GREG GRUBER:

28 years old
Leases a Lexus
Wears suspenders instead of a belt
Prefers a money clip over a wallet
Hopes to earn enough to afford his girlfriend


“I had a man your age in here yesterday,” said Greg.  “Same exact hearing loss.  See the down-slope?”

Greg showed the old man the graph, the diagonal line of red X’s and blue O’s for the right ear and the left.  It started off at normal levels in the low frequencies, took a dive at about a thousand Hertz and sloped all the way into a profound deep loss in the high frequencies.

“Flatulence,” said Greg.

“What?” croaked the old man. 

Greg had forgotten his name halfway through the test.  He was shrunken and bald and splotchy, eyeglasses like twin Hubble telescopes.  More or less like the last hundred little old men Greg had seen.

“Flatulence,” Greg repeated.  “The sound of human flatulence manifests in the high frequencies.”

The old man turned his head quick to look at his wife, looked back again to frown at Greg, the turkey waddle flap of skin under his chin wagging dangerously.  “What in the goddamn hell are you talking about?”

Greg attempted to look concerned, dead serious.  He glanced at the old man’s name at the top of the chart.  “Mr. Stanisloffski, you could be farting out of control and not even know it.”

The old man’s eyes shot wide, horrified.  He turned back to his wife.  “Martha do I—“

“Mrs. Stanisloffski, does your husband play the television too loud?”

“Oh, my Lord yes.”

Greg nodded sagely.  Back to the old man.  “Mr. Stanisloffski, you owe it to your family.  Communication is the richest most—“

“To hell with them.  They all live in Atlanta.  What’s this about me farting all the time?”

“It’s an example, Leonard.”  The wife.

“Am I farting right now?”  The old man sniffed the air.  “Good God, you’d tell me if I was farting, wouldn’t you?”

“Leonard!”

Greg was losing control of the sale.  “Sir, you’re not—that’s not what I mean.  I merely point out that everyday sounds, the sounds the rest of us have taken for granted, have slowly, gradually slipped away from you.  You don’t even realize what you’re missing anymore.”

Stanisloffski stood, twirled in confused circles.

“Please, sir,” said Greg.  “Have a seat.”

“I won’t be talked to like this.  Tell a man he’s some sort of gas bag.”

“Mrs. Stanisloffski, please, tell him that this is for his benefit.”

She stood too, threw up her hands.  “I can’t do a thing with him when he’s like this.”

Stanisloffski had stopped spinning, found the door to the little soundproof room and opened it.  “Come on Martha, we’ll go talk to the Belltone man.  He ain’t vulgar at least.”

The old couple teetered down the hall, making the world’s slowest getaway.  Greg went after them.  He pleaded.  He argued.  He offered a discount.  But the untamed, roaming Stanisloffski had eluded him, back into the wilds of the shopping mall.

“Hell,” Greg muttered.  He didn’t have any more appointments scheduled for today.  He glanced at his fake gold watch.  It was nine-fifteen a.m.

Frank Dallas slapped him on the back, a shit-eating grin across his face.  “You tried that farting routine again, didn’t you?”

“Put a sock in it, Frank.”

“Better get your game face on,” said Frank.  “Big shot from corporate headquarters coming to give us the pep talk.”

Greg couldn’t decide if he liked Frank or not.

FRANK DALLAS:

41 years old
Boxers instead of briefs
Has been a salesman for twenty years – started in water purifiers
Still thinks he can do everything he did when he was eighteen
Tells everyone he got his B.A. from Florida State but is actually short nine credits

Greg took off his lab coat and hung it on a peg back in the workroom.  He wore it during screenings to suggest to the hearing impaired he was some kind of doctor.  He wasn’t.  He’d past the Florida State Certification Examination for hearing aid specialists.  Barely.

He left the Magic Aid offices and drifted toward the food court.  At Barney’s, he purchased a large coffee, no cream, and nine sugar packs.  He window shopped, drank, and eventually found himself back at Magic Aid.  The secretary told him the meeting was just starting.

