Chump Change

by Dan Fante

  Drinking loosened her up, so I decided to deal with her in an up-front, straight-forward way and get right down to business. But our questionnaire bored her, and I could tell that she’d had too much whiskey. She now appeared to be leering at me and checking me out.

  As a kid, I remember peeling the paper off a stick of Juicy Fruit gum and not chewing it, but running the surface against the wetness of my tongue until all the sugar was dissipated, then turning it over and doing the same thing on the other side. Knowing the sweetness was there, but delaying the pleasure as long as possible. I was a stick of gum to Tara Kerns.

  I needed the job. I had a guaranteed check coming on Friday. I had a sick dog to feed, and keeping a place to sleep other than my Dart was a good idea. Tara’s checkbook was still open on the table. I was afraid if I fucked her I would lose the sale. I tried to pull the presentation together.

  We finished the questionnaire, but I could tell by her answers that my client control had turned to shit. Her interest level wasn’t high at all now, and I’d allowed the deal to get off track with so many drinks. “Let’s watch a video,” I said.

  “In a minute,” she said, getting up, smiling, showing her big white teeth with lipstick stains, slurring her words. “I’ll top up our glasses first.”

  I had a movie of Philip Kessler plugged in on the TV when she came back. On the label of the video box, they tell you the client’s name and a few outstanding characteristics. Phil was 6′7″ and weighed three hundred pounds. A dentist and a divorcee.

  Tara handed me a half-full glass of whiskey and ice and sat down next to me on the couch, instead of on her chair.

  “You’re sloshed,” I said.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I’m trying to do my job. This is my first presentation. Either we do business, or I leave.”

  “Okay. I do business all day. Business is fine.”

  “I want you to see someone who’s your physical type, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, still leering.

  The video started with Philip describing himself. I’d forgotten that Phil was arrogant and bald. “My name is Philip Kessler. Doctor Philip Kessler. I’m thirty-eight years old and I like movies and dancing and I was an avid tennis player until my knee injury…ha, ha…I own my own boat docked in Marina del Rey, and I spend my spare time sailing…I have a condo and a ski-lodge at Mammoth…”

  I stopped the video with the remote. Tara looked disgusted. “What do you think?” I asked.

  Her slurring was heavier. “Mama’s boy…Rich mama’s boy.”

  Suddenly I hated the masquerade of the whole deal. I knew I’d blown it and I didn’t care. The stupidity of trying to hustle this woman into a dating membership had become too much trouble.

  Her best sexual features were her tits, big and sloppy. Ten pounds each. At least I’d get fucked. I talked to her, but I was looking at her tits. “Do you want to put your membership fee on your credit card or do you want to pay by check?”

  “Credit card,” she slurped back.

  When we began fucking, she called me angel-dick but was snoring thirty seconds after I put it in.

  16

  I SLEPT GOOD. I READ HER OXFORD BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE and drank her whisky until two o’clock, then nodded off. Four or five hours. In the morning, when I woke up, there was whiskey in a juice glass on the night stand by my head, and a Percodan in case of pain.

  The big woman was moving around the bedroom, getting dressed for work. I watched her lean forward to flop her ponderous breasts into a red bra. I liked red bras. Sluts wore red underwear.

  She caught me looking at her, while she checked herself out in the mirror. “I joined your dating service, didn’t I,” she said.

  “You’re a full member of DMI.”

  “Was it worth it?”

  “Buyer’s remorse?”

  “You’re a fuck monster.”

  A dream I’d had that night came back to me. In it, Jonathan Dante was rowing a boat alone. Tara’s tits made me think of the dream. The boat. I was swimming alongside as he rowed. The great ocean was calm and clear and only my father and I were present. From time to time, I looked over at him, but he never acknowledged me and he never stopped rowing. It was a repeating dream. I’d had it over and over for years. It usually ended with him rowing away and disappearing in the boat.

  It was the first time I’d had the dream since Dante died. This time, I was alone in the water. Dante was gone.

  I thought to myself that now I was beginning to know what it is like to have lost my father and to have nothing that could ever replace that loss. The idea fell on my heart like a cold, sopping blanket. I had loved him and not known it. The fullness of the pain invaded me and stopped my breath. I swallowed a sob.

