by Jim Dodge
Though it had been a long silence, Lew continued as if he’d only paused. ‘Or I assume you’re not a slave, much in the way I assume a soul.’
I didn’t say anything. A person driving 110 mph down a road whose existence he questions should neither be required to think nor allowed to.
‘But,’ Lew continued, ‘enough of my assumptions; you’ll accuse me of evading the question while I was merely framing a reply.’
He paused as he shifted his weight on the seat, then continued, ‘I’m a proud man. It’s a pride based on accomplishment, not on arrogant assumption – or so I like to think. Pride is a powerful strength, and therefore a dangerous weakness. I try to temper it with honest humility. I don’t brag. I don’t gloat. I don’t flaunt my achievements. I sell. In the fifty-nine years since I sold that first glass of lemonade on the muggy streets of Sweetwater, I have devoted myself to the mastery of selling. I’ve sold seven billion dollars worth of products. I’ve made millions in profit and commissions. When I was nineteen years old I sold a hundred and sixty-eight used cars off one lot in Akron, Ohio, during a twenty-four-hour period – that’s seven cars an hour, one every eight and a half minutes – though of course I wasn’t handling the paperwork. I sold out a semi-truck full of vacuum cleaners in Santa Rosa, California, in two days. Before I was thirty years old I went to Labrador and sold refrigerators to Eskimos. They had no electricity and lots of ice, but I had the ability to see possible applications for the product where others saw only the superficial absurdity of the venture: refrigerators, being insulated, are much like a thermos – they can keep, say, fish from freezing in a frozen climate, as long as they’re not plugged in. Further, if properly drilled and vented, a refrigerator also makes an excellent smokehouse, thereby preserving with heat in a structure designed to preserve with cold. I sold the motors separately to the Air Force and used the money to buy electric heaters, which I sold to Indians in the Amazon Basin. They understood both the intrinsic beauty of the coils and their decorative possibilities. The electrical cords were similarly used for adornment, and for binding. The dismantled sheet metal frames proved to have a thousand applications, including arrow points.
‘Through my thirties and forties I traveled the world selling every commodity you can imagine, including cinnamon in Ceylon and tea in China, the whole time refining my abilities and distilling the principles of the craft. The principles, I discovered, were surprisingly simple: listen well and tell the truth.’
Abruptly he leaned down and picked up his attaché case. He set it on the seat between us and snapped it open for my inspection. It was crammed with neatly stacked piles of money, twenties being the smallest visible denomination. ‘That’s a lot of money,’ I said, no doubt hoping to impress him with my firm grasp of the obvious.
‘I don’t even count it anymore. My accountant handles all that. I have no wife, no children, no expensive tastes. I’ve found it’s wise to keep one’s pleasures simple and that in my case, even the simple pleasures are ruined by indulgence. I enjoy the constant anonymity of motel rooms, the neutrality of passing through. I relish the stimulus of travel and contact. I’m still compelled by the possibilities of my work – each knock on the door, the face revealed as it opens – but beyond my work I need very little and want even less. So to me this money is relatively meaningless, even as a measure. Rather than make the excruciating and impossible decisions about who might best benefit from my surplus, it all goes to buy land to be held undeveloped in various land trusts for perpetuity.’
‘You’re a very romantic salesman,’ I said. While I believed the money in the attaché, I wasn’t sure I believed the explanation.
‘Romantic?’ he repeated. ‘Well, I do believe there’s a connection between ability and possibility.’
‘Maybe you have a romantic heart and a classical mind. I’m just the opposite, I think. It gives me fits. Does it bother you much?’
‘I think I mentioned,’ he said dryly, ‘that my pleasures can’t bear indulgence.’
‘Mine seem to encourage it.’
Lew shrugged. ‘You’re young. The price goes up.’
‘You know,’ I said, ‘you probably are the greatest traveling salesman in the world. I just have this feeling you are, know what I mean? I believe you.’
‘Oh, well, perhaps – but it’s certainly not a claim I’d make for myself.’