He went back to the meeting room, and the other seven salesmen milled about, drinking coffee.  Somebody had made a fresh pot.  A man walked in wearing an expensive gray suit.  Good hair, silver and distinguished.  A pinky ring with a stone the size of a bowling ball.

“I’m Chad Cortez,” he said.  “I’m here from the home office.”

The salesmen started to sit.  Scattered conversation still ping-ponged across the room.

Chad Cortez said, “Shut the fuck up and sit down.  Now.”

The salesmen scurried.  Greg grabbed a metal folding chair next to Frank, his heart flip-flopping, stomach threatening to return the coffee.

Franks whispered from the corner of his mouth, “Who’s this hard-on?”

CHAD CORTEZ:

Regional Sales Director for Magic Aid for six years
Has one wife, three daughters and two girlfriends
Thinks he has too many women in his life – He’s right
Killed six men in Vietnam with a shovel
Likes to invent statistics to shame his salesmen

Cortez scanned the room, made eye contact with each ear man individually.  He sat on the edge of the desk at the head of the room, threw his leg over the corner in just the right way to convey he wasn’t staying long – these guys weren’t worth his time.

“I’ve put off coming down here for two months, hoping you guys would get your act together.  Look at these numbers.”  Cortez jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the sales board.  “It’s twenty-four days into the month, and you’ve sold exactly eleven hearing aids.  I could bring one guy up from Miami – one fucking guy – and he’d do better than that.  He could come in every day naked and stoned and sell more hearing aids then you seven combined.”

Cortez paused, let the bad vibe hang heavy in the room.

“I’m coming back in two weeks.  Three of you will stay.  The rest are dead weight, and we don’t carry dead weight at Magic Aid.  Sorry to be so blunt, but that’s the straight shit.”

The salesmen sat.  Paralyzed.

This was not fair, thought Greg.  The leads were awful.  They’d been bad for two months.

Leads were generated by folks who called for information after seeing the Magic Aid commercials on Lifetime and The Golf Channel.  They trickled down from the home office once a month, and the salesmen divided them up, called the numbers to get the curious old folks in for a “free hearing evaluation.”

Greg thought about mentioning the poor leads.  Maybe they could get some help from headquarters, a big push from marketing, something.  Yes, he’d say something.  No.  Should he?

Henry Reynolds stood two seats behind Greg, raised his hand, cleared his throat.

HENRY REYNOLDS:

About to be fired

Cortez frowned at him.  “What is it?”

“About the leads, Mr. Cortez.  They’ve really been off lately.  I don’t think it’s fair to grill us like this when we can’t even get clients into the office.  Hell, get somebody in front of me and I’ll sell ‘em.”

“Who are you?”

“Henry Reynolds.”

“Henry, let’s you and I have a talk after the meeting.”

Reynolds gulped, nodded, sank back into his chair.

Cortez glared at the rest of the salesmen.  “I don’t want to hear any more whining sissy crap about leads.  You’ve got four years of back leads sitting in your filing cabinets in the backroom.  Work them.  And don’t give me any crybaby shit about the leads being cold.  Warm them up, breath life back into them.  Twenty-two percent of the sales in other offices come from working old leads.”

He checked his watch.  “That’s it.  The cold facts.  I’ll be back in two weeks, and then the hammer falls.”

Cortez left the room, Henry Reynolds trailing behind.

The salesman sat, frozen, dumbstruck, fearstruck, awestruck.  Struck by the corporate lightning that was Chad Cortez.

“Shit,” said Greg.

“Shit indeed.”  Frank shook a Winston out of his pack and popped it into his mouth without lighting it.

“What do you think he’s saying to Reynolds?”

Frank dragged a thumb across his throat and made a choking sound.

Mort Helman stood, sweat glistening on his forehead, dripping down from his bad, bad toupee.  He was polyester and short and washed-up and given to panic.

