The Salesman

The Salesman

The sky was brightening gradually as the sun slowly unfolded from behind a reluctant cloud. It was a clear day, other than a seam of smog behind the buildings that stubbornly refused to dissipate. Dust danced in and out of the pollution, through the emerging daylight. Al took a ChapStick out of his trouser pocket and meticulously ran the flavorless stick over his top lip, then his bottom lip.

Catching a glance of himself in the reflexive glass of a Ford Focus’s near side window, Al momentarily took in what he saw. His plain white shirt was perfectly pressed, as was his dark blue tie. He wore an expensive but not flashy dark green blazer over the shirt, along with perfectly ironed flat fronted black chinos. He held a small old fashioned brown leather satchel in his right hand. His hair was cut buzzcut short.

Al put a small mint in his mouth with his left hand and sniffed the air as he did so. The smell was a mix of petrol from the rush hour traffic, combined with the burning oil of bacon and eggs from the local cafes. He closed his eyes briefly, sniffed again and smiled.

He made his way up the small front steps of a terraced house, flicking a stray piece of dust off his left shoulder as he did so. Al held the satchel in his right hand and knocked firmly with his left hand on the worn wooden door as he did so. He stood tall with his feet shoulder width apart, a slight neutral grin on his lips. Before the door opened, he sniffed the air again. There was a smell almost like meat left out in the sun, over ripe and putrid.

The door in front of him swung open and more of the same odour followed it. Al frowned for just a second and held his grin, but the stench danced up his nose tempting a retributive sneeze.

“Good morning sir,” Al began, “hope you’re having a pleasant day.”

The figure before him had several days’ worth of stubble on its face and a cigarette half-smoked hanging from its lip. It was several inches shorter than Al with a fringe that flopped forward over the left eye.

“What’s so bloody good about it, eh?” The figure retorted, blowing smoke directly into Al’s face. His smile did not shift.

“Well, perhaps you’ve got a point sir. Perhaps the morning must earn being good?”

“Are you havin’ a laugh mate?”

Al quickly took in the man’s curry-stained t-shirt, worn tracksuit bottoms and a slightly protruding belly. He quickly looked over the number of windows the property had, the height of the roof and the washing line in the back garden. It was empty.

“Not having a laugh, just making conversation.”

“I don’t need any bloody chancer coming round here waking me up, why don’t you just do one pal?”

“Of course you don’t, but perhaps a gift for your wife or girlfriend with Valentine’s Day coming up?” Al hadn’t shifted his stance or his smile.

“The wife fucked off with the satellite installation man, not that it’s any of your bloody business! Now do one!” The man shoved Al’s left arm slightly aggressively and began to close the door.

“Oh no, not you too!” Al replied as the man continued to poke him in the arm.

“What?” The man paused his poking briefly.

“My wife left me recently too,” Al sighed, and his smile was gone, “nothing was ever good enough.”

The man’s fingers dropped, and he inhaled on his cigarette. “Aye, it’s happening all over, pal.”

“Look mate, seems like we are in the same boat. Any chance of just a moment of your time?

“Aye, go on then. Have to be quick though, I’m signing on at eleven.”

“Of course, no worries and thanks.”

“Go on, aye. You’d best come in then.”

*

Al held the beer can in his left hand and sipped carefully. His smile had returned. He restrained himself from flicking any of the dust away that settled on his blazer sleeves. The carpet was stained --mostly brown-- and strewn with copies of the Sun. The sofa he sat on matched the tone of the carpet. There were a lot of takeaway boxes and just as many beer cans. Davy lounged opposite him in an armchair that was slacking under his weight, already on to his second beer can.

“Yeah, been gone five months now,” Davy said sipping, “bloody bitch.”

“Must be very difficult,” Al also sipped from his can, “big house like this.”

“Aye, it can be,” Davy acknowledged.

“Do you get lonely?”

“… sometimes, aye.”

“I understand.” Al maintained his smile but looked directly into Davy’s eyes.

“Maybe you do, aye.”

“I know that pain. I’ve felt it myself, especially since she left.”

“It’s hard isn’t it?”

“It is, it’s so hard.”

“Aye, it really is.”

“Perhaps, I have something that could help.”

“What?”

“No, no, I feel bad now…”

“Go on, we know each other a wee bit now. Finish what ye were saying.”

“Well, perhaps I’ve got something that can make you feel better…”

“Oh aye, you think so?”

“Yes, it helped me.”

“Is it in your bag there?” Davy broke Al’s stare, to look down at the satchel.

“It is.” Al maintained the grin and eye contact.

Davy stopped and lit a cigarette, eyeing Al as he did so. “Let’s have a look then, I might be curious.”

Placing the beer can on the floor next to his left foot, Al deliberately stared straight into Davy’s eyes, lifting the bag with his right hand and opened it with his left hand. He indulged himself the slightest increase of his smile as he did so, opening the satchel slowly to show Davy its contents.

*

Al made his way down the steps, sniffing the air as he did so. It smelled the same. His smile widened, as he adjusted his tie from the left to the centre. Making his way to his red Mondeo parked a little way down the road, he opened the door with his left hand. He opened the glovebox and took out a lint roller, rolling it carefully over both sleeves of his jacket, the lapels and the back. He looked at himself in the wing mirror, smiled, re-set his stance, closed the car door and locked it. All this was done without putting down his satchel.

