Bookman

by Ed Baldwin

  Declining “one for the road” as I wasn’t sure which way “the road” was, I said my goodbyes and packed up my briefcase. Billy Lee shook my hand at the door and said, “Y’all come back now.”

  I weaved down the street. I could see Lanny’s car approaching a block away. It was six o’clock.

  Everyone in the car had scored with an order and jubilation reigned. Lanny had broken a slump of over a week. We had made budget just with the orders in our car.

  “Too fuckin’ much, man. This guy had statues of Jesus all over his house. He had an idol in every room. He even had this one room, a bedroom, made completely into a shrine, with a cross that lit up when he plugged it in, and a statue of Mary that glowed in the dark. You never saw so many crosses in your life!” Thomas was beside himself as he related the details of his deal, the second in two days.

  “He kept asking if I was a Christian, so I told him I wanted to be a priest but my family insisted I go to college first. He ate it up! He wanted to know if the Reference Service could help him interpret Bible passages. I told him that all the really difficult questions on theology were sent to the Vatican for an official opinion. I thought he was going to cream in his pants when he heard that one!”

  “Sounds to me like you got carried away. Where’d you get all that shit?” Lanny asked.

  “Inspiration. That’s what it was. It just fucking came to me in divine inspiration!”

  “Your divine inspiration is going to get us in trouble with the FTC or the Better Business Bureau. You can’t just make up a presentation. That’s why we give you the one that’s been approved by the company,” Lanny said sternly.

  “Shit, Lanny, I almost lost the deal when he said he had to pray over it and locked himself in that shrine. He said he never signed anything without praying over it first. He must have been in there for half an hour!”

  I belched in my half sleeping state. The beer and the late night before had sapped my enthusiasm for Thomas’ adventures. I was a little worried that when Billy Lee sobered up, if he ever did, he might change his mind about the books. Soon, visions of Carole Ann’s tight little behind bouncing across the living room on the way to the kitchen replaced my anxiety. While trying to decide if she rode top or bottom I fell back into a restful sleep. They woke me when we pulled into the parking lot at the Sterick Building at eight o’clock.

  We’d had plans to go over to Honey’s folk’s for dinner Saturday night and she was understandably pissed when I showed up at 8:30 reeking of beer. When she heard of my success she softened a bit and poured some rum into her Pepsi. By 9:30 all was well in the Lazar household. Seventy-five dollars was more than Daddy Towers had paid me for a whole week’s work.

  Tuesday night we went to a town in western Tennessee. Less than an hour’s drive from Memphis, it is separated by light years in lifestyle. Too far east of the bottom land along the Mississippi River to grow good cotton; soil too poor to grow much corn; not enough trees for a lumber industry; it is known primarily for the illegal whiskey made there and sold to the blacks in Memphis in back alley “shot bars.” Fifty cents bought a shot, which was all the whiskey you could swallow in one gulp. One shot took the wrinkles out of your day; three put blank spots in your weekend.

  With only 2,500 inhabitants, it was only large enough for one bookman. The rest went on to the next town. I was first out of the car, just off of the town square. It was early afternoon.

  As is the case with most small southern towns, the center of town had a courthouse, surrounded by a small park with a monument commemorating “Our Confederate War Dead.” Large bronze statues of a confederate officer on a horse were popular or a foot soldier in the smaller towns was fairly common. Memphis even had a three times life size statue of General Nathan Bedford Forrest, who led the attack that briefly retook the city during its occupation by Union forces. It is said he routed the Union commander out of bed on a Sunday morning by riding his horse up the stairs to the mezzanine of the Gayoso Hotel, where the Union army had its headquarters. By comparison, this town had only a marble stone with half a dozen names under the initial inscription. It had been erected by the Daughters of the Confederacy in 1934.

  The business district was confined to the four streets immediately bordering the courthouse and stretched out along the state highway that entered the square on one side of the courthouse and left on the other. I chose one of the streets leaving the square that was not the state highway and began walking away from the center of town.

