Chapter 4

The water cooler went glug, glug, glug, with a weighty authority. Nearly empty, but the bottles sitting full on the floor appeared too heavy for anyone to bother replacing.

“Anyway, this insurance guy dies and goes up to heaven and St. Peter’s about to let him in the gates, you know, with full benefits and everything...”

“Yeah, but there’s the Devil standing there and he says to this insurance guy, ‘Hey, man, don’t go in there until you check out what I have to offer.’”

“No, wait. First of all, Peter says to the guy, well, you aren’t good and you aren’t bad you could either go in here or down below, you know.”

“With full benefits. And then the devil tempts him down. So the guy figures, what the hell, it’s not like he can keep me there, right?”

“Right. So the guy goes down below with the devil and, wow, the place is incredible. This beautiful blonde meets him at the door. And there’s tennis courts and Jacuzzi’s, and the devil shows him his house that he would live in and it’s, like, a mansion...”

“It gets better all the time. Anything he needs, he can get it (snap) just like that. And the guy, he’s all, ‘Oh, wow!’ And the devil lights him up a big cigar and gives him a big glass of wine and the beautiful blonde starts rubbing his shoulders and coming on real lovey-dovey.”

“And the guy says: ‘sold’ and he signs the contract and heads back upstairs to tell Peter that there’s been a change of plans.”

“And he heads back down to start living the high life. But when he gets there, things have changed.”

“Yeah, things have changed, all right. Now it’s all fire and brimstone and crap, and much gnashing of teeth. And the guy says to the devil: ‘Hey, what the hell? I thought this place was paradise, you told me things were going to be real good down here.’ And the devil says back to him: ‘Oh, right. Well, that was when I was recruiting...”

It was a hoax. Above him, below him, on all four sides he could hear it. Telltale hearts of frantic keys clicking, creaking file cabinets, the whisper of paper. And, just outside his closed door, the rush of people working on something. He did not know what. He arranged his Money-Market™ bi-weeklies. He stared at the phone wondering why the receiver had become so heavy. He feigned interest in the communiqué e-mailed to him at an unreasonable rate. He kept the office door locked, incubated against the noise outside. The others’ work became muffled and mumbled sounds and fury.

It reminded him of a story his father told him. He joined band in the sixth grade and decided to play the trombone. There was no romantic reason why; he chose it with little interest. He recalled the first day of practice. All were taught to take apart and clean their instruments. Taught about the reed and the valves. Taught to take pride in the authoritative gold gleam. The next practice they were shown how to make sounds by pursing your lips like this. But the third day is a mystery. Maybe the years wore through a day in memory, but his father insists he did not miss a day of school, and by extension did not miss a day of practice. Yet his friends and classmates on that third day seemed to know exactly where and when to blow, and how to read the music that seemed so enigmatic. Literally blowing him away. He could not read the music. He did not know how to move the slide into position to make the same sort of squawk as the others. It was as though he missed a day and they were ahead of him somehow.

There was the feeling Tom related to. Everyone knew something he didn’t. Or learned it somehow and he missed that day. Smarter, better, taller, kinder, more honest, less perverted, wiser with money, handier with tools, more mechanically inclined, more organized, larger penises, more intuitive sexually, angrier, more focused, happier, gentler, better with friends, braver, more grounded, harder working, better dancers, less inhibited, happier, and on and on.

Still, around him, the other agents excavated the mountains of cold-calls. Each instructed to set a mirror on the desk and watch his/her face while they spoke to strangers on the phone. Smiling. A smile can translate over the phone. A voice with a smile will get better and quicker results. Better and quicker define efficiency. Tom’s own mirror reflected only bewildered eyes. Behind them, Tom feared, was nothing at all. Sometimes, there would be a kick in him. An uplifting. As if there was a part of him that would survive this, whatever it was at any given moment. A will to carry on and do something. He could tell that it was not innate. He had not been born with it. Yet most times, behind that feeling would come another nagging, darker feeling. Like a lightning storm behind the beautiful air it pushes through. As though that will to survive was born not out of Tom’s genes, but out of some sort of catalytic event. A cataclysmic event. But be fucked if he could figure it out.

