The Dream Merchant

by Fred Waitzkin

  Most of the money Jim brought in from signing up recruits went to the guys above him in the corporation called up lines. In network marketing, executives profit directly from the start-up fees and sales of everyone in the organization below them; it is a grand joyride for these men when things are going well. With business down, Jim’s bosses were afraid he would leave them for another marketing network with a new product line and more attractive recruiting incentives; it would spell the end of their rosy days. Jim’s top guys—he referred to them as his best friends—offered him cash incentives to keep him traveling to meetings, selling their magnetic braces, mattresses, and blankets, hosting parties on his breezy terrace. It was the only way to siphon large sums up the massive network.

  Jim’s up lines were conference-calling him two or three times a day, probing for good news from the trenches, but meanwhile they made conversation about their gym visits, families, and illness, titillated one another, and Jim, with insider talk of payoffs, fancy new cars, and pathetic flings with aging lady “down liners” who were trying to claw their way up to the golden circle. Everyone was selling success while keeping a nervous eye on a plummeting market.

  * * *

  Jim no longer mentions these treasured friends, which is reasonable for a man making a fresh start, but it rubs me the wrong way. I cannot help myself. I roll out their names, Jack, Roy, Chet, Leon, as if they were the greatest fellows on earth. Occasionally, reluctantly, as if they were robbing from a sacred inner core, they had stolen time from golf games to come fishing with us for grouper or king mackerel. While Jim and I put out the lines or reeled in a fish, they sat inside talking about money or playing boisterous gin rummy, clobbering the table and scribbling tallies on a pad. That was fishing. They were profane men who aspired to little else besides ostentatious spending. Their lack of taste was stunning. But Jim urged me to take a longer look until I recognized them as the same royalty my dad had courted: cheating, whoring, usurious, and glittering brightly like strip joints they frequented or cheap motels on the edge of town. (In tacky clubs my father drank Jack Daniel’s and laughed along with his rep friends until his teeth were rattling around in his mouth. The aging salesmen still envisioned young women and seven-figure deals that made them giddy and solemn in turns. Each of them made a show of grabbing for the check, but my skinny dad almost always got it, which made me proud.) Now I am stirred by their memory. Their garishness feels like my own hand. I want, no, I need for my friend to cherish them again, especially now as he moves into a life he and the girl would scrape clean of all wounds and history. I prod Jim to straddle sensibilities and time as she frowns in our direction. I am speaking to him urgently, pulling him back into the mud, and he is nodding, yes, as if I were Marvin Gesler.

  Now Jim is grinning at the memory of some shady business maneuver or maybe the panorama of a thousand whorey deals, and Mara has become tight as a drum. She feels out of control when she’s not directing every single moment. She feels accused. And she is correct. I am playing this song, at least in part, for her. I drive in the needle whenever I see an opportunity. Of course, Mara can do certain things very well.

  13.

  When she was living in the country with Jim, Ava’s questions and self-doubts seemed fixable as the old barn. Jim knew how to do it all. She was so proud whenever he made a big deal about her “being right on target” buying the property—he adored her and that seemed enough for Ava. But there was more. He coached and complimented her every little endeavor. Soon she was even getting food onto the table. After fishing in their own stream Ava insisted on cleaning the trout herself, using her fingers to pull out the guts, the way he’d showed her, although she always made a distasteful expression that he found charming. He needed to hug and kiss her.

  Jim was her meaning, her identity. He would teach her to take care of the farm, to fish, to cook, and they’d make babies. After all, he was thirty-five, she was twenty-six; it was time. He swore that their lives would be great. He swore it many times. He washed away her doubts with kisses. She believed him, again and again. If only he could have stayed with her on the farm, their story might have turned mundane but also lovely and long-playing. She often thought that.

  But as the summer wore on, Jim began to feel restless and dissatisfied. He would recall early years on his grandfather’s farm, watching his dad standing outside kicking the dirt and staring out to the horizon. Jim tried to shake it with long hikes in the woods, fishing, and spending time with Ava, who was lovely and trying so hard to cook, it was very touching, but he had this need for Marvin. Jim got sweaty when he thought of their late-night talks about making it big, scams beating against one another like windows in a big blow. All this good life was making Jim feel like a dead man. It was curious that Marvin Gesler, without scruples or subtlety or appetite for the art of living, was the gateway to Jim’s deepest hopes and needs.