I didn’t get it. ‘But it’s there on your card, right?’
Lew said primly, ‘Perhaps it’s not a claim I’m making, but a title I’m accepting.’
‘So there is a body of judges, or a committee, or something like that?’
‘Yes, something like that.’
I was pleased, having figured out enough to feel functionally recovered. ‘So, who says you’re the best in the world?’
‘The gods.’
No, I thought to myself, why the fuck don’t you learn? What I managed to say was, ‘Gods? Plural?’
‘Yes. Plural.’
‘How did they tell you you were the greatest in the world? Divine revelation? A plaque?’
‘They called my answering service in New York.’
‘Lew, you’ve got to be shitting me. Be careful; my mind’s extremely frail these days.’
‘So I noticed. That’s why I have been careful. But it’s the truth nonetheless. The gods left a message with my answering service … a number, no name. I returned the call. A woman answered – a secretary, I assumed from her manner – and put me on hold for a moment. There was a rapid clicking sound on the line, and then suddenly a very aggressive male voice demanded, “Would you sell a rat’s asshole to a blind man and tell him it was a diamond ring?’ I didn’t have time to think, of course, so I replied from principle. “Only if I charged him at the fair market value for rat rectums and was utterly convinced the blind man had the imagination to appreciate the brilliance of the stone.’
‘“Excellent, Lew,” the voice replied. “We’ll get back to you.” The connection went dead. I immediately dialed the number again but received a recording that informed me the number was no longer in service.
‘Three days later, again through my answering service, I returned a call to a nameless number. This time it was a deep male voice that answered. “Yes?” he said. I gave my name and noted I was returning a call.
‘“Kerr? Kerr?” he muttered, and I could hear papers rustling. “Oh yes, here we have it. Mr Kerr, we’re the gods. We consider you the greatest traveling salesman in the world and would like to employ your talents.”
‘I thought it was a joke, of course, so I said, “Suppose I’m not available?”
‘“Then neither are we,” he said, and what impressed me wasn’t so much the implied threat as the tone in which he said it – an indifferent statement of finality.
‘So I asked, “What would I be selling?”
‘After a thoughtful pause, he answered, “Well, you wouldn’t really be selling anything. You would be returning lost goods and collecting the delivery charges.”
‘“What sort of lost goods?”
‘“Ghosts,” he said matter-of-factly, as if we were discussing light bulbs or paper towels.
‘I was incredulous, naturally, but just as naturally I was intrigued by the inherent possibilities, so I asked, “Will the people know their ghosts have been returned, or even that they were lost in the first place?”
‘“No,” he said, “or not unless you tell them.”
‘Now that piece of information made it infinitely intriguing … essentially selling an invisible product that a person wouldn’t even be sure they’d bought. I had another question: “Suppose these people refuse to pay the delivery charges?’
‘“Then you’re not a great salesman. But,” he added, after just the right length pause to let the challenge stir me, “we wouldn’t have solicited your talents if we weren’t confident of our choice.”’
I couldn’t help myself, and interrupted, ‘And you fell for it, Lew? Hell, you’re not the greate
st salesman in the world – he is. Or they are. Tell me, where do you send the money?’
‘That was exactly my next question to him.’
‘Well,’ I prodded, ‘where do you send it?’
‘That’s what truly confounded me. He said, “Keep the money. We can’t use money. We’re gods.”’
‘No. You’re kidding.’
‘Yes. And no, I’m not kidding you. Provocative, isn’t it? It’s either the gods or the product of a highly unusual human mind. Or minds, perhaps. Can you comprehend the effort and expense required to perpetrate a hoax of that magnitude without any return on the investment except your own amusement?’
He had a point: it was awfully elaborate for a practical joke. But it seemed to me some important points hadn’t been covered. ‘Where do you pick up these lost ghosts you’re supposed to return?’
‘I don’t,’ Lew said benignly, ‘they evidently pick me up.’
Holy shit, I hope he doesn’t mean me. The thought streaked through my buckling brain; my heart had grown legs and was running up my throat.
