Nuvein Magazine

Breakthrough
by Edward Russell

My manager, John Talbot, and his manager, Robert Shaw, sit in front of my desk looking positioned to play good cop/bad cop. John reviews my client files to see if I’ve overlooked any sales opportunities – bad cop. Robert looks over the photos situated on my desk – good cop.

Shaw picks up a photo. “Is that a picture of your daughter?”

“No, my niece, Anna, ” I say. “She’s a handful.”

Shaw flashes his professionally bleached teeth. “I bet,” he says. “Got three girls myself. All under the age of five.

“This client here,” Talbot says, shaking the folder. “She moved her money in July. Why’s that?”

I stand from my chair and lean over the desk to see the name on the lip of the folder: Mary Norris. “She passed away. Transferred her
money to her children.”

“Did you try to talk to her kids? See if you could retain the assets?”

“Sure,” I say. “Talked to them over the phone. The daughter lives in Arizona and the son lives in Texas. Real nice folks. Needed the money to pay off some credit card debt and funeral expenses.”

John shakes his head; his gaze still focused on the pages in the dead woman’s file.

“See, this is what I mean,” Talbot finally says. “If you had your hooks in this lady to begin with, you could have retained the assets. You need to think about your future business.”

I nod in agreement.

“You’ve also noted that she had about $250,000 at various wire houses. Ever ask about those?”

“Yeah,” I say. “She had the same broker for twenty years. Also gave her nephew some money to manage when he got his license. “

“Another opportunity lost,” Talbot says. “You should call the kids to see where the money went and to offer them your services.”

“John and I are concerned that you’re not fully realizing the potential that exists at this office,” Shaw says. “What do you see when you look in the lobby.”

“Fuck, I hate these games.” I think. All sales managers have them. I don’t care if you’re selling toilet bowl brushes or stock futures, there was always a manager practicing some motivational theory he read about in a trade magazine. I had to play along. If I didn’t it would be perceived that I have a bad attitude- the cancer of any salesman.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I see the teller line, the customer service center.” Talbot and Shaw look at each other.

“He can’t see the forest through the trees,” Shaw says to Talbot. Shaw looks at me and says, “What else? Look outside. Through the lo
bby windows.”

The windows in the lobby stretch from ceiling to floor, overlooking the parking lot.

“I see cars and an ATM.” I say. “I also see the mailbox and the trash can.”

They look at each other again as if sharing a private joke. I imagine standing up and jamming my pen in Talbot’s eye, placing all my weight on the pen until I feel it hit the back of his skull. Tell me what you see Johnny? Come on now. Need some help? Let me see that smile now. I could see him sitting there: head slumped, body covered with blood, just a fleck of gold showing in his eye socket.

“Well you almost go it,” Shaw says. “Look at the ATM. All I see going through there are expensive rides. Millions of dollars are driving by you daily.”

“And here you sit at your desk,” Talbot adds. “Letting it all get away.”

“If I were you,” Shaw says, “I would be out there talking to folks. Seeing what they need.”

“I would assume they’re looking for cash.” I reply. They didn’t respond.

“Yeah, why don’t you get some donuts and pass them out with your card” Talbot says. “Make introductions. See if they want to talk about their finances.”

“And the tellers at the branch will see how serious you are about hitting your investment goals.”

“Huh, never thought about it that way.” I say. “I just figured that they used the ATM because they didn’t want to talk to anyone.”

“Give it a shot. I’ll call and see how it’s going.” Talbot says, as he stands reaching across my desk to shake my hand. “I think you’ll be surprised at the reaction.”

“I’m all about making money,” I say. “What the fuck just happened” I think.. I’m now bribing people with donuts. “Excuse me sir, here’s a donut and my card. Let’s talk about retirement planning.”

“Sound like a good idea. I’ll let you know how it’s going,” I continue, as I give Talbot’s hand a firm squeeze.

We walk to the lobby and stop by the door. I shake Shaw’s hand and thank him for taking the time out of his busy schedule to help me. I do the same for Talbot. After they leave, I remain at the glass lobby door, looking out into the parking lot. I imagine myself out by the ATM handing out donuts to customers; thinking: Are plain donuts more professional that those with colorful sprinkles? Or would bagels exude more confidence? Would I be taken more seriously if I offered a beverage?

I turn and walk back to my cubicle. Jan, the assistant branch manager, waves me over to the teller line.

“So, what did you guys talk about?” she asks.

“Investments,” I say, as I turn and walk away.

---------

“But honey,” I say to my wife. “They wanted me to hand out pastry on the street corner. Maybe I should do one better and wear a sandwich board and ring a bell while I yell ‘mutual funds for sale’.”

“Listen,” Becky says. “I’ll support your decision to quit and find a new job but you know we have a child coming and we’re still stuck in this shitty house. You told me you’d be making enough money with this job so that I didn’t have to work once the baby gets here.” Becky pushes away from the kitchen table and starts picking up the dishes.

“I thought I would be making good money. I believed what they told me.” I get up and help with the dishes. “It isn’t that I don’t want to make more money. The job isn’t what I thought it would be.”

“What did you think it would be? You’d just walk in and people would hand over their money to you?” She walks into the kitchen and starts rinsing off the dishes. “I guess I’ll just have to work after the baby is born.”