Kudos to the man (or woman perhaps) who invented call display. Kudos. And yet more kudos. It solved the mystery forever of who was on the other end of a ceaselessly ringing telephone. Before, all one could do was let the phone beckon and beckon. That nerve-shattering, trilling siren. Sounding urgent. Never pleading, always demanding: pick me up, now, dammit. Then the silence after. The ringing somehow louder in its absence. Who could it have been? What could they have wanted? What if it’s an emergency? Then they could call back. What if they needed you and only you? Who could need me and only me? Your mother is dying. Your Uncle has been in an accident. There is an important, unscheduled meeting at work. You’re late paying the rent. There is someone lurking outside your house this very minute, looking for a way inside, we saw them from across the street and we know you’re home, too. Why won’t you answer? The roof of your apartment is on fire. Your girlfriend has fainted at work; she is in the hospital calling for you. They could all call back. The bad news would still be bad news.

How about good news then? Lottery? Promotions? Old girlfriend longing for forgiveness and lost days? Good news could wait as well. Good news travels fast, after all. Or was that the saying for bad news. No matter, the news would get to him eventually.

What could people possibly want? More disconcerting yet when the phone would cease ringing only to start up again. Demanding. He would dare pick it up and be trapped by the person he least wanted to speak with, whoever that may be. Telemarketer. Mom. Work. Even a possible wrong number could seem vaguely threatening and suspicious.

He did not need to be accosted in his own home. It was enough he had to talk to people all day at work as part of his job. That was more than enough. So desperate had he been for a job that he never thought about the actual work involved. The recruiting process and questionnaires should have filtered him out. He should have been weeded out, as they say. He was not a people person. He hated people. Not in the aggregate sense, but in the individual sense. The screening tests he had done should have been 97% accurate to match his personality with the job in question. It was foolproof. Yet, the fool had fooled it.

You enjoy working with others?: A.) Strongly Agree B.) Agree C.) Undecided. D.) Disagree. E.) Strongly disagree. He had strongly agreed. And he lied. When you tell someone you will return his or her call, you do so in a timely and appropriate manner? He lied. You make decisions quickly? Five minutes debating that one. And still, he lied. In the end, the tests proved him to be the perfect candidate for the insurance business. All based on his lies.

More lies when he reluctantly returned his mother’s phone calls. “Things are going great, mom,” he said.

“I mean, I am working hard, but not too hard to burn myself out.” He corrected himself quickly. The lectures about work ethic from his mother and his Uncle had bored him since he was a child. He remembered his father and Uncle sitting at the table sipping beer. His Uncle was trying to get his father to work for him at the store. His father was saying he was happy where he was. His Uncle quoted salaries and prospects for retirement. His father smiled self-consciously and tolerating the ramblings of his brother-in-law. Tom’s mother nodding in agreement as her husband struggled to hold his composure. “But I’m happy where I am.” His father spread his arms wide in supplication.

“What the hell does happy have to do with it?” He remembered his mother or his Uncle saying.

And now, in that same tone of voice over the phone, his mother said, “Tom, this opportunity you have, you shouldn’t waste it.”

“Your Uncle went to bat for you getting you that in with Walter. Now don’t blow it like you’ve done everything else.”

“I’m just saying, that’s all,” she was saying, “and please don’t swear.”

“Sorry,” Tom said, reverting to a child. There was a long pause in the conversation.

“Eddy? She’s fine,” he said and glanced around the room. Was Eddy even here? Then he saw her curled on the couch, half-hidden by a small throw pillow. Her hair thrown over her thin face, watching an aquatic documentary on the television with the sound down. “Mom says hello.” He said to her. She waved one arm in the air, her bony fingers floating above her eyes. “Hello.” She gurgled back.

“Yes, she’s eating,” Tom replied. Eddy looked over sharply and mouthed the words: what the hell?

“Oh, yes, she’s working,” Tom said. From her corner, Eddy shook her head. “What?” he asked her.

“I was talking to Eddy.” Tom said, and then to Eddy: “you’re not working?”

“Volunteering,” Eddy mumbled, and then turned up the television a bit, signaling that her part of the conversation was through.

“You’re volunteering at the pool? I thought it was a job job.” Tom asked Eddy, but she was engrossed in the Jellyfish on the television. Tom could hear the narrator telling the audience about the dangers of these transparent creatures. Briefly, in Tom’s mind, he imagined Eddy in the pool with one. Would they be able to spot each other in the water? Would the fish mistake her for an eel and avoid her?