Lew must’ve sensed my fear because he immediately explained, ‘I don’t mean they pick me up hitchhiking. Ghosts don’t drive, or not that I’m aware of. The ghosts find me, I gather, along the way. Invisibly attach themselves. I don’t even know they’re with me until I hear their names spoken, which is the same name as the person who lost the ghost. That sounds garbled. Let me try to be more exact. I return calls left with my answering service. I usually get a woman’s voice, and she gives me a list of names, usually seven to nine. I transcribe the names in my notebook and then go on about my normal travels. Without any search or intention on my part, I invariably end up meeting those people whose names are on the list. Sometimes it takes two or three months to exhaust the list; the shortest was five days for seven names. Do you understand my point now? No one could endure the incredible expense or egomania necessary to sustain that godlike illusion. They would have to place me under constant surveillance, and I’ve hired the best private investigators available – who assure me there are no tails or bugs or any sort of monitoring devices. You see, whoever it is would have to employ people to run into me, people whose names are on the list they give me, and that means they would have to know my moves in advance – and I assure you I’ve made it a point lately to act randomly. My only conclusion, George, is that it is the gods, whoever they may be. Here, let me show you.’ He fumbled around for a moment, and finally produced a small leatherbound notebook slimmer than a wallet. He flipped through it quickly, then stopped and turned back the page. He offered it over for my inspection. I eased off the gas and then took a look. He was pointing to a page with a list of seven names. ‘See?’ he said. ‘Right here. Number four. George Gastin.’
I wished for a long time that I could’ve thought of something witty to say, something like, ‘Lew, perhaps these “gods” of yours are simply deranged angels,’ but lately I’ve come to believe that my response had a certain eloquence. I looked at my name there on the list and said, ‘Arrrrggggghhh.’
‘My sentiments exactly.’ Lew nodded, watching me intently. ‘But what I’d like to know, George, the question you might trustingly and truthfully answer for me: if not the gods, who paid you to do this? And why is he, or she, or they, going to such great trouble to drive me crazy?’
Hook, line, sinker, and the rod and reel, too. He was good. I sighed. ‘What are the delivery charges?’ Why start fighting after you’ve already landed yourself?
‘So you deny any knowledge of what’s going on?’
‘Lew,’ I raised my right hand, ‘I swear that the following is the most complete and accurate and honest truth I have ever uttered in my life: I don’t have the barest fucking inkling what’s going on. Not at all. Not any.’
‘Well, George, that makes two of us, a virtual unanimity at this particular juncture of time and space.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I disagreed affably. ‘One of us is a great salesman; one of us is kind of a lost soul. The great salesman is not merely great, he’s the best in the world, so accomplished that he alone is capable of inventing challenges for himself, because he knows if he quits exploring and extending his talents, polishing his brilliance, he won’t have anything to justify his pride. But that’s his problem. The lost soul’s problem is terminal confusion, and it doesn’t help that he’s a romantic sucker for truth, beauty, love, hope, trust, honor, faith, justice, and all those big gleaming abstractions that his spirit constantly fails – or so he secretly believes. Plus he’s suffering from exhaustion, sexual injury, and drug abuse. The salesman, being a keen observer, notes this, but since he has no goods to sell in a situation of outstanding sales potential, he brilliantly contrives to do exactly that: sell nothing. Which he proceeds to do, flawlessly, after a bit of sleight-of-hand jotting in the dark. Both the conception and execution are, in fact, so flawless that the lost soul sees it clearly and still has no choice but to buy his ghost – which he can neither see nor feel – because even if he’s almost positive it’s bullshit, he – being lost, romantic, and generally fucked-up – can’t risk the slim chance that it is the truth. And if it is the truth, if the gods think it important enough to return lost ghosts – though he doesn’t remember either having one or losing it – he’d be a fool not to accept delivery and pay the charges. So: Bravo, Mr Kerr. You are indeed the greatest traveling salesman in the world. How much do I owe you?’
