, mumbling snappy comments among themselves, and Elizabeth immediately regretted exposing the old man to the immaturity of Rap Master, Werewolf, and Spiderman—who would always be “Anthony,” “Tyrone,” and “George” to her, no matter what they called themselves. Of course, the old man was quite seasoned at ignoring the boys’ antics. He simply shrugged his shoulders and said, “Probably so, Elizabeth.” And instantly, the boys’ wisecracking lost its potency. Loverboy glared at his “partners in crime,” then back at the old man. “You done already started read’n it?” The old man shook his head. “Not yet,” he replied. “I was just warming myself up for it by thinkin’ about all the times I went out fishin’, and how bad I felt when I didn’t catch anything.” Loverboy understood completely. Of course, the girls couldn’t care less about fishing, but they could easily empathize with the old man. After all, who likes doing something all day long, only to find out that he’d been wasting his time? “Go ahead and start,” urged Hanna. The old man nodded his okay, and, for the first time, Loverboy listened intently—though with arms folded indignantly to salvage some of his coolness. The old man read as best he could, stumbling over a word maybe once every three or so paragraphs, but the inflections in his voice more than compensated for the minor hiccups in his flow. When their school bus arrived, the girls gave the old man their usual wave goodbye. Loverboy, now having contracted a nagging interest in Hemingway’s short novel, asked the old man—actually, it came across as a mild command just to keep with his coolness—to remember the spot in the story where they were being forced to stop. The old man nodded with a smile, assuring the boy that he had already dog-eared the page. Then, still sitting on the bench, he waved as the bus driver drove away. He could see arms swaying from the school bus for over a hundred yards, and little Jeanette screamed a final goodbye with her face filling a window. As soon as the school bus was out of sight, the roar of the city bus announced its approach, but the old man did not rise from the bench, and the city bus did not stop. Instead, the bus driver raced pass the old man with a wave and toot of the horn, leaving a sauna of warm exhaust fumes in his wake. The old man placed the novel back inside his briefcase, and, after a deep breath, he grunted to his feet and made his way back home. The old woman met him at the door with a fresh cup of coffee. “How was your mornin’, dear?” she asked, offering him the coffee. The old man placed his briefcase on the floor, accepted the coffee, and pecked the old woman on the cheek. “I made a sale today,” he said matter-of-factly. Then he took a careful sip of the coffee, his wrinkled lips quivering slightly. “Was it Rap Master?” the old woman asked, staring into the old man’s pleased face. “Spiderman?” The old man shook his head. “No, it was Loverboy.” “Loverboy?” “I know,” he said. “I couldn’t believe it either.” The old woman snaked her wrinkled arms around the old man’s waist, being careful not to spill his coffee. “Diligence pays off,” she said. “Ain’t that what you preached all the years with the insurance? And you always was a decent insurance man.” The old man did not acknowledge the old woman’s kind words. Instead, he led her to the kitchen table where her cup of coffee was waiting. Sitting at the table, the old woman took a sip of her coffee and said, “So the old salesman still got it, huh?” The old man took another sip of coffee and replied, “And more to come, my love.”
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Copyright © 2009 Edward M. Baldwin |
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Short stories |
