by Warren Court
“Stan, I want to talk to you a minute.”
“Sure, Rick.” I sit back down. John makes a funny face behind Rick as he moves towards the door and I try and keep it together. The door clicks shut.
“Your numbers are not good,” he says. Rick never swears, never gets angry. He looks at the paper again.
“I know, Rick. It’s been a tough month but I have a lot of stuff coming up. That meeting with AIC this week.”
“I’m taking that myself.”
“Rick, I set that up. I nurtured that relationship. Called her once a week for a month until she finally agreed to see me. I mean, she was still pretty mad at what happened with her move. It’s a miracle she even picked up the phone.”
“What happened with her move?”
“I booked her to move a bunch of stuff up to her cottage on Skeleton Lake. Not a huge job, but when I saw her business card I knew it was a solid lead. Not to push it but nurture it, like you’re always saying.” Rick uses the phrase “nurture a relationship” at least twice a week. And that’s just within my hearing range.
“Yeah? So?” Rick says. “We moved her.”
“She wanted a truck all on her own. An eight-tonner. She paid extra for it, no problem. And then Mike goes and puts two other loads on it.” Mike is our dispatcher, a crusty seasoned mover who stuck it out with the Henderson’s to move into a desk job.
“Did you not explain that we would build a wall between her goods and the other customers’?”
“She didn’t care. She was furious. Remember your brother had to call her smooth it out? I agree, one truck mostly empty going all the way up to Skeleton Lake is a waste, but if the customer is willing to pay extra, pay for a full truck. . . Man, that pissed me off, Rick.”
“You shouldn’t get angry. And we’re in business here to make money.”
I continue on. “Took two months of calling. I even sent her a Pick Me Up Bouquet as a thank you for the move. AIC moves a lot of people around this country, all paid for by them. Big executives and traders being moved down to New York and even London, she told me.”
“I don’t think you can handle that meeting. Besides, you have sales numbers you have to work on. That’s my final decision.”
I stand up quick and get some satisfaction from the shocked look on Rick’s face. Like his old man, he wants to be the first to leave. He leaves you sitting there, not the other way around. I pick up my briefcase and make towards the door. He spins his chair, still incredulous, his expression turning to anger.
I pause at the door. “Look, Rick, you’re right. I have some appointments to get to, wanna get my numbers up. But I want to go to that meeting. It’s only fair. If I have to go to Darryl—”
Rick laughs. “Go to him. Who do you think told me to keep you out of it?”
“She’s going to ask you where I am. You’re going to start off this relationship by lying, telling her I have the flu or something?”
I don’t wait for his answer.
TWO
Laura raises her eyebrows at me and gives me a half smile. I pause. I take a step towards her, telling myself I’m going to talk to her for just a minute, morning pleasantries, then think better of it and retreat to the second floor.
I greet Ida, our sales coordinator and receptionist, with her dangling jewels and false teeth. Lipstick stains on her coffee mug. Her office – she has one – is directly across from my cubicle.
I plunk my briefcase down on the desk and resist the urge to hurl it through the window. The only bright note is that my sock has dried.
My day planner shows two appointments today, one this morning at eleven and one at two. And there are three new cards on my table, filled out by the women Henderson hires to call people who have their house for sale. The addresses in the real estate news have been cross referenced using reverse lookup phone directories. The women get paid for each appointment they book.
I look at the cards. Two seem all right; the postal codes tell me they’re in Burlington. The other one looks like Hamilton, the less affluent and blue-collar former steel town across the bay from Burlington. That could be all right, or it could not be. Hamilton is also a university town and still has a large section of well-to-do, traditional middle-class homes, but there are bad areas. Depressed areas that can’t afford us.
I tap the keyboard on my desk and the computer monitor comes alive. Instead of that moving software program Darryl had been going on about in the meeting, I open a browser and go to Google Maps to find this Hamilton address. The other two can wait until I’m in my car.
