I became their top salesman. I beat homeless Cronkite and Alcoholic priest and a bunch of other guys who’d been in boiler rooms all their adult lives, always for companies with three letter names: BTS productions, CBL productions. Selling the chance to send five retarded kids to the Vaudeville Variety Follies in Oregon and Texas and Arizona. I locked on to something and walked in knowing I would kill and so I did. A woman gave a thousand dollars because she was mad at her husband and I was a man to talk to. A man started out screaming at me out for screwing real charities out of money and when I gave him the voice he calmed down and bought. The old codgers showed me respect. I started to think of myself as a salesman. I can close anything, anyone, I thought. Then some girl would ask “what do you do” in a bar and I would cringe. This was before I knew how to lie to girls. “I’m a telemarketer,” I would say. “Oh fuck, I hate you guys.”
No matter how good you are most of them hate you. Once in a while one of them will get through to whatever tender spot you have left. There are still two people, twelve years later, whose names, numbers and addresses I could recite for you. I’ve taken care to remember because I still might want to kill them some day. Do you know what a waste of a human life you are, one of them told me. At the time I didn’t, although I’ve since been briefed. No matter how good you are, and even if you act like a human being to them, every night there are enough of them being cruel to make you cry. I could stay on the phone with you and make you kill yourself, you think. Or at least tell you to go fuck yourself, but, the boss was very clear. They can say these things. You can’t. That’s what a job is. They can say you’re a waste of human life and you can’t say fuck off.
If you have a soul, there is a vessel inside of you that gets filled up with all the hate you take in. About a year in it hit the meniscus for me and I had to quit. I got a job selling ads for a newspaper. The same shit, really, but I was dialing the phone with my fingers rather than a machine and could tell girls I worked for something they’d heard of.
But I remember the lessons that job taught me. Because there are only two jobs in the world: “making shit,” and “selling shit.” Every white collar job I’ve had since is “selling shit.” Picking up the phone and asking people for money. Whether they give it to you depends on what’s in your voice. What’s in your voice depends on whether the last guy gave you money.
The world only rewards hustlers and liars. People will be cruel to the weak whenever they get a chance. Then they will roll over mesmerized for anyone who doesn’t appear to give a fuck. They’ll trip over themselves to give you anything as long as you don’t need it. As long as they’re not helping you. The job taught me that we are essentially evil. That every nice thing you’ve ever thought about humankind is a flaming crock of shit. That if a righteous God existed we would have been destroyed long ago.
There were, however, free doughnuts on Saturdays.
The Soap
There was thumping coming from the bathroom. Slow at first, then gradually faster, and then a big sound like a bundle of logs being dropped.
Where’s the soap? She called through the door.
I don’t know. Where is it usually?
The door creaked open and her head appeared, face slightly red. If it were where it is usually, she said, would I have asked you where it is?
Well it’s in there somewhere.
Are you sure sweetie?
Yeah, it has to be.
He stood up from the couch, walked over and stuck his head in the bathroom door. She was back looking in the cabinet under the sink now. Moving items around: toilet paper, baby powder, tampons. There was no available physical space large enough to be occupied by the 8-Pak of Lever 2000® Pure Rain™ bath bars she had instructed him to buy. But she kept looking anyway.
Are you sure you even bought it?
I mean, yeah.
She put down a half-rolled-up tube of triple antibiotic ointment and looked up at him. The triple antibiotic ointment had been purchased for their cat when it had been bitten by a gopher. Later their son fell off his bike and got a scratch. She had insisted on purchasing a new, separate tube of ointment, even though he had looked it up on the internet and the one for cats was the exact same ingredients as the one for people. You’re sure.
Look, I don’t have a specific memory of the soap among 15,000 other items. But I bought it. OK? It’s gonna be fine. Maybe it’s in the kitchen.
She followed him. Why would you put it in the kitchen?
I don’t know. Maybe I filed it under “cleaning products” in my mind.
In the cabinet under the kitchen sink, arrayed beneath the gooseneck, were the 3-Pak of duel surface dish sponge/ pot scrubbers, the new yellow latex gloves, and the Reduced Environmental Harm pine cleaner he had purchased. No soap.
Look, he said, I bought it. I remember now, because we had the coupon. I remember giving her the coupon. She said it was only for the 12-Pak and they were out of 12-Paks but the manager came over and told her to give it to me for the 8-Pak. So I definitely bought it. It’s here somewhere.
OK, “somewhere” doesn’t do me any good though. It exists, that’s great, but it’s not helpful. What I want to know is where did you put it.
I mean I thought I put it where the soap usually goes…
She put her palm to her forehead. Inhaled. OK, obviously you didn’t. I have to go. Can you just think?
I’ve been thinking. I’m not… we’d have to call in a hypnotist to reconstruct what I did with the soap. It’s gonna turn up honey. Why don’t you get in the shower and use shampoo. I’ll bring it in to you if I find it.
I’m not going to wash my armpits and asshole with shampoo. This is an office, I can’t start smelling like fucking taint halfway through the day–
Well you’re the one who’s freaking out about being late. I’m trying to be constructive.
Constructive? It’s not helping, OK? It’s not helping. It’s not like you have a lot to do around here, and the one fucking thing I want, the one thing I ask you for–
That’s not fair.
You have no job, you bring in no money, and you can’t even make sure we have basic things like soap in the fucking house. You can’t even–