“Hell, guys, I don’t know about you, but I’m getting at those old leads.  I need this job.  I’m going to work those leads until the phone melts.  I’m going to line up three appointments for tomorrow.  That’s the key.  Set a goal and get after it.  Three appointments, no less.”

“That’s the ticket, Mort,” said Frank.  “You show us how it’s done.”

 
MORT HELMAN:

49 years old but looks 60
Thinks his toupee fools everyone
Is in debt up to his eyeballs
Thinks his big break is right around the corner
Perpetual office victim

The salesmen dispersed, most exhibiting various degrees of defeat.

Frank said to Greg, “I’m knocking off for the rest of the day.  Cover for me.”

  *  

“You’re supposed to take me out tonight,” said Tammy.

Greg massaged his temples.  His checkbook said he had thirty-eight dollars.  “Tammy, can’t we just grab a pizza for once.”

“I don’t do pizza, Greg.  I told you.  I’m junior assistant to the executive secretary to the assistant vice president.  At LordiTech, that’s technically management.  I’m not going down to Pizza Hut with all the screaming kids and fat people crowding the salad bar.”

“I have a lot on my mind,” said Greg.  He told her about the visit from Chad Cortez.

“You mean you might lose your job?”

Greg shrugged.  “Maybe.”

“Greg, I’ve told you a thousand times.  If you’re going to be successful, you’ve got to live like you’re already successful.  Now get out the plastic and take me to the Olive Garden.  And I want wine with dinner.”

Fine, but if he were going to heap more of his successful life onto the Visa, he damn well expected hard, animal sex later.

But later, all Greg could think was that he should’ve been working the old leads, or looking for a new job.  When he couldn’t get hard, Tammy simply rolled over and flipped through a J. Crew catalog for a little while before going to sleep.

   *  

Only four salesmen showed up the next day.  Reynolds, of course, had been canned.  Two more quit.  Greg stumbled in, bleary eyed and worried, and found Frank and Mort in the back room.

Mort had already grabbed a stack of the old leads, calling, making his pitch, sometimes even getting it all out before the person on the other end hung up.  His breath came faster after each call.  He tugged his tie loose, sweat already leaking from under his rug.

Frank had his feet up.  He waved grandly at Greg.  “Howdy-do, Greg old pal.  Ready to push some hearing aids today.”

“Could you guys hold it down,” said Mort.  “On the phone here.”

Frank grinned, motioned for Greg to follow him out front.  He pointed at the Radio Shack across the mall.  “I got my own little plan working.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to work the old leads?”

“Fuck that.  I slipped the Radio Shack guy twenty bucks to help me out.  See that big screen TV on display out front?”

“Yeah.”

“The guy put in a VCR tape.  Ten episodes of Matlock in a row.”

As they watched, an old woman stopped in front of the big screen.

“Here we go.  Come watch, but hang back, okay?”

Greg followed him across the mall.

Frank stopped next to the old woman.  “Wow, that’s a big TV.  I wonder how much it is.”

“Probably too much,” she said.  “It wouldn’t fit in my living room anyway.”

Greg saw Frank signal behind his back.  The man behind the Radio Shack counter thumbed the remote control and the volume on the big screen dipped just a little.

“Are you having trouble hearing, madam?”

“What?”

Frank signaled again, another dip in the volume.

“It’s just that you look like you’re having some trouble hearing Andy Griffith,” he said.

“It’s a little low,” she admitted.

“Hmmm, could be serious.  Have you had your hearing checked?”

“Oh, a long time ago.”

“Why don’t you step into my office.  I’m the chief examiner here at Magic Aid.”

Hesitation.  “I really don’t –“

“It’ll just take a minute.”  He took her arm gently, turned her toward the office.  “And I wouldn’t dream of charging you for a test.  We just want to make sure those pretty ears work okay.”

“I suppose that’s alright.”

Frank shot Greg an evil grin over his shoulder.

  * 

Greg worked the old leads for two hours.  Half the people on the list were dead.  The others not interested.  He called Tammy.

“I’m at work,” she said.  “You know better.”