The prospect is a total zero, a complete bust. I can tell that just by looking up the address on google maps. I find it on the internet and then I zoom out from the street and, two streets over, I see the large pink square of the Stelco steel mill. I scroll north on the map and quickly see Barton Street.
“For the love of Christ,” I mutter. They booked me to go see someone who lives in probably one of the most depressed and depressing areas of the country. And with Henderson being the most expensive mover in Canada at a hundred and forty-two bucks an hour. We are twenty dollars more expensive than our closest competitor, and probably eighty dollars an hour more than Acme Movers. In other words, the sit in Hamilton will be a complete waste of time and gas. There is no way anyone living across the street from a steel mill is going to pay a hundred and forty-two bucks an hour for us to come in and move their two beds, a TV and stand, a chipped black-and-chrome coffee table and a bunch of hastily overpacked liquor store boxes of crap. Unbelievable.
I could drop it. The appointment is for six this evening – like I would want to be down there in the dark at six. My car would probably get stolen. I’d probably get shivved. I call the number. It rings, and finally there’s a loud “Yeah?”
“Hi, Mr. Zaborsky. I’m Stan Rogers from Henderson Moving. How are you this morning, sir?”
There’s a TV on so loud in the background I can barely hear myself speak. Not at work, are we, Mr. Zaborsky? Maybe you’re on night shift, security guard work, maintaining the massive, defunct steel plant that you can see and smell two streets over?
“Yeah, you called me last night,” Zaborsky says.
“Yes, sir. I’m a moving consultant for Henderson Moving and I’m booked to come out and see you this evening. Just wanted to give you a call and confirm.”
“Yeah, I’ll be around.”
Right. No bar-hopping for you tonight, Mr. Zaborsky. It being a Monday, you’re probably all cleaned out from the scratch-and-win tickets and four-dollar pints at the Genessee Tavern.
“Might I ask where it is you’re moving to, sir? Just so I can get a feel for the job.”
“I gotta get out of here,” Zaborsky says. “We’re being evicted so we gotta go move in with my sister-in-law.”
“You have my sympathy, Mr. Zaborsky.”
“What’s that?”
“Okay, thanks, Mr. Zaborsky. So we have to do the move right away, this coming weekend?”
“Yeah, I told the lady on the phone last night. Next weekend, I have to be out. I’d do it myself but I don’t have my truck anymore and I got hurt, you know. My arm.”
Right – the Hamilton dream: complete medical disability payments for as long as you can milk them. Four-dollar pints until kingdom come.
“Where does your sister-in-law live?” I ask.
“Dunnsvillle.”
About forty-five minutes away. I do some quick calculation. That’s putting this move at four hundred dollars minimum. The truck starts the meter the moment it leaves our garage and keeps it going until it comes back. The estimated return time is included in the bill at the client’s destination after unpacking. It’s usually a point of dispute after a move. Four hundred dollars to Mr. Zaborsky, down on his luck. No way he has that cash.
“What size dwelling is it, sir? Apartment? Two-bedroom?”
“It’s a house, two stories and a garage. Got a ton of crap. My wife keeps everything.”
&nbs
p; “Great. Don’t want to upset the little lady, do we?”
“What’s that?”
“Mr. Zaborsky, can I be brutally honest with you, sir?” Uncharted territory for me.
“Huh?”
“Sir, this move to Dunnsville is going to cost you probably eight hundred dollars.”
“What?”
“Did the woman not explain our rates to you last night?”
“She said it was a hundred and forty-two dollars for the move.”
Jesus Christ, I could strangle those women. They do this all the time. Instead of saying “hourly rate,” they allude that it’s a flat rate but without really confirming that. If a prospective client questions them on it, they’ll confirm that it is an hourly rate, but they don’t go out of their way to make that clear.
“No, sir, that’s a hundred and forty-two an hour. Plus tax.” I don’t bother explaining additional insurance coverage. I figure the hammer drop on the price of the move, inflated by me to a reasonable amount, will suffice. It does.
“Eight hundred? If I had eight hundred, I could pay the rent and stay here. What would I need my sister-in-law for?”