  Ava knew what was coming. Marvin Gesler had taken over Jim’s mind. One sunny afternoon he was pulling out of the yard, waving back at her from the front window of one of his sedans.

  * * *

  Marvin and Jim flew to Nassau at Jim’s suggestion, their second visit to the islands. Jim loved the clear warm ocean, although Marvin barely noticed where he was. They talked all day on the beach. Marvin was dressed in Bermudas and a gaudy Hawaiian shirt. He was fatter than ever, the unhealthy whiteness of his skin beginning to blotch from the sun, a hairy chest, heavy jowls that suggested an inner burden. Jim walked beside him with the grace of an athlete, tanned, terrific looking, but entirely engrossed.

  At night they continued in their favorite restaurant, Lord Rum Bottom’s. Marvin gulped down his fresh seafood while expounding on the fortune to be made from manufacturing metal houses. But who would want to live in such places? Marvin waved off Jim’s questions or remarked gruffly, Not now; hold it! For a day and a half Marvin couldn’t stop talking about metal barns and houses. He needed to convey what they would cost to manufacture, their strength relative to load and wind, profit margins, the gauge steel required depending on the climate, under-the-table opportunities for chiseling. Marvin licked his fingers or absently pushed them into his underpants. When Jim thought it would never end, Marvin’s mind suddenly veered to a factoring scheme involving diesel engine parts, an easy 20 percent a month, then some real estate scam that Jim didn’t understand at all—accounting gimmicks, beating the government in twenty ways, franchising health stores, weight-loss clinics, offshore accounts, all in numbing detail. When the partners returned to Canada there were marathon brainstorming sessions driving in Jim’s cars or sitting in cheap diners that Marvin favored. Marvin described chains of donut stores and muffin kiosks stretching across the provinces. Franchising was the key. Almost anything could be franchised, he claimed. He had a far-fetched idea about prospecting for diamonds or gold in the Brazilian jungle where labor was virtually free. Then his mind arced back to constructing houses, churches, and bowling alleys from metal. On his most creative days Marvin was buffeted between ecstasy and intense frustration and pain, because most of his ideas were destined to be stillborn.

  Jim once commented to Ava that instead of going to business school, a smart young man could make his fortune by taking Marvin to a cheap restaurant, buying him a glass of wine, and then devoting his life to virtually any scheme that Marvin tossed out. Surely some of Marvin’s greatest business ventures went out with the leftovers.

  He often complained to Jim of being overloaded with ideas, afflicted by a hurting brain. Sometimes he would remark to Jim or no one in particular, Why can’t I just forget? Marvin needed to talk, or eat whenever the impulse struck. His desires were like physical protuberances. In the middle of a sentence he had to get out of the Chinese or Italian joint fast, feeling trapped, real fast, and walk it off, and Jim, who had been trying to catch up to Marvin’s meaning, was sitting with his food in front of him, untouched. Marvin was up from the table and waving off Jim’s incredulity. Walking and talking. Marvin’s ideas were often
implausible, given their resources, but brilliant. Jim began to see that Marvin was utterly helpless. Without Jim’s considerable talents, Marvin could spend his life talking to himself on a bench.

  Jim picked his moments to coddle Marvin, eased him back to the pyramid deal. They had hardly scratched the surface. Why move into something different when they knew pyramid selling? Marvin nodded his head. He had a file inside about exactly how it should work. Marvin described the vast glassy showrooms they’d build in a half-dozen cities, coupons that looked like ornate diplomas of merit, the financial intricacies of ever-expanding levels of payouts; they’d pay off the cops for two years, maybe three. Then they’d get out of this business and franchise muffin kiosks or maybe weight-loss clinics. Jim agreed. Marvin calculated the profits in his head. Jim made practical choices and kept Marvin on point.