‘That’s the beauty of it, isn’t it, George? And that’s why I’m beginning to believe it really is the gods: there are so many possibilities for disbelief, so much beyond proof. It’s perfect.’
‘And the price of this perfection?’ I sourly reminded him.
‘George,’ he sounded pained, ‘if the gods don’t take payment for returning your ghost, how could I possibly ask any reward beyond the privilege of delivering it?’ He tapped the leather attaché case. ‘I certainly don’t need the money.’
‘You can afford to do it for kicks.’
‘You could believe me, George, even though I’m not sure I believe this myself. Trust, remember? You keep missing your own point, so it’s no wonder you’re confused.’
‘So what you’re saying is there’s no charge? I get my wayward ghost back for free?’
‘Not exactly for free. The gods have no use for money and I personally take no commission, but there is a fee for the transaction, sort of an emblematic tax on the thermal exchange – call it a donation to cover charges on the cosmic freight. It’s a dollar ninety-eight. Symbolic, like I said, but the gods insist on it.’
‘What happens if I just flat-ass refuse to pay? Do you repossess my ghost?’
‘I don’t know. Nobody’s ever refused.’
‘Who gets the money?’
‘I’ve been including it in my land trust purchases. So far I’ve collected one hundred fifty dollars and forty-eight cents. The gods said they didn’t care what I did with it as long as it was collected. This figure is obviously capricious; the gods didn’t say so, but I gather it’s meant as a symbolic reminder that there are things beyond the normal considerations of price and value.’
‘Would they accept symbolic payment?’
Lew cocked his head. ‘I don’t know. It’s never come up. But speaking as their ignorant agent, I don’t see why not.’
Without slowing down I reached over into the backseat and snagged my secondhand Salvation Army jacket. I tossed it to him. ‘A symbolic payment to keep you warm in a universe getting colder all the time. I’m going to let you out here because my brain’s near death, and I want it to die in peace.’
‘I understand,’ said Lew as he put on the jacket. ‘It’s interesting, you know: invariably when I return a ghost the person suddenly wants to be alone.’
‘Or together with his ghost. Sort of a second honeymoon.’
Lew looked at me sternly. ‘I’d be particularly wary of irony, George; it mutilates what it’s helpless to transform.’
‘Now how c
an I be careful of irony when I didn’t even know I’d lost my ghost?’
‘That’s a point,’ Lew said, zipping up the jacket.
‘You don’t happen to know where I lost my ghost, do you? Or when? Or how? Or why?’
Lew picked up his attaché case. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘What do the gods say about these lost ghosts?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Did you press them?’
‘Of course. I’m a curious man myself.’
I had my neck bowed. ‘So, what did they say when you pressed them?’
‘They told me not to worry about it. The gods don’t seemed disposed to idle chatter. I’m just given a list of names. It’s all very crisp and distant.’
‘And you’re sure it’s gods, plural?’
‘Positive. I wouldn’t make a mistake on something like that.’
‘Last guy I gave a ride to was the pastor of the Rock Solid Gospel Light Church of the Holy Release. The Lord speaks to him. One god. Monotheism, right? And you’re telling me gods. At least more than one. Voices out of the blue and out of whirlwinds and over the phone – evidently the spirits are just babbling away out there. Not that I’ve personally heard them. They haven’t said diddley-shit to me. Well, maybe a whisper once or twice, but nothing I could be sure of.’
‘You know what frightens me?’ Lew said. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to get the gods on the phone one of these days and be sitting there writing down names of lost ghosts to return and my name is going to be on the list.’
‘Just drop your buck ninety-eight in the pot like everyone else.’
‘I guess so,’ he said uneasily, ‘but for me I don’t think it would be that simple. They say the only mark you can’t beat is the mark inside. I’d probably try to sell it back to them.’
‘They’d probably buy it.’ I slowed to let him off. ‘I really am sorry to put you out like this. I don’t know what’s going on, but I guess I should thank you for your help in keeping it going.’
