Hot Jobs

    Heat index one-o-four, and it’s door to door. 

    First day on the job.  Tuesday, July 3^rd.  I get in the truck, which is keeping the meats cold, and as it would turn out, the conversation.  You see, as I waited for my trainer, the radio was tuned to the big right wing blather station.  I probably shouldn’t turn it off, I thought, but I had to turn it down.  These radio drama queens are so sensationalistic.  You’d think we just gave Mt Rushmore to Pakistan for a mosque.  After the windbag delivered a rant imploring Obama backers to stay indoors on the 4^th, my trainer, John,  comes out of the warehouse.

     He gets in the truck and we’re off.  After a few newbie questions from me, he asks, “You follow politics?” 

    Uh boy.  It could be a long day. 

    Actually, we hit it off okay.  I was very careful with my comments, and we found  common ground in college hoops (he played), investing and guy stuff.  He seemed not to be religious, but nonetheless, his jokes did seem  kind of racist.  

   

    And he tried the usual tricks with numbers to blast the president. 

    “Yeah,” I objected as I squirted a blob of sunblock on my forehead, “but the economy is much bigger today than it was even just twenty years ago.  So I’m not particularly impressed with that statement.”

    He persisted.  "In this country, if you work hard, you can do anything."

    There is a notion, constantly inculcated by the magazine industry and self-help hustlers, that in America anyone can achieve whatever they desire.  As long as they work hard.  The fact is, most people have a genetic make-up that limits their options.  Not everyone can grow up to be a famous radio bigot.

    John's plan was to drive 60 miles east to the Canaveral area where he had many regular meat customers.  I told him that I used to date a woman over there and would try to steer clear.

    Honestly, most of the people I spoke to treated me with respect and kindness.  I always knock softly and am usually apologetic about interrupting.  My own place is built such that even light knocks on the old, weathered door project and echo wildly down the narrow hall and off the terrazzo floors.   I encountered a slight problem, though, with my appearance.  My glasses have that “transitions” shit on the lenses, so folks can’t always see my eyes when they open the door.

    In a nice little out-of-the-sun section of the neighborhood, a bright, attractive woman who appeared to be in her late 50s opened the door, and seemed interested in what I was saying.  She had the usual concerns about cost, and asked if I had a brochure or card.  “No, but my manager can show you what we have.  Here he comes.  Becky, this is John.  John, Becky.” 

    We brought in the whole works.  Two big boxes.  John opened all of a dozen flat boxes of steaks and seafood, and spread it all out on the table.  Up to this point, I had no idea how much we charged for this stuff.  When he got to price, John wrote a number on a piece of paper and laid it in front of Becky.  (I guess he couldn’t even say it.  They start off very high, and usually come down.) 

    John asked me to wait in the truck.  I felt kind of  sorry for Becky.  She was really a sweet lady.  After thirty minutes, I figured Becky was cooking dinner for him.  Another ten minutes later he  finally came out with empty cases and grabbed a credit slip from the glove box.  I felt kind of guilty sicking him on her.  He closed the deal hard.  “She’s going up to the mountains in Georgia.  I know exactly where it is.  Gave her some tips.”

    I asked John what seafood items he likes.  (They sell lobster and some kind of fish.)  "I never eat lobster," he admitted.  "Cockroaches of the sea."

    Even over there by the coast it was oppresssively hot.  By 7:00PM, we’d made some money and had some laughs.  He wanted to hit one last area, so we fanned out, so to speak, stalking the neighborhood like the robbers in Ben Affleck's film The Town.   I’m  really exhausted and soaked with sweat.  As I’m coming down the last street—two more houses before the truck—I knock on the door. 

    Of all the houses in that town, I had to knock on that door.  I’m lightheaded, withering in the sun, gasping for air like a bullet-riddled criminal.  He opens the door.  (The scope of this post prohibits a lengthy backstory.)  I instantly recognize him.  He certainly remembers me.  There is a woman I can’t quite make out lurking in the foyer.  It’s not her.  I don’t think it’s her.  It’s her best friend.  We used to drink and cookout together.  I’m embarrassed.  He  always paid the bar tab at the hotel. And I think he always wanted my girl.  He is an older man, and I can't remember his name.  After a long pause, I utter, “Hi.  Um, we’re doing a…4^th of July special…”

    “Oh, we’re good, thanks.” 

    “Right, thanks.  Have a nice 4^th.” 

     If only life could be more awkward.  Did they assume I was just coming around to see what she was up to?  After all, the truck was out of sight, and I wasn't wearing any identifying clothing or tag to lend legitimacy to my call.  But why would I have been so sweaty?   

    On our way out of town, John stopped off for one last shakedown of a regular.  As I’m recovering in the truck, drinking some bright red synthetic, harsh, no-calorie drink that a previous mark had offered, my cell rings.  Good news.  I’ve been offered a real job.  Indoors.  With air conditioning.  And health coverage.  And, I would imagine, some people who don’t hate Obama.