  * * *

  By the fall of 1964, Jim and Marvin were soaring. In Montreal they had opened a deluxe eighty-thousand-square-foot store called International Furniture and Appliances that would quickly become a model for megaoutlets throughout the Canadian provinces. Marvin’s marketing ideas were so clear and resonant it was hard to believe that selling appliances had ever been done differently. There were splashes of color everywhere, high-gloss hardwood floors, bright track lighting such as you’d find in the best museums showering flash and glamour onto washing machines and varnished dining room sets. Big stereo speakers pumped out sexy music. Marvin’s vivid signs dropped from high like mobiles making it easy to find color televisions, bass boats, or fishing rods. The store had an attitude, a pace, and a carpe diem message: seize the opportunity, buying well is moving ahead in life. Shopping there became a Montreal event like theater or the circus.

  * * *

  Jim boasted to Mara that the store was his idea. This was mostly true. Jim had pressed Marvin to design a huge physical plant with a chancy Vegas atmosphere. Within a year of opening, Marvin’s glitzy showcasing of products and sales efficiency were copied by other new mega appliance stores in Cleveland and Detroit. Boston’s enormously successful Lechmere Sales was a knockoff of Jim and Marvin’s Montreal retail operation replete with glossy packaging, lighting, and color schemes borrowed from Marvin. For Jim, their large modern building was proof of making it big, a trophy he could bring home to Ava or tell his mother about on the phone. But quite likely people would have flocked to their operation if Marvin had stacked the vast and varied merchandise into a dusty airplane hanger. Shoppers thronged to International to buy a dream. They stood on line to collect Marvin’s coupons printed with florid script and abstruse explanations of the business bonanza (“a dynamic multi-leveled partnership” was Marvin’s catch phrase) that would make them wealthy. Marvin’s coupons were a masterstroke.

  Most of the innovations in the store came from Marvin, who rudely waved off suggestions from Jim and occasionally from Ava when she came into the office. Jim begrudgingly admits this today, although he dislikes giving credit to his partner in front of Mara. Jim was a great salesman, of course, but his other contributions to the business were more difficult to describe, usually involving questions of emphasis or ways to motivate Marvin, some of which weren’t conventional or so lovely. Quite possibly, Jim saved Marvin from a life of wandering destitution and madness, but how could he explain this to the Israeli girl? Despite her improving English, Mara was a straightforward young woman who was impatient with complications and nuance. She was impressed with a big flashy building crammed with shoppers. She enjoyed hearing about the tremendous white circus tent they set up once a month in the parking lot. If her concreteness and annoyance with subtlety was a limitation it did not register as such to Jim.

  The monthly events were spectacular and they changed men’s lives. How he wished Mara could have seen one with her own eyes. I was leaning back in Jim’s war-torn La-Z-Boy, scribbling notes, when he glanced my way helplessly. It was such a long way from the wonder of that first store in Montreal to this impoverished room. He was worried that he couldn’t do justice to the spectacle—he stuttered and worked his way in while Mara tried to imagine it.

  * * *

  There were crowds outside waiting to get in, powerful spotlights that crisscrossed the Montreal sky creating the draw of celebrity and opportunity. Inside, banners were blown by invisible wind, just the perfect selection of music to make the older folk—they were the ones with money—feel that the capacity for romance was still alive and stirring, a dozen wondrously packaged specials up front piled high on massive racks, they were flying off the racks, Jim, handsome Jim holding the microphone, and feeling all of life rippling through his powerful shoulders; if she could have seen Jim onstage with the golden future spilling out of him, long-legged women walking the aisles taking cash in exchange for coupons. Jim picked the women, he always picked the women for their businesses; the girls collected thousands with their promising smiles (Marvin insisted on that and went into a rage when they didn’t smile) while handing out coupons for last-moment shoppers who didn’t want to miss out; no one wanted to miss out on this night that presaged so much. The word was out around Montreal: People were making a fortune. This was better than any stock tip you’d ever hear in a lifetime. Get on board before this one disappears, because everything good in life disappears in a moment; although Jim rarely needed to mention life’s abiding tragedy by name, people knew, they weren’t stupid. He explained the deal without pushing—actually, it was the very same pyramid redemption scheme Marvin had employed selling irons, except in the store there was a broad range of products to choose from, each yielding coupons and a chance to make a lot of money.