“How about tonight?”

“I can’t,” she said.  “I’m having dinner with Mr. Garner.”

“You’re doing what with who?”

“He’s the assistant vice president.  It’s a working dinner.  His secretary is sick.  This is my big chance to show what I can do.  There’s a division position opening up, and I want it.”

“Well, does he drive a Lexus?”

“He drives a Land Rover.”

Hell.

  *  

Frank strutted into the meeting room, rubbed his hands together, and upped his total on the sales board by two.  “Score, Greg baby, Frank does it again.  Two totally in-the-ear canal jobs with all the bells and whistles.  Four thousand big ones.  All I had to do was suggest that all the old bags down at the beauty salon were saying juicy things she couldn’t hear.”

“Super,” said Greg.  Go to hell.

Frank flopped into the chair next to him, put his feet up.  “Glum, chum?”

“I’m going to be fired,” said Greg.

“What are you kidding?”

“Those leads are dead.  Mort’s still in there bashing his brains out.”

“We need to be proactive about this,” said Frank.

“What are you talking about?”

Franks said, “You don’t need to be the best.  You just need to make sure you come in at least third, right?”

“Right.”

“So you should play defense and offense both.  That’s what I’d do.  And I just happen to have an idea or two.”

This was what Greg needed, someone to give him an idea, point him in the right direction.  “Tell me.”

“You’re not going to catch me,” said Frank.  “I lead sales every month.  No surprise really, I’ve been at it so long.  And forget Stevens.  He’s a tough cookie when his back’s against the wall.”

 

TRENT STEVENS:

Hated that he was a salesman
Hated associating with the other salesmen
Hated Frank more than the rest combined
Spent his time between appointments in the mall food court drinking mint tea and reading
In two years would join the Peace Corps to administer hearing tests in Tanzania

“So forget Stevens,” said Frank.  He’s too good for you.  So it’s got to be Mort.  Mort is your salvation.”

Greg rolled his eyes.  “Mort is a loser.  He couldn’t sell water to a man on fire.”

“It’s because he’s a loser that he’s your man.”

Greg considered.  He thought he knew where Frank was headed with this.  “I’m listening.”

“Follow me.  Let’s see what Mort’s doing.”

They went to the back room.  Mort was still on the leads.

“How’s it going, Mort?  Got the appointments lined up yet.”  Frank smirked, winked at Greg.

“This is murder,” said Mort.  “I can’t reel one in for anything.  Damn old people won’t budge from their houses.  And my ear is killing me.  Damn phone’s rubbing it raw.  Damn it.”

“Try it on the speaker phone for a while,” said Frank.

“Thanks, Frank.  Good idea.”

Frank stood behind Mort’s back, motioned to Greg.  He pulled out his cell phone, pointed at it then pointed at Mort, crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out.  “Back in a minute.”  Frank left the room.

“No luck at all?” asked Greg.

Mort shook his head, grinned crookedly.  “Hell, kid, it don’t bother me any.  Persistence.  You want to make it in this racket, you got to be stubborn as a mule.”

“I hear you.”

The phone in front of Mort rang.  He answered it on the speaker.

“This is Naomi Rutabaga.  I have a hearing problem and it’s just about time I gets me some of them hearing aids.”

Greg almost choked.  The voice was meant to sound like an old, black woman, but it was clearly Frank.  He must’ve been calling from the soundproof room.  Mort didn’t have a clue.

Mort said, “Well, you’ve called the right—“

“What?  I can’t hear you no-how.  Speak up.”

“I said—“

“What?”

“You’ve called the right people, Mrs. Rutabaga.”  Mort was screaming at the speaker now.

“I gots to have me two very expensive hearing aids right now,” said Frank.

Mort practically bounced in his seat, fumbled for his pen.  “We can make an appointment for a hearing test right away.  When can you come in?”

Greg bit his lip to keep the laughter in.

“No, no,” said Frank.  He hammed it up good.  “No, no, no ,no, no.  I can’t leave the house.  Can’t you just ship me a set of hearing aids?”