“Sir, there are cheaper movers,” I whisper. Ida’s door is open. I don’t trust her, with her false-teeth mouth and dangling jewels. I can hear her rattling them as she types. The jewels that is, not the teeth. That would freak me out.
“Sir, there are plenty of cheaper movers out there. Ones that might be able to meet your budget. I’ll tell you what I’ll do: I don’t want any hard feelings, so why don’t I find you someone a bit cheaper and set something up for you?”
“Okay, pal, whatever. I gotta get going out anyway. You call me back later. Leave a message with my wife.”
Heading out to the Genessee for the eleven a.m. pouring time? I want to say but don’t. I’m just happy to have dropped the move.
I end the call with Zaborsky and look up at Ida. She’s leaning close to her screen and squinting. I tear Zaborsky’s card up and chuck it in the waste bin.
I check my watch; it’s ten-fifteen. I collect my clipboard and make sure there’s plenty of estimate sheets on it, enough to do twenty moves. All part of the psychology, Ricky told me: make it look like you’re so successful you don’t need their business.
I use a plain wooden clipboard. Rick has criticized that choice in the past. He used to chide me about it regularly, but now he has more serious things to get on my case about, like my flailing closure rate.
Rick uses a vinyl-bound clipboard with a flip-over cover. I stick with my wooden one; I don’t go in for that flashy stuff. Besides, the flip-over cover is always a pain. You flip them over and fold them back under the clipboard and eventually they start to tear and come away and you have to get a new clipboard. They’re $6.99 at Staples. The plain wooden ones, the no-nonsense ones, are $1.99. And knowing that my choice in clipboards bugs Rick makes me keep using it.
I jump into my Pontiac Sunfire. My 11 am is over on Fintona Ave. I know the area well so no need to look it up in my map book. I pull my phone out and call the prospect. A woman answers and I confirm the meeting. It’s 10:20 now. My car is a mess; I really should get it washed. There’s a car wash right across the street. I could run it through the wash and still make it to Fintona ten minutes early, punctuality being my strong suit.
I drive across the street and pull around to the pay machine for the wash. The booth where Ricardo the attendant worked for twenty years is still there, but Ricardo is gone. They automated everything and got rid of him. Now there’s just a machine. I put my credit card in and chose basic; I don’t need the under-blast. There are already brown ripplings of rust on my ten-year-old Sunfire. The under-blast might do some serious damage.
I get pulled in between the rails and the inside of my car fills with the sweet scent of the soaps. As the Sunfire is pulled along, I review my other meetings. They’re all in Burlington and Oakville, four of them spaced out throughout the day. I will not be heading back to the office today, and tomorrow is Tuesday; Rick will be at the Mississauga office.
Something chirps in the car wash and my car judders to one side and hops the rail. The car rises and falls as the car pullers pass under me. Have I been leaning on the wheel and turned it? Even a gentle turn would be enough to throw you off the rails.
I pray the machinery will recapture my car, but it just keeps rising and falling every five seconds. Headlights flash in my back window. The next customer is paying for a wash. Don’t do it, I think. You’ll hit me. Then I realize that might work, might push me back onto the tracks. But it might tear my rear bumper off.
I wave my hand frantically and yell. “Hey don’t move forward.” I can barely see the occupant – it may be a man – of the car behind me, and the water is still pouring down on my car. I’m getting the wash of the century; everything is triggered by motion sensors, and I’m not moving.
I put my four-way flashers on; it must be obvious that I’m not going forward. I see the car behind me pull forward after paying and then stop abruptly. The guy beeps his horn. What am I supposed to do about it, pal? It’s pouring buckets and I’m stuck. I’m not getting out to push.
I beep the horn again and again. I put the car in drive and ease on the gas a bit; my car just rocks back and forth and there’s a grinding sound.
I lay on the horn in one continuous blast, followed by several short beeps. There’s a guy in the office where they sell shammies and waxes that are covered with a layer of dust. I never buy anything, just see him through the glass smoking a cigar. He comes around the exit of the car wash and goes over to a box and fiddles with it, and the water and the swinging washcloth strips that were jiggling back and forth stop. I lower my window.