The sun had now defeated the cloud that had concealed it and was glaring down over the terraced houses. Al carefully removed a pair of classic sunglasses from his right lapel pocket with his left hand and put them on, as he made his way down the hill. He sniffed the air once more, but it had changed. The odour of grease had been joined by the smell of flowers. On the right-hand side, halfway down the hill was a bungalow. He looked at it slowly, at the door, then the windows and finally at the walls themselves, taking it all in. The property was small and prefabricated, based on the joints in the building, he observed. But the garden was full of mauves, blues and turquoises. There on her knees tending the garden was an old woman, probably easily in her seventies.

Relaxing into his stance with his shoulders apart and with the grin etched on his face, Al greeted her, “My, what a beautiful garden you have.”

The old woman looked up gradually, using a gloved hand to shield her eyes from the sun, to see the figure above her, “Why, thank you, that’s kind of you.”

“It reminds me of my own dear grandmother’s garden. The smell of your flowers brought back such happy memories for me.” Al maintained his smile, whilst keeping eye contact.

“Well, I’m so happy to have brought back happy memories for you, young man. You know my own grandson loved the garden.” He registered the use of past tense—loved-- and her smile dimmed, just a fraction, at the word.

“Ah, it seems we have the enjoyment of gardens in common. I’m glad your grandson appreciates it too!”

She was silent briefly. “Yes, he...did.”

“You must be very proud of him.”

“I wa… I am.”

He increased his smile and maintained eye contact. “Where is he now?”

Her eyes were wet. “He … died. In Iraq.”

He turned his smile down, whilst maintaining his gaze straight into her eyes, “Oh, I’m so sorry, I did not mean to dredge up such awful memories for you! Please forgive me!” He emphasised his regret with a precise wave of his left hand.

“It was a long time ago. You weren’t to know Mr.…?”

“My name is Flueric. Alfred Flueric. But my friends call me Al. And so must you, as I feel we have connected. What is your name?”

“Mrs. Grimes. But you may call me Dora.”

“Thank you Dora. I am so happy to have met you and sorry again. Well, I must be getting on.”

“Would you… like a cup of tea?”

“Oh, why not? That would be lovely.”

*

Al sat in a small armchair. He looked at the fireplace in front of him. It had gathered dust. He took in the photos above it. A younger version of Dora with a boy of primary school age, then the same boy as a man who was now taller than her. There was a small TV in the far corner of the room and a Radio Times next to it with several programmes circled, with a pair of glasses on top and a biro.

“Here you are, no sugar as requested,” Dora said, handing him a small white cup and saucer. He took the saucer with his left hand and placed it down upon the small coffee table in front of him. He used his right knee to edge his satchel forward on the armchair.

“So, you used to spend time with your grandma in the garden?” Dora said as she sipped at her tea.

“That’s right. I used to help her to plant the flowers for most of the day, before we would watch Eastenders together whilst eating our Shepherd’s Pie.” Al smiled and sipped at his tea. “Wonderful memories.”

“Oh, Eastenders is my favourite!” Dora exclaimed, as she sipped at her tea quickly.

“Mine too, and my grandma’s. We were hooked by who shot Phil Mitchell!”

“That was my grandson’s favourite storyline!”

“What a coincidence!” Al maintained eye contact, increased his smile and sipped slightly from the teacup. He edged his satchel forward with his knee slightly again.

Dora broke their eye contact to look down at his bag, “Oh, that’s such a lovely satchel, I had one just like it when I was a schoolgirl.”

“It was a gift.”

“From your grandma?”

He smiled broadly. “That’s right.”

“Oh, another thing we have in common!”

“Yes, you remind me of her, Dora.”

“Well, you remind of my dear Frank.”

He kept eye contact, smiled even more widely and picked up the satchel in his right hand. “Look, there’s something that might interest you.”

“Yes, what’s that?”

“Actually no, I shouldn’t. You invited me in here just for a cup of tea.”

“Go on Al, finish what you were saying.”

“It’s just, here, we’ve connected so well and based on our conversation, I have something you might enjoy.”

She looked from the smiling Al to the satchel. “Is it in the bag?”

He gazed into Dora’s blue eyes, smiled the widest yet and let the silence linger for a moment before replying, “Yes, it is.”

“Can I look?”

“Well, I don’t show this to just anyone, Dora. But for that special person, surely.”

He slowly and deliberately opened the satchel’s zip, letting his fingers linger so she couldn’t see inside. With great effort, Dora stood and looked down into the gap.

“Oh yes, that’s just what I need. How did you know?”

Al closed the satchel once again and smiled as he did so. His smile never wavered.

*

Al unlocked the car door with his left hand, placed the satchel next to his right leg on the floor. The sun had begun to descend from the sky and there was a subtle but encroaching gloam on the horizon. He removed his sunglasses carefully and placed them back in the right lapel pocket of his jacket. Al used the lint remover to clean his jacket before placing it back in the glove compartment. He turned on the radio with his left hand and kept his right hand on the wheel. The lyrics filled the air “As he faced the sun, he cast no shadow…” Al allowed himself a final smile in the rearview mirror, before beginning to sing as he drove away toward the retreating sun.