“We have to test you first, Mrs. Rutabaga.”

“I can’t come in.  I don’t never leave my house.  I hate the outdoors.  I never leave.”

“But—“

Greg nudged Mort, pointed at the portable audiometer gathering dust in the corner.

Mort snapped his fingers, face brightening.  “Mrs. Rutabaga, I can make a house-call if you like.  I have highly sophisticated portable equipment.  Just give me your address.”

“Take Johnsonville road until you get to the Methodist church.  Then turn left at the barking dogs behind the chain-link fence.  Look for a blue rock on the left.”

Mort wrote it down.  Greg couldn’t believe it.

Mort hung up the phone, snapped his fingers in the air and jumped out of his seat.  “See there, Greg old boy?  You just got to keep at it, keep the old nose to the grindstone and something lucky always happens.”

Greg helped with the portable audiometer, made sure the headphones were in the side-bag, check all the wires.  He saw Mort’s hands shake as he snapped the whole kit closed.  He was so close to something good.  Greg felt a pang.  It was easy to jerk Mort around, maybe too easy.

Mort heaved the audiometer in one hand, his bag of equipment in the other, headed for the front of the office at a fast walk.

Greg followed in his wake, wanted to say something, mitigate his scheme somehow before God.  “Mort, take it easy okay?  Sometimes these hot tickets turn out to be a bust.”

“Got to keep moving,” said Mort on his way out the door.  “Nothing good happens to the guy standing still.”

And he was gone, fast waddling into the mall crowd, a streak of determined polyester with a mission.

Frank came up behind Greg, sick laughs oozing out of him.  He folded up his cell phone and dropped it in his jacket pocket.  “Hot damn, did you see that little man take off out of here?  That was a nice touch reminding him about the portable.”

Greg frowned.  “He’d have thought of it himself.  Listen, Frank—“

“To time.” Frank jerked his chin at the Radio Shack.  “Looks like Matlock hooked another one.”

   *  

Later an old woman came in for a hearing test.  She wore the brightest green dress Greg had ever seen.  Why did these oldies dress past their age?  Greg gave her the full treatment, but lay off the fart routine.  Not good with the ladies.  He thought he had her at the end, but she wouldn't bite.

“I know I need them.  My son tells me I don’t hear well,” she said.  “But it’s just so much money.”

She’d have to think about it.  “I’ll be back.”

I’ll be back.  The worst words a salesman can hear.  Worse than no.  The be-backs lead you along.

Greg drifted to the front of the store, watched the mall crowd which thinned in the dying afternoon.  Frank was there.  He had an unlit Winston in his mouth, which meant he was about to sneak out for a smoke.

“Any luck?”

“Be-back,” said Greg.

“Ouch.  Tell you what.  I’m going for a smoke.  Why don’t you take this one?”  Frank pointed.

A burly old man in boots and a straw cowboy hat had stopped to watch Mattlock.  Greg considered a moment, shuffled his feet thinking he needed to do something to kick start things.  But he shook his head, a sigh leaking out of him slow and tired.  “Not my style.”

“Suit yourself.”  Frank headed for the mall exit.

And Greg casually, slowly, found himself walking toward the big screen TV.  And then he was next to the old man.  And then they we talking.

“Down from Alaska,” said the old man.  “Wife’s in having her hair done.”

“Yeah, the women go to a lot of trouble to look good for us, don’t they?”  Small talk.  Greg was working him soft.

“What do you do, young man?”

Greg motioned to the Magic Aid office.  “Hearing specialist.”

“Yeah?  What’s an ear test cost?”

Greg smiled.  Don’t jump.  Don’t stampede him.  “Come on to the office.  No charge.”

The old man’s name was Reasoner.

They arranged themselves in the soundproof room, the audiometer between them.  The old man had to take off the hat to wear the earphones.  Bushy black and white hair underneath.  The test went like it always did.   Reasoner’s hearing dropped off suddenly in the high frequencies.  Not a gentle slope, a sudden drastic drop-off.