  The street was lined with towering oak trees and a few antebellum houses. The largest had become a funeral home and another was the offices of “McHugh and Johnston, Attorneys.” As I walked away from the square the large and well kept homes quickly faded both in size and architecture to smaller frame homes with cars and trucks parked in the front yards and mobile homes in back yards and vacant lots.

  As always at midday in the summer there was little stirring. The dogs stayed under the porches and hardly noticed my passing. There was no traffic and, except for the occasional hum of a window air conditioner, no noise. Luckily, the large trees that bucked up the sidewalk with their roots gave respite from the sun at least, but not the heat.

  Realizing that the well-kept yards of the houses in this older section of town usually belonged to older people who were not good prospects for my offer, I walked on until I soon began to recognize signs of younger families. Swing sets and shiny new bicycles were rare in this area, but a well worn front yard with some broken toys was a good sign. A more subtle sign was a screen door rusted in its lower half by thousands of grimy little hands wanting in. Most of the children were young and, like everyone else on a sweltering June afternoon, were engaged in some relatively quiet pursuit, like digging under the sidewalk with a kitchen spoon, or defoliating a bush to obtain decorations for mud pies.

  A block away, I spotted the house that looked like an ideal prospect. The grass was worn off the front yard almost completely, and it was littered with plastic kitchen containers, a rubber ball, and a broken tricycle. The screen door was rusted completely through in its lower half and patched with a piece of cloth. It was a little larger than most of the houses in its immediate neighborhood, but in poor repair.

  A young woman answered the door. She wore a faded blouse and pink stretch shorts. She looked like she had been asleep. The television was on. It was a new set, and on top of it was a ceramic black panther with ruby eyes that lit up.

  I asked a few random questions about advertising and about her family situation. She wasn’t technically divorced. Her husband had left town to work with a carnival a year before and she hadn’t heard from him since. She worked part time at the local greeting card factory and received some financial assistance from her parents. I proceeded with my interview.

  “So you see, my company has a rather special offer to make to a qualified family in this area who would be truly interested in a fine reference library.”

  She looked at me politely but didn’t really hear what I had to say. I was beginning to recognize in people when they would appear to be listening but had not the slightest interest in a brand new reference library.

  I noticed that her toenails were painted a bright pink. Her fingernails were a silver color. She had on no other make-up that I could see. When she had leaned over to clear some debris from the chair she offered me I had seen that she wore one of those uplift bras that accentuate a modest bosom.

  “What’re you doin’ here anyway? I’ll bet you’re selling something,” she said abruptly, as if to change the subject.

  “Yeah, we’re trying to sell some books, but not having much luck at it,” I said, giving up on my interview.

  “Where are you from? You from Memphis? Seems like there’s always someone here from Memphis selling something. I don’t have any money.”

  “Nobody does. That’s the problem,” I said with a smile.

  “Where do you live in Memphis? I got a sister that lives in one of those fancy apartments wit
h a swimming pool and balconies off the living room and all that.”

  “Yeah, that’s the kind of place I live in too. They’re all over town like that in Memphis.”

  “I wish I could get out of this dump.” She gestured around the house. “But my mother says I gotta stay here in case John comes back. Shit, John ain’t never comin’ back, and I don’t blame him,” she said helplessly.

  “That John over there?” I asked, pointing to the picture of a soldier.

  “Yeah, that’s him. Me and him was married in high school. When I got pregnant with Crystal Ann, he joined the Army. After basic training they sent him to Germany; that’s where that picture was taken. He really brought back some nice things from Germany, like that beer mug over there.” She pointed to a beer mug on a table by the television.

  “I had little Johnny while he was in Germany. When he came back he worked in his father’s station until it burned down. That’s when he joined the carnival. I had the baby right after that.”

  I had not asked for her life story, but had gotten it anyway. This was more interesting than knocking on doors so I continued. “Where do you think he is now?”

