Prospects: a pickly word, a sour betrayer. It was supposed to fill your thoughts with gold, or with clear air and great and lovely distances. Well, the metal came quickly enough to mind, but beards followed shortly, dirt and the deceptions of the desert, biscuits like powdered pumice, tin spoons, stinking mules, clattering cups, stinking water, deceiving air.
You’ve got to watch their eyes, Glick. Watch their eyes. Then at the first sign (here Fender would bang his hands together) close in. Greed. (He’d hug himself.) Greed’s what you want to see — all the worst, Glick — envy, that possessive eye. Bang! That eagerness. That need.
But he had a list of numbers to call. He’d better get at it.
He hated winter. The same gray sky lay on the ground, day after day, gray as industrial smoke, and in the sky the ground floated like a street that’s been salted, and his closets were cold, holes wore through his pockets, and he was lonely, indoors and out, with a loneliness like the loneliness of overshoes or someone else’s cough. At the office you seldom got out; your hours weren’t your own; you figured insurance and read the ads in the papers and called when people were home. At the other desk, stacking brochures that advertised lots in Florida and sucking on his fountain pen, rearranging flowers that were dead and dialing numbers without lifting the receiver, was Glick — Glick, the wiseman, Glick, the joker — green all winter like a pine… all winter. There was no one else to talk to but Isabelle, and of course Isabelle…
Glick, why do you do that? I mean, why do you dial like that, with the receiver on the hook? Glick leans over his desk, placing both hands on the phone like a healer. I rehearse the number I’m going to call. He’s very serious, very intense. I rehearse everything. He says it proudly. Preparation is the secret of success.
Advice. From the start. Very wise. And Glick was the younger man. Glick. A pickle. A pickly fellow. Fender’s fork poked through the crust of his pie, releasing steam, and he squinted at the crawling, winking snow. No friend of his. Who knew what shape the lawns were in?
Fender allowed his first bite to fall back. Still staring aimlessly, he rinsed his mouth with air and sent it coasting against the pane. Another advantage of living alone. No embarrassment. Only sensible. He stirred the pie with his fork. If he touched his tongue to the window — that would be cooling. Undeniably another advantage. Who would dare to… publicly? Even alone he felt constraint. As if Pearson might be passing and would see him apply such a kiss to the glass. To Pearson it would look strange and Pearson would hold the strangeness against him.
Again there was no beef to speak of. Deftly he exposed a piece. Lights pierced the pie as about them the gravy darkly oozed and bubbled. The pies were best when the company was still trying to make a good impression. There would be lots of meat then, and the crust would be tender. Pies, he thought, pies…
He wondered whether he ought to try another kind, maybe the kind with the cow on the label. He believed the cow was smiling and he tried to imagine its face and its figure clearly but shards of ice in the drifts disturbed him. There were sales, times of year the price subsided, others again when it rose; there was a rhythm in the market as regular as though it were moved by the moon. He was supposed to keep his ear to the ground and hear the new supermarket opening or the branch bank or the store, the block of offices going up, the factory closing….
Fortunate if you had a freezer.
Pearson, this morning, had once again whacked Fender’s desk with his newspaper. Suddenly: whackwhack. Keep your ears to the ground, Fender. Listen. Listen with all you’ve got, with the whole business — hard — with your eyes, with your nose — with the soul, Fender — yes, that’s what I mean, that’s it — the soul. So keep those ears down. That’s how we get on in this business. That’s how, I should say, you get on, hay, fair friend? But look — I mean Isabelle, Glick — look: there Fender sits. He sits. Where’s your spirit, Fender, your sporting spirit? Merry up. Oh… sad. He’s a sad old dog, Glick. Sad old dog. Try to match me, Fender. Here — take on a real master. Get your blood up. Ah, but look: he sits. Poor pooch. I say, Isabelle — poor pooch. Come on, Fender, try to top the old pro just once and really harken, fair friend, hay? — really listen in. Think if you heard as much as I do. A din! Now then, are you ready, wound and set? Okay — okay — what’s happening — here’s a nice one for you — what’s happening at sixteen thirty-two, oh let’s make it, um, ah — Balinese?
What say?… fair enough?… okay?
Pearson is listening. He wrinkles his nose. The newspaper, folded to real estate, comes down. The image of his heavy gold ring passes across the desk. Years ago he’d explained the ring to Fender, holding his hand to the light. I love this business, Fender, he’d said. I have this funny feeling about it. I love it. That’s what this ring has always meant. The first time I slipped it on, it struck me — love! Pearson twisted the ring but Fender never saw it clearly, he was looking away at his shoes, and he still had no idea what the emblem on it represented. Fender, you know, it’s like — you aren’t Catholic, Fender, are you? — well, it’s like being married to the church. Like nuns or monks are. Aren’t they? That’s it. That’s fine. Like monks or nuns.
Pearson is listening… listening… and it seems unlikely that Fender will be able to surpass him, he’s so alert. But Pearson coaxes. Try. It’s possible. It’s barely possible, Fender. Try. Anyway — that’s all. Just keep up. Keep up.
Fender now imagines that he’s shrugged disdainfully, displaying his palms. He fires off a clever retort. In this weather, Mr. Pearson, he decides he’s saying, smiling wisely, all I’ll get is an earful of ice. The remark falls short of his hopes, somehow.
Fender resumed his chewing. Suppose he had though? He blew softly, feeling the warmth of the fork in his fingers. When they cut their prices like that, they were unloading all their old stock, clearing their warehouses of what would otherwise spoil, no doubt of it. How long would such things keep, frozen like bricks of ice? Antarctic explorers had… what? Lethargic bacteria. The beef would spoil first, or the gravy would. Then salt was a factor. Of course they salted the pies. Didn’t salt hasten…? He remembered it did. Ham and bacon poorest. Perhaps some preservative was added. Yes, a good question: how long would they last? Funny that such a figure should control the fluctuation. He thought how Pearson would sway to the music of the market like a dancer. Keep your fingers on the pulse. Measure the flow. Calculate the rate.