  Jim explained that for every fifty-dollar coupon you would eventually collect $1,260. For buying a comfortable two-hundred-dollar armchair you get four coupons and stand to make $5,040. Enjoy a terrific chair for the ball games and, if you like, invest your profits or some of your profits in televisions, boats, or bikes, things you need. Keep investing in more coupons if you want and make thirty thousand or a hundred thousand dollars down the road. Or take your profits home. Don’t buy tonight. Jim shrugged, knowing that in sales you mustn’t push, and particularly when your customer is already free-falling with desire. No problem if you didn’t buy in, if you wanted to sit on your hands and enjoy the night air, the girls, the music. This deal didn’t take any sales pitch; that’s how good it was—Jim was selling free money. A lot of people were taking home money each month. Although no one knew exactly how much money was going out or staying in the house except for Marvin.

  Marvin pumped profits back into new buildings and a few side ventures. He became annoyed when he heard that a group of men were mimicking their operation on a much smaller scale in western Canada, including weekend sessions in a party tent. He considered retaining an attorney, as if pyramid marketing should remain his alone for all eternity. Marvin thought of himself as an original thinker, a visionary entrepreneur, and he was fiercely protective of his creations. His ideas were like his innards. Yet as their business expanded and streamlined he became even more cranky and dissatisfied. His ideas were so much bigger and more arresting to him than what went on in their circus tent or ten such tents. Marvin saw himself as a Henry Ford but on a grander scale.

  * * *

  Within a year Jim and Marvin had four more stores opened, one in Edmonton, one in Saskatchewan, one in Calgary, one in Toronto. Jim was always racing off to another city, another motel night, preparing for a weekend spectacular in one of the branches, prepping the girls, shaking hands. His phone calls to Ava on the fly were full of the life of the party. How could she blame him for not being on the farm? He was making their future. He didn’t have time for her despair, her identity crisis, or whatever it was. He was hard-charging down the boulevard of his youth.

  * * *

  Ava began studying herself in the mirror. She held her large breasts in her hands, lifted them a little. They wouldn’t stay where she wanted them. She discovered a stretch mark. Where had this come from? Jim must not see this
, she thought, feeling ashamed. The mark obsessed her, and she rubbed it with cream until the skin became red and irritated. She couldn’t get anything right. And there were wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and on her neck where he loved to kiss her. She was twenty-seven years old and her flesh was sagging. For hours she looked into the mirror. She hadn’t dressed and it was afternoon. She was drinking way too much. Her thighs were heavy. Jim had always loved her legs. It was no use. She looked into the mirror and saw her decline spooling out.

  She tried to ready herself for Jim’s visits, whenever he came. She went to a food shop to buy ingredients. She walked down the aisle with her list for roast duck with sausage and apple stuffing. She wanted to impress him. Ava examined a few tins of spices and then, on an impulse, she slipped them into her pocketbook. She knew how to do this. She left the store feeling focused and tight as a cat. Then she wasn’t thinking about roast duck or Jim’s next visit. She wanted more adventure. She walked across the street and entered a small department store. She selected rejuvenating skin creams and nail polish and put them into her pocket. Ava looked poised and irreproachable leaving the store. She felt like a player. He played and she played. One evening she slipped a radio beneath her bulky overcoat. She wanted to tell Jim about her adventures but decided they should remain her secret. They gave her an edge, an inkling; following these minor larcenies she looked forward to returning to the farm, taking a shower.

  Later she sat on the cool planks in the barn, drinking straight from a bottle as warm well-being spread through her limbs. Ava sometimes invited Grushuna, a Polish lady who did chores on the farm. The girls handed the bottle back and forth. Grushuna had a full bawdy laugh. She reeked from animals and perspiration, but when she walked across the yard or worked in the garden she had a grace of movement that made Ava feel emotional. She once described the Polish lady to Jim as legitimate. He wasn’t sure what to make of this remark.