“I guess so,” Tom said. In his mind, however, he was calculating the rent and the groceries (which were minimal, but still) the cable television, the gas, the lights, the heat. With no income from Eddy, would his portion cover it? There was a draw on pay that he would have to make up. How many policies had he sold so far? Two? Both to himself. That would bring in some cash but maybe not enough. Could he sell more before the end of the month? Slowly he felt the hoax begin to unravel itself. The curtain pulled back to reveal the wizard as a short, overweight, balding, insecure man. The little boy stepping forward and crying out: “the emperor is naked, Ma!” The Grammy award stripped away from those singers, what was the name? Phony Baloney?

“Work is going fantastic!” he lied. “I got a busy week ahead and some great prospects, so things should work out fine.”

“Sure,” Tom said, trying to ignore Eddy glaring at him from her chair. He felt like throwing something at her at that moment but knew he would miss because the target was small. He spread his hands to her in petition and she shrugged and turned back to her jellyfish.

“I think this is it for me, mom,” Tom continued. “It’s a good opportunity.”

“Umm...” He looked at Eddy, ready to look away should she roll her eyes, which she usually did when she overheard these conversations with his mother. “We went to this Catholic church the other Sunday, there.”

He immediately knew his mistake, “No, no. Not Catholic, that’s just the name, I am sure it was like a Baptist thing, or something.”

“Why would they have Catholic in the title if it wasn’t a catholic church?” His mother asked.

“I must have got the name wrong,” he lied. “That’s right, it was beside the Catholic church and that’s why I got mixed up.”

“All right,” his mother said, “I’ve got nothing against the Catholics, you know.”

“I know. That’s right, it was beside the Catholic church. They share a parking lot. That’s why I was confused.”

“They have this belief about baptism that is just, well it’s just all wrong,” his mother went on. She discovered the Lord, or He had discovered her, shortly after Tom’s father was dead. Reverently she grasped the church and the people as though she were the one being buried day after day, clutching to the pant legs to hoist her up out of the grave. Tom was introduced to happy, smiling, plastic people by the dozens. He and Eddy were invited to countless barbecues. Retching, Eddy always begged off. Tom was happy for his mother. His Uncle was disgusted. Yet, when he spoke to them both about their respective projects, his mother the church and his Uncle the store, it appeared they were speaking of the same thing. The sentences were interchangeable.

a.) Uncle

b.) Mom

c.) Both A and B are correct

d.) None of the above.

“People are attracted to a full parking lot. Attracting the people is what it’s all about.”

a.) Uncle

b.) Mom

c.) Both A and B are correct

d.) None of the above

a.) Uncle

b.) Mom

c.) Both A and B are correct. The parentheses around the word ‘be’ and the letter ‘d’ indicate that the utterances are so similar that they are in fact, the same.

d.) Answer C is too convoluted to be correct.

So how did you score? Getting all the correct responses will make you look better. C? That’s right, the correct response in each of the questions is C.

Tom wished he could find something that captured him in this way. Something to throw himself into. Something to believe in and give himself to, without reservation.

An aptitude test in high school had baffled his guidance counsellor. Students around him were impressed with their prospects of doctors, lawyers, and indeed, chiefs of large concerns.

Tom’s results were inconclusive. He seemed to fit nowhere. “I’ve never seen this before.” The counsellor said and urged Tom to take the test again. The results were the same.

“I don’t know what to make of this,” the counsellor frowned. The fluorescent lights reflected off his bald head. There were posters tacked carefully and strategically around the office, which had once been a janitor’s closet. Each poster declared some positive message about education and children being the future of the world. A large map of the world served as a visual aid. Someone had written “you are here” in black ink with an arrow pointing to the North American continent. The counsellor looked at Tom as though his belief in these pronouncements about children as caretakers of the next generation scared the hell out of him. “Is there anything that interests you at all?”

When the test came back the third time, the doctored test, the counsellor proudly placed the results in front of Tom. Sales. This was what he was suited for.

Tom imagined meeting the counsellor at a high school reunion, years in the future. The counsellor would fail to recognize the new, successful Tom. Tom would insist and procure a yearbook and flip to his picture. In his actual yearbook, which was tucked away in a closet, there was a dark shadow where his face should have been, even though Tom remembered dressing up for the occasion. The caption read: “Tom Ryder: photo not available.”