“Did you work with machines?” asked Greg.

“Hey that’s good,” said Reasoner.  “You figured that from my hearing?  I worked big machines on the pipeline.  Thirty years.”

“Well you’re hearing shows—“

“You ever get up to Alaska?” asked Reasoner.  “Absolutely beautiful.”  He took out his wallet, showed Greg a house.

It was a two-story log home, mountains in the background.  A sea of fuzzy green trees under the plastic protector.  Great. Super.  But not selling any hearing aids.  He old man wanted to talk.  Why did they always want to talk?  The war.  Grandkids.  Now the Alaskan Pipeline.

“Mr. Reasoner, this is all fascinating, but I want to talk about your hearing.”

“Who cares about that?”  Reasoner waved the notion away, plopped his hat back on at a jaunty angle.

“But I’ve clearly shown your loss.”

“I believe you, son.  Just don’t matter.  All my friends worked the same machines, so it sort of evens out.  We shout at each other all the time.”

“Don’t you want to hear better?”  Greg felt hot up through the face, tension in his neck and shoulders.  “What the hell did we do the damn test for if you don’t care?”  Greg realized he’d crossed the line.  The sale was blown anyway, so he pushed on.  “I mean, goddamn, mister, don’t you think I have better things to do?”

Reasoner sat back in his chair, scowled, bottom lip bunching wet and red over his chin.  He sighed.  “What’s the matter with you, son?”  He’d asked it gently, not mad.  “I thought you brought me in hear to pass the time until my old woman got out of the salon.”

Shame flooded Greg.  “Jesus, Mr. Reasoner.  I’m – dammit—I’m just as sorry as I can be.  There’s no excuse.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Let’s just say I’m not very good at this.”  Greg chuckled.  “You’ll probably be the last test I give.”

“You going to lose his job, son?  Is that it?”

“Most likely.”

“Best thing for you,” said Reasoner.

“Uh-huh.”

“You know what I did before working the pipeline?” asked Reasoner.  “I sold kitchen appliances in Detroit, Michigan.  Might as well been in hell.  Got my ass fired in one week.  Traded in my sports car for a truck and headed to Alaska.  Never looked back.”

“You don’t drive a Land Rover, do you?”

“Hell no, I don’t drive no yuppie piece of crap.  I drive a Dodge, a Dodge with dirt on it.”

They laughed, and Greg felt better.  He walked Reasoner out of the office, and the old man stopped at the door, gave Greg’s shoulder a squeeze.  “You take care, son.  Get some sun.  You look pale.”

“Bye, Mr. Reasoner.  Sorry again for flying off.”

He watched Reasoner disappear into the plastic swirl of the mall-world, an artificial ecosystem of fountains and air-conditioning and computer controlled lighting. 

Behind him, Mort Helman emerged from one of the testing rooms with the old lady in the green dress.  They were both smiling, pleasant.

Mort said, “Now as soon as those custom Magic Aids come in, we’ll call you for a fitting.”

She thanked him and left.

“I thought you were making a house call, Mort.”

Mort sighed, big and dramatic.  “I drove all over creation looking for that damn house.  Finally gave up.  But it’s okay.  I came in just when one of our be-backs returned.  I got her this time.  I wasn’t about to let her out of here without a pair of custom Magic Aids, no sir.  It’s like I always say, you just keep on the move and good things will happen.”

“Mort, I’m leaving.”

“Stepping out for a bite?  Don’t worry.  I’ll watch the phones.”

“Goodbye, Mort.”

“By the way, Tammy called for you, said she’d call back.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“What do you want me to tell her?”

“Tell her whatever you like.”  It wouldn’t matter.

Greg left the Magic Aid offices, moved through the mall, no direction.  The women’s clothing stores all featured green this season.  He felt light-headed, strangely dizzy, but not bad.  Greg walked faster, the green-clad store dummies looked like cartoon trees in the windows, blurry like from a speeding car.  A forest under glass.