“What the fuck you do?” he says.
“I don’t know. I didn’t touch the wheel.”
“Supposed to not touch the wheel.”
“I didn’t touch it.”
He looks down at my front tire.
“Put it in reverse and back up.”
I do as he says. The front end rises a couple of inches and the Sunfire plunks back down into the slot.
“Neutral!” he says, and lumbers back to the control box. A bit more fiddling and the water and the jiggling strips start up again. I quickly raise my window and feel one of the pullers come under the car and lift it up and plunk it down. I wait. Two more raises and plunks and finally one catches.
When I emerge from the car wash, the clock on my dash ticks over to 11:05. I gun it, rolling stops through every stop sign to Fintona. I see number 89. There’s a fire hydrant on the lawn in front of it so I park a bit down. I never park in a prospect’s driveway. My car leaks oil.
Number 89 has a nice manicured lawn with a security alarm sign on it and stickers on the door and window. I ring the doorbell and it opens quickly. She’s attractive, short and slim with short blonde hair and pretty blue eyes. Her hand is delicate and cool to the touch. I’d peg her in her mid-forties.
“Mrs. Lent, I’m so sorry I’m late. I got stuck in a car wash.” Honesty is the best policy.
“That’s okay. Glad you saw the fire hydrant.” She extends a hand. It is soft and cool and delicate. I like that.
“Yeah, I’m not sure where you’re moving to, but I’ll bet it has a fire hydrant in front of it.”
“Yeah, it’s a pain. Come in.”
I take my shoes off at the door.
“You don’t have to bother with that. I’m moving and the house is sold,” she says and laughs, but I continue on. I always remove my shoes. I’m not an American. A friend of mine has an American wife and she walks around indoors with her shoes on. It’s a weird trait they have down there.
She leads me into the living room off the hallway. Large, deep leather couch and matching chairs. A flat-screen TV on the wall and a dark wood coffee table. There are muted paintings of flower arrangements and a couple of china cabinets and curios but not much else in the way of character. The living room leads onto a spacious din
ing room with an elegant table and chair set and more china cabinets. I struggle to find something to comment on, but end up relying on my standard lines. Everything I say on these sits sounds so robotic and disingenuous to me.
“You have a lovely home here.”
“Thank you. I love it, but it’s time to move on.”
“Where exactly are you moving to?”
“Brantford. Midi has transferred me, and it’s too far a commute.”
“You work in Toronto?”
“Just this side of it. A quick thirty-minute commute if I time it right, but I’ve been driving out to Brantford every day for the past month since the transfer and that’s about an hour’s drive.”
“Brantford is nice. Wayne Gretzky’s hometown.”
She smiles.
I sit forward on the couch. She’s in one of the chairs. I get the other particulars – closing dates, moving dates. Then I start my tiresome, worn-out explanation about Henderson and how we would do things. I try to put as much sincerity into it as I can. Asking her questions, trying to figure out her needs. She needs to be moved; it’s as simple as that. She wants a moving company to come in, believe it or not, pack her stuff up into a truck and drive it to the next house and unpack it. I’m not like a car salesman, who has all the different options and payment plans to discuss. We pick shit up and move it. Sometimes we put it in a warehouse for a while.
I mention our No Bounce guarantee to Mrs. Lent – I assume it’s Mrs. No ring on her finger, but these days that’s not indicative of anything. I look around for photos and see only two. They show Mrs. Lent and another woman, shorter and squatter. Lesbian, I think? Who cares – gay, straight, bi or confused, I’ll sign you up and book a truck if you’ll just let me.
“What’s the No Bounce guarantee?” she asks.
“Means the day of the move, we can’t call you up and cancel it because we’ve got a bigger job lined up.”
“Do companies do that?”
“Sadly, yes.” I say. But we’ve never done business like that.” I pick up my clipboard. “Why don’t you show me around and I’ll put together an estimate for you?”
