— Fiction —

A Salesman Reborn

Dear Bob,

I am writing from a hotel room in Hackensack, New Jersey. You’ll see the lovely stationery they offer their guests—for free. I had not expected this because in the establishments I am forced to patronize while on your business trips, the phones are bolted down and even the Gideon Bibles are chained to the drawer interiors. Alas, the door locks never function properly, and the crowbar gashes and splintered evidence of nighttime assaults still blight the door frames.

This afternoon, I managed to collect a commission check directly from an undisclosed customer and have used the money to: (1) buy two bottles of 1982 Bollinger R.D. (Extra Brut—a description I found very compelling and plan to adopt as a personal mantra); (2) a gold-tone 1968 Cadillac Eldorado (with working retractable headlamps, whitewalls, and curb guides!); (3) an exceedingly long-legged girl named Isabella and her shorter, plumper friend Rosario (who, I will add, came along for free—Janice can never again say I don’t have an eye for a bargain); and (4) a hotel room with doors opening into a hallway, not a parking lot. The kind you never saw fit to book for my trips. Perhaps you are not aware of such places. I will send photographs.

I hereby resign my position as sales representative for Brawny Athletic Supports. I have tired of being the recipient of ire intended for you. Only this morning, two men at MVP Sport Supplies pulled my samples over my head and, while I was blinded by the fabric over my eyes, yanked my shirt tail through my fly and lead me around their offices as they made porcine-inspired noises. I’d prefer to avoid further detail, but I will say that they’re fairly upset with you and believe in shaming the messenger. If I were you, I wouldn’t attempt to personally call on them, as it appears they no longer desire your representation. And incidentally, I will be unable to return my samples, as my briefcase and its entire contents were pitched onto West 25th Street and consequently flattened by a passing Swann Ice Cream truck.

Please tell Janice that I won’t be home. And please also let her know that I have not gone off with her car maliciously. In fact I’ve left it in the city, as today I found that it had been jacked up and relieved of all its tires while I was being led around MVP’s headquarters by the lower portion of my striped oxford’s button placket.

Isabella has mentioned that she’d like to go to Hollywood. So, we have plans, plans a forty-five-year-old man from Blueball, Pennsylvania, never imagined he would enjoy even in his wildest adolescent fantasies. Heretofore, the most excitement I could expect in an evening was not attributable to my wife, but to a dish of vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce. If I was lucky, Janice would top it with crushed nuts. Often, I was not lucky, Bob. But now … now, I can have crushed nuts every night of my life if I want! The possibilities make me giddy. I hear the girls in the tub now, Bob, and I think that I’m going to go join them.

I wish you the best in your future endeavors.

Sincerely yours,
Alan K. Parker, III