  His dreams were gone. The unread stories and books he’d written that meant life to him would never be published. He would never know recognition. The beauty and purity of his words and dreams had died deep within him. His storm against God and life was over. He had been a real artist, an original human being. No one would ever know.

  It made me want to write for him. To put something down that would sell well enough that people would see it, and I would be able to tell them to read my father, a real writer, a true poet, lost and great and beautiful. Jonathan Dante.

  Tara was saying to me, “Will I see you again?”

  It took a few seconds to make my mouth work. “I’ll be back tonight with five videos of eligible single adult men,” I said.

  She left for work, trusting me enough to leave me in her bedroom and let me get up and dress on my own time.

  Just as the door closed behind her and I was alone, a bad thought jumped up. I’d forgotten to call in. Berkhardt was strict about discipline and phoning. He’d made a big point about it in the training.

  I rolled to her side of bed to get the phone and a squirt of sourness twisted my throat. I drank the whiskey left in the juice glass and went to the kitchen. The whisky was gone, but in the refrigerator was a six pack of Black Cherry Cisco Wine Coolers. I took two back to the bedroom with me.

  When I’d finished them and taken the Percodan, I dialed the DMI number.

  The DMI message system answered—the penalty for calling in at an off-hour. I pressed “one” for English then I was made to listen to a list of current singles activities, another one of names and numbers of couples giving parties, and finally an invitation to a 30% discount for this month only to members who got a friend to join.

  When I finally got to the menu that allowed me to spell in the name of the person I wanted to talk to, I pushed in the letters B E R K…and was connected to my boss’s extension.

  “This is Bruno Dante calling in,” I began. “I must have dialed wrong when I called my results in last night…I was probably confused. Anyway, I’m calling back now…I have an excellent report to communicate. Outstanding, even. My client, Ms. Kerns in Redondo Beach has decided to join DMI. Paid in full. Additionally, Ms. Kerns wanted me to say to my boss that she will be writing a letter telling him, you, how I have assisted in transforming her dating life…She said I should have been a psychotherapist…I’ll be bringing her credit card payment and paperwork in with me to the afternoon meeting…” (This, of course, was all lies except for the enrollment information). “By the way, Mr. Berkhardt, that’s a sensational message setup we have to answer incoming calls at DMI. It’s really exciting how technology can trap a caller—like holding a kitty under water—Wonderful. Outstanding. All that information we can dispense before they’re allowed any options whatever. Just super!”

  After showering, and shaving with one of Tara’s pink disposable razors, I was fully okay and feeling the Cisco and the pain killer. I left her door unlatched, and went down to get Rocco out of the car.

  He was in a lousy mood from being left alone all night. As I walked him, I could see that his limp was worse and to move his rear legs at all, caused him pain. Since I was pleased with the effects of my morning Percodan, whe
n we got inside, I located the vial in the bathroom medicine cabinet and crushed up half of one for him and mixed it in a bowl of Black Cherry Cisco Wine Cooler.

  For good measure, I took another one myself and put a few spares in my pocket for later.

  There was egg salad in the refrigerator. I scooped out a gob on my finger and smelled the stuff, trying to make Rocco taste it first. He refused, so I put it away. I had two more Ciscos while I watched TV. Snooping, I opened the cabinet under the set and discovered a few dozen videos of old movies. James Bond, ET, even an original Bogey. On the bottom shelf, was an unlabeled video box without the usual glossy jacket, plain black. I opened it up and found a sticker on the inside of the container. Dick & Darlene Do Debbie.

  I plugged the movie into the VCR.

  It was good. Good color and good action with lots of close-ups of Dick’s enlarged wang penetrating Darlene and Debbie.

  Debbie was young and reminded me a lot of Susan Bolke, with the same blond, frizzy hair and pretty eyes. Of the three participants she was the most active and original.

  Ten minutes into the movie, my dick was hard and I was feeling whacked from the wine cooler and the dope, and hungry all at the same time. The Percodan had done a good job on Rocco, too, and he was resting comfortably on the carpet next to the couch. The idea of the egg salad now appealed to me.