My mind retreats. I see Becky through a haze of mental snow; very dream-like. I can see her lips move but I hear nothing. My mind floats to an image of me standing at a card table passing out donuts to bank customers. “Powdered or plain?” I see myself saying. “Need investment advice? Help with college savings?” They keep walking. “Come on you stupid motherfuckers, surely you need some help.” I flip the table over and start stomping on the donuts. I see Becky in the corner laughing. “I need to buy a bigger house,” I scream. They keep walking.

Becky lights a cigarette, leans on the counter, and looks at me as if waiting for a response.

“Well,” she finally says.

I’m back. “Well what?” I ask.

She takes a drag of her cigarette, exhales, and says, “You’re shitting me? I just asked if you had something else lined up? What’s wrong with you? You need to get your ears checked.”

“Um, no nothing yet,” I say, trying not to look too confused. “I mean, I wouldn’t just leave without having another job to go to.”

“Have you at least been looking?” She asks. “This just seems out of the blue. Like I said though, I want to be home with the baby. I don’t want someone else raising my kid.” Becky takes a final drag of the cigarette and tosses the butt into the sink.

“I just wanted to discuss the possibility of me looking for another job. I want out of sales. Maybe go back working as a landscaper.”

Becky examines my last statement. “You’re kidding, right?” she asks. “How the hell you going to make money in the winter?”

“Snowplow,” I say. “Damn, I’ll get a second job if need be. I’d feel better about myself bagging groceries than pressuring old folks into buying annuities. What the fuck you care anyway?”

“This is so typical,” she says. “Things get a little rough and you want to jump ship.”

My mind retreats again. I reemerge this time and find myself walking out of the house, wiping blood from my hands onto my pants. It’s not a lot of blood. Not enough that people would stop to stare. I pause at the end of the driveway. “I should go back in,” I think. “Find out whose blood this is. Maybe it’s not from Becky.” My heart pounds hard against my chest.

“You better leave,” Whispers my mind. “Even if you didn’t kill her you must have messed her up pretty bad.”

I start walking toward the Wooden Nickel Tavern. I crave the relief that only alcohol could provide.

--------

The place smells of cigarettes and stale beer and although it’s a bright day the Nickel remains dark. The walls in this place suck light right out of the air keeping it in perpetual twilight. Folks came to the Nickel to drink and to forget. It’s one of the last places where you can light-up and have a beer – Non Smokers not welcome. The Nickel doesn’t serve any thick, black, microbrew bullshit either.

Someone calls my name from the back of the bar. Although I can’t see the face I know the voice.

“James,” I walk towards the voice. “James, I should have figured I’d see you here. How you been?”

He was sitting alone at booth nursing a pitcher of beer. James says, “Sit down, the first one’s on me.” The bartender brings over a new glass as if on cue.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” He continues. “Thought the old women had your balls in a jar she kept under her pillow.”

“Very funny.” I pick up the glass. “You live in this place or what?”

“Only when I’m not in jail.” He drains his glass. “That reminds me. Just got done washing the fucking cop cars. Bastards can’t leave
me alone.”

“What’d you do now?”

“They busted me for being drunk in public. Believe that shit? Like I was dangerous.” He takes out the cigarettes from his breast pocket, taps the box on the palm of his hand to pack them.

“Well, here’s the part got me the carwash job. While he was looking over my driver’s license I take a piss on his cruisers back tire. Man, the cat was taking forever,” James pauses, lights a cigarette, and takes a long drag. “It was either that or piss down my own leg. You know what’s really messed up? I was doing the cop a favor, you know. I mean, would he want to put me in the cruiser with piss all down my front, stinking up his ride?”

“Always looking out for other people,” I say. I pour myself a beer.

James, my brother, spends more time doing community service than Mother Teresa – albeit for completely different reasons. James isn’t a violent guy. He just practices bad judgment when drunk, which is often.

“Damn, man. What’s up with you?” James asks. “And why the hell you here anyway? Shouldn’t you be on Wall Street selling stocks and shit to rich people?”

“For one thing, I’m not allowed to sell stocks,” I say as I pour myself another glass. “And another, I’m a salesman selling shit to old people they don’t need.”

“Well there’s worse things in life,” James says as he eases further into the booth taking a short puff off his cigarette. “Still, why aren’t you at work? The only time you come here is to bail my ass out of trouble and I’m still about four pitchers away from that. What’s going on?”

I go over my laundry list of reasons not to confide in James but the sad fact is I don’t have anyone else. I don’t have any real friends. The people I work with only talk about the deals their working on or how they’re getting screwed in taxes this year. I reach over and take a cigarette from the pack on the table. I place the cigarette under my nose inhaling the sweet earthy aroma.

“How’s about a light?” I ask. James slides his lighter across the table not saying word. I place the cigarette in my mouth and fire it up. The first drag burns my lungs, my head floats, and my body feels pliable. I can feel the nicotine being absorbed into my blood stream relaxing my muscles, making me feel at ease. Why did I quit in the first place? I take a moment to enjoy this mini buzz.

“Back to your question,” I say. No reason to pussy foot. “I think I messed Becky up pretty bad.” That got James’ attention. He leans in and rests his elbows on the table.

“What’d you just say? No never mind. I heard what you said.” James stares at me while I refresh my beer. “What you mean – think you hurt her? That like saying she’s half pregnant. Did you or did you not hurt her?”

“I don’t fucking know,” I say. “Last I remember I’m arguing with Becky and then I go blank. The next thing I realize, I’m standing at the end of my driveway wiping blood off my hands