  “I don’t know. Even his folks don’t know. They had one letter from him. Said he would be home during the off season, but that was four months ago and he ain’t back yet. I’ve pretty well given up on him I guess,” she said with a smile of resignation and then stood up. “I was just going for a Coke, want one?” she said awkwardly.

  “Boy, that would hit the spot,” I said as I got up and followed her through the dining room and into the kitchen. The dining room was furnished with a playpen complete with sleeping baby. The kitchen was littered with dirty dishes. The breakfast dishes were in the sink and the lunch dishes were still on the table.

  “Judy Hollins is my name now,” she said, as if the need to be properly introduced was somehow stronger. “It used to be Trent. Judy Trent. Daddy owns Trent’s Pool Hall downtown. Maybe you seen it when you came through.”

  “If things don’t pick up in the book business this afternoon that’s probably where I’ll be spending this evening, waiting for my boss to pick me up,” I said with a laugh.

  “You mean you don’t have a car?” she asked.

  “Oh yeah, a Chevy convertible.” I stretched the truth a little for her benefit. The car actually belonged to Honey. “But there’s no use in wearing it out on business trips, that’s what my boss gets paid for.”

  “A convertible!” She said gaily, then blushed at what she must have been thinking and looked away, pushing some dishes on the counter into a bigger, more compact pile. “It’s really a mess in here today. I hate doing dishes. Only do ’em once a day,” she said, smiling again.

  I put my arm around her and drew her to my chest. Her hands fluttered around between us for a moment and then moved around to my back, accepting the embrace. She lay her head on my chest for a few seconds, then looked up and smiled. “I haven’t been this close to a man for a year. I had about forgotten what it feels like. It feels good.”

  She lay her head back on my chest, apparently content with just a hug. I had no intentions of leaving it at this friendly unfinished stage. Although sex had not been my goal in continuing to talk to her, it had just reared its head and I wasn’t going to let it go away. Besides, if there were ever a girl who needed a tumble from a door to door salesman, it was Judy. She was already trembling.

  I kissed her full on the lips and encountered her eager little tongue. While wondering whether she learned that in Sommerville High School or if John brought it back from Germany, I ran my hand down the back of her pink stretch shorts. When I squeezed her warm little fanny she gave a long sigh and sort of melted into me a little more. I knew I had her now and began to wonder where. And where were the other two kids? Visions of the unmade bed in the back bedroom gave way to the anticipation of the soft sagging comfort of the couch in the living room.

  I massaged her soft butt and we explored each others’ dental work for a few minutes with nothing but an occasional moan and some heavy breathing. This was getting so interesting that I decided the kitchen was the place and the time was now. I broke the embrace and backed her up against the refrigerator. I moved both hands under her blouse and pushed up her uplift bra, palming her breasts. This really set her off and her pelvis began gyrating in motions that seemed to be more for the purpose of judging the state of my arousal than to stimulate. She was not disappointed.

  Considering the uncertainties of the situation I decided that a direct, no nonsense approach would be best. I stepped back and unbuckled my pants, letting them fall to the floor. I was going to kiss her again but she bent over and pulled my shorts down. She looked up at me with a devilish grin as she fondled me with one hand and used her free hand to wriggle out of her tight stretch shorts. I would really have liked stepping back to see what she looked like with her britches off, if for no other reason than to have some visual image to carry with me into my declining years, but the blood was up and there was no delaying the main event.

  I grabbed her ass and pushed her back against the refrigerator. As I did this I looked over her shoulder, through the dining room and living room and out the front door to see a middle-aged woman with two children turning up the walk. Judy had both arms around my neck and was trying to shimmy up my torso when I gasped, “Who is that?”

  “Oh shit! My mother!” She grabbed her pants and began dancing around the kitchen, trying to get them on. I was still standing in mine and had only to pull them up. I made a quick exit out the back door and finished dressing in the back yard. Then, remembering my briefcase, went around to the front door.