  In the kitchen, I again peeled back the plastic sheet that covered the bowl of mashed-up egg and celery and mayonnaise with little slivers of green onion. I sampled the stuff with a spoon. It was okay. Flat and without personality, but satisfactory.

  I returned to the living room with the bowl, some salt and crackers and the last of the Ciscos. I ate and watched the movie.

  On the TV, Darlene was doing Dick while Debbie jerked off using a shiny chrome dildo. In and out. In and out. I decided to beat off with her, move for move, so I set my food aside.

  When I was ready to come, the thought of unifying my spirit with Tara made me ejaculate on top of the remaining mixture of egg salad in the bowl. I fantasized the big woman eating it with crackers or on toast, and my orgasm was intensified.

  When I was done, I polished off the last of my Cisco and folded the plastic wrap back over the top of the bowl and pulled it tight, just like I’d found it. Then I carefully put the bowl back in the refrigerator on the top shelf in the place where it had been.

  In the bedroom, I sat down on Tara’s bed for a minute to rest my eyes, and woke up three hours later. I didn’t want to be late for the sales meeting, so I quickly went back and put all the Cisco Black Cherry bottles in the trash and rinsed Rocco’s bowl in the sink. Then, making sure the door was secure and locked, the dog and I left the condo with my DMI video demo kit.

  As I crossed the street with Rocco, I noticed that he wasn’t limping. The pain killer had worked. It felt good to be doing something nice for the dog.

  I arrived at the sales meeting on time, holding Tara’s full-pay contract in my hand. The other sales guys looked impressed. It was a good moment; one demo, one deal. But Berkhardt scanned me up and down with disapproving eyes as he accepted my paperwork.

  The sale, it turned out, was less important than me being out of uniform. I was rebuked, instead of complimented, in front of the other trainees. No tie!

  I’d left Tara’s condo so concerned about locking the door behind me, that in the process, I’d forgotten the fucker in her bedroom or on her living room couch. My one-pay cash deal was negated by my appearance. Obedience to procedures was more important to Berkhardt.

  While I stood singled out before the other six new robots, we were instructed on the importance of following directions and sticking fast to DMI’s success formula. Berkhardt was making sure that his marketing force adhered to the McDonalds hamburgers’ cookie-cutter, stencil-style winning formula that had made DMI a rich company. I was the fall-guy.

  After his twenty-five minute discourse, Berkhardt finally held my deal up, “Outstanding job, Dante,” he said. “One out of one!”

  Some of the guys clapped, some didn’t, unsure of what the boss expected of them. It wasn’t much of an “atta boy.”

  “Tell us how it happened, Dante,” Berkhardt insisted.

  I was out of gas, feeling deflated. “I just did what I was told, and followed the presentation outline, Mr. Berkhardt,” I said.

  “Exactly right!” he bellowed. “We stick to established winning procedures and hold precisely to what’s worked to create success. We’re not reinventing the wheel here. A track-record of success is nothing to argue with. Right, Dante?”

  “Right, Mr. Berkhardt.”

  “You know, Bruno, Mitch Glickman pulled down eighty grand his first year by following the DMI success formula. He did whatever it took to insure that his income would be in the top two percent of the population of the United States. If that meant doing an extra demo each day, then that’s what Mitch did. He came in early and stayed late. But his success began with the simple things like wearing a tie and a clean shirt, and calling in at the end of each appointment. The fundamentals. Right, Dante?”

  “Right.”

  On our way out, as we filed passed, Berkhardt pulled me aside and closed the conference room door. “Dante,” he hissed, “what’s up? What’s your fucking problem?”

  “I’m ready,” I said, “I think I can do two deals tonight. But I need to discuss the possibility of an advance. I’m a bit short.”

  “Cut the crap! Sit down.”

  “One demo, one deal. I’m your new Mitch Glickman, boss.” I sat down. “What’s on your mind, Mr. Berkhardt.”

  “Nobody said you couldn’t sell. I knew that when you walked into my office. But slick answers won’t get it done at DMI. We’re looking for winners. I was wrong about you, Dante. You’re a saboteur. You’ve got an ax in your hand and you’re hacking a hole in your own life raft. You’re on your way down, not up. You’re a waste, Bruno. A loser.”