“You inspired me to become a Life Insurance salesman.” Tom would say at the high school reunion years in the future. But even in this fantasy, the scenario went badly. The counsellor held up both hands, “Don’t blame me,” He said and backed away. Tom’s eyes followed him as the counsellor turned and searched out more successful progenies. There was one other of Tom’s classmates who was in the insurance game in a different province. The man’s suit bulged at its center and Tom did not get to speak with him at all that evening. Tom would get very drunk. Drunk until all conversations blurred and began to exclude him. Until he found himself leering at women’s ankles. Until he threw up in the public toilet. Drunk until he couldn’t tell or care who was in the washroom with him when he vomited. He found an exit without telling Eddy he was leaving and he felt better when he stepped outside into the cool air. He did not want to walk or stumble where Eddy or anyone else would find him, so he serpentined through the football field behind the school toward the black border that was the woods. He followed the trail for as long as he could until in his drunkenness he became disoriented and fell twice. He knew he lost the trail but still, he stumbled forward, knowing his direction would not lead to any specific path, but further knowing there was no actual path to be found. Until finally he broke into the open, found a convenience store and purchased an orange slushy. Even in his fantasies, Tom was never the hero of the story.

“But what God has given you now is an opportunity.” His mother had changed gears as Tom’s mind drifted away. “He wants everything for you. He wants you to be successful like your Uncle. Like that nice man Walter.” Call me Wally. “You don’t want to end up like your father working a small job in a small town making a small wage. God wants you to have everything.”

“I don’t think you do,” his mother admonished. “I don’t think you truly do know the gifts your heavenly father wants for you.”

“I know because you tell me all the time,” Tom said. Maybe too loudly. Certainly not loud enough to warrant the four-second pout.

There was another one. “You can(‘t) be saved by (P)roxy.” If Proxy was a brand of some sort, like a laundry detergent. “Washed free of the past,” was another. “Dad was happy doing what he was doing.” Tom countered, or maybe simply thought it, for his mother went on and on.

“Your father never made a mark on anything. He didn’t even seem to worry that you wet the bed until you were ten.”

“Even that took a while,” his mother sighed. “Listen, will you help me out with a church function next Saturday? A bake sale.”

“The Lord bakes and the Lord baketh away,” Tom said, and in the corner of his eye saw Eddy smile. Or wince.

“Tommy, don’t talk like that. Tom, the Lord does not like to be joked about.” She was speaking quickly now. Perhaps praying for him. But Tom was thinking about his first bike.

It was gold or rust coloured maybe. It was second hand, bought cheap or free. Much too big for Tom, his feet barely touched the ground and his arms reached uncomfortably and unsteady for the handlebars. Still, it was time he learned to ride. No easy task. Even learning to walk Tom held one end of a skipping rope and when his mother let go of her end he dropped to his bottom. His tricycle was not used to capacity, either. He preferred instead to grip the bars and propel it along with his right foot, his left foot on the backrest.

The bike too big or not, it was time Tom learned to ride a two-wheeler. His father steadied his hand lightly on Tom’s back until his overstretched arms found balance. Then a push forward until they were both moving, Tom’s terrified eyes watching the front wheel wobble while peripherally tracking his father. The drive was not paved. Small lakes were formed for Tom to splash in when it rained and then evaporated into deep craters he would need to navigate with the monstrous bike. His mother’s car, too, would leave petrified grooves and rivulets, proving she was there that morning and promising she would return that night. At night Tom would lay with his father’s shadowy form in bed and watch him trace Tommy’s name in the dark with the end of a glowing cigarette.

Sometime during the inaugural lesson, his father removed his hand and Tom would ride until he noticed his father no longer supported him. Then the front wheel would shake anxiously as Tom looked behind where his father stood half poised to chase if it looked as though Tom would fall.

“It was stupid. So stupid.” His mother would say years later. A bike too large, a road too rough, encouragement given in the form of chastisement. Tom would soothe her insecurities as a parent and in defence of his father. He did, after all, learn to ride finally. An empty lot down the street provided the smoothest surface to practice. The cracks in the pavement and the broken glass were too small to damage the tires.

This bike Tom kept for a long time. Traded, finally for a bigger one. Traded again for a motorcycle and again for his first car. Always in the car he would ignore the angry horns and finger gestures of others, leaving him wondering what he was doing wrong. Still he can feel his father’s hand on his back the way an amputee can feel the pain in a leg that is no longer a part of him.