  “Oh, Hi Mom. I was just going to wash the dishes. Have the kids been good for you?” I could hear from the front porch. The mother answered the door and looked suspiciously at me, or so I thought. I could see the outline of Judy’s breasts under her uplift bra, through her blouse. I did not smile.

  “Sorry to bother you again, Ma’am, but I left my briefcase here when I was doing that survey a few minutes ago.” I pointed at my briefcase still leaning against the chair.

  “Judy, this man says he left a briefcase here,” the woman said, facing the door. While her attention was thus directed, Judy deftly slipped her breasts back into the bra.

  “Oh yes. Here it is,” Judy said as she picked up the briefcase and carried it around her mother to hand it to me at the door. There was a smile and a wink to let me know that if ever in the neighborhood, I should stop by again.

  I made a quick exit down the street and crossed two blocks over before I began to knock on doors again. I felt a mixture of elation at my conquest and intense disappointment at the lack of conclusion. However, I told myself, Judy wasn’t likely to go anywhere and John sure wasn’t coming back. There would be another day in this town.

  My amorous distraction had so unnerved me that I really didn’t make a lot of sense when I tried to tell people what I was doing. Consequently I didn’t accomplish much until it was almost suppertime.

  “What do you want with him?” The woman replied smugly. I had gotten a lot of quizzical looks from people when I called at their doors, but never one quite like hers. She seemed to know something I didn’t.

  “We’re just talking to all the young families in the neighborhood, Ma’am,” was my innocent reply.

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “Well, no. I’m from out of town.”

  “He’s the Chief of Police. You’ll get a chance to meet him all right, ’cause I’m gonna call him right now.” She closed the door abruptly, apparently in a hurry to make the call.

  I didn’t know whether to run and hide or wait there for the chief to get home. I decided the latter didn’t make a lot of sense so I began walking briskly down the street. I thought maybe a few blocks would make it harder for him to find me. While I was thinking that I heard a car round the corner behind me and drive slowly down the street. It paced me for a few yards staying just behind. I didn�
�t look back.

  “You just knock on the chief’s door?” he asked as the car pulled alongside.

  “Yeah.”

  “Git in.”

  The driver was a young man dressed in jeans and a blue work shirt with “Gail” stitched over one pocket. He had a pistol in his back pocket and a badge pinned to his belt. He seemed ill at ease in the shiny new squad car.

  “You never should have knocked on the chief’s door. His wife gets real upset when she sees strangers in town. She was on the phone before you was out of the yard.”

  “What are you going to do with me now?” I asked, trying to seem only marginally concerned. The informality of their police department made me wonder what their jail must be like.

  “I don’t know. I’m just on the reserve force. Try not to piss the chief off, though. He’s not too bad a guy.” Gail said as we pulled up in front of the court house.

  He parked the car there and led me around to the side door of the building and we entered at the ground level there rather than going up the steps to the main entrance. Inside, a long dark hall led to an office. There was a window air conditioning unit going full blast and it was 20 degrees cooler inside. A fat deputy sheriff was sitting at a desk talking on the police radio.

  “Got your salesman here, Chief. Want to lock him up or what?” he said over the radio when we entered and were offered a seat.

  “No. Just keep him there in the office. I’ll be in in a little bit…” came the garbled reply. I was grateful already.

  Gail turned in his badge and gun to the deputy and said, “Well, guess I’ll be goin’ back over to the station. It’s been real busy this evenin’.” With that he went back down the hall, across the lawn and into the Gulf station across the street.

  “Only got one full time policeman at night, and he’s out with the radar machine,” said the deputy as he went back to reading the Memphis Press Scimitar. “We use Gail for routine stuff. Like pickin’ you up.”

  He was reading the sports page and shared the front page and funnies with me, until the chief came in. He could see the squad car pull up in front and quickly folded the paper and put it in a drawer.