  The remark angered me. “Untrue,” I snapped, “you saw what I can do. I’m committed.”

  “You’re committed to piss! Walking in here half-tanked, in a wrinkled dress shirt with no tie. What do you think I’m running, a housekeeping service? Fuck you! You’re bullshitting a bullshitter. You’re sitting here right now, working me because you’re afraid of losing a paycheck.”

  “Let’s not forget that I made the only sale yesterday.”

  “Not true. Mitch closed two out of two.”

  “I’m talking about the trainees. New people.”

  “Somewhere in you, in our job interview, I saw a hotshot salesman with ability, but he’s so deeply imbedded up your ass that it would take Roto Rooter and a firehose enema to get you to take a shit and let him out. You’re high maintenance, Dante.”

  “What you saw inside me was not a hotshot salesman, it was a vampire. But your jive weekly guaranteed income program can’t compensate me enough to endure your weak limp-dick reprimands. I’m making this company money. Maybe I didn’t earn any style points today, but I showed up here with the horns and the tail. That’s what you and your boss take to the bank. Let’s tell it like it is.”

  I knew I’d pissed him off. He was in my face. “I don’t need drinkers with personal problems on my staff,” he yelled. “I sure as shit don’t need you. Plain English, FUCK YOU!”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of hundred dollar bills, peeling off two. He handed those to me. “Your bonus check for the other $200 will be ready on Friday. You’re fired!”

  I sized him up, watching his eyes, thinking for an instant that I might still be able to intimidate him. But I could see that this wasn’t a bluff…“Wait!” I said finally, wanting to save the job, “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re bumped! I said take a walk!”

  “Why not try being fair?”

  “Fuck fair! You embarrassed yourself in front of my crew and you think I should blow in your ear? You’ve got your money. We’re even. You’re gone!”

  “I said that I made a m
istake…I want another chance.”

  “You’re a piccolo, Dante. A smart-mouthed juice mooch. I missed it at the interview and in the sales training, but I see it now.”

  “It’s true, I had a drink. I was celebrating the sale. Let me prove that I can do this job.”

  “What you are is a taker, mister. A user. That’s your thing. You said it, a vampire. You’ve got nothing at stake here. You’re too quick and slick for DMI.”

  “It won’t happen again. I guarantee it.”

  Berkhardt extended his hand. He had calmed down. “Let’s both quit while we’re ahead. No hard feelings. I wish you Merry Christmas and good luck.”

  We did not shake. I’d been fired many times from better jobs. This time I didn’t have the energy to walk away. “I’m asking for my job back,” I said, meeting Berkhardt’s eyes.

  “I get twenty guys a month through here, Dante. Sometimes thirty. That’s a lot of plastic dress shirts and clipon ties over a two year period. I’ve become a pretty good fortune teller about salesmen. Human nature. I’m going to tell you what I’ve noticed. Are you interested in a little free advice?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ve noticed that some guys learn life’s shitty little lessons through experience. Repetition. There’s a specific type, like me. We fail, then we get up and try again. Somewhere in me, I know that if I hang on long enough, I can usually break through my resistance, come out the other side. I can be teachable. It takes time, but I can usually learn to understand another way. I don’t have to be bleeding from the eyes to get the point. I’m a worker bee. A plodder. A drone. My kind make it to the finish line.

  “You’re not that type. You’re the other kind. You’re a quick study. You’re smart and you ring the bell right away. In a flash you’re on top, off and running, the master of the hundred yard dash. The problem that your type has, is that you don’t listen and you keep insisting on operating by your own rules. Only you push and shove and wiggle and spit and outsmart everybody. You’re a lover of man and beast alike, as long as you’re getting your way. With people like you, Bruno, pain is the only teacher. Failure. No one can tell you that you’re about to put your hand in a buzz saw. But it’s only when you, yourself, see fingertips flying past your eyes, and watch your arm being chopped into a bloody stump that you’ll be able to stop. You hit all walls full speed. That’s what I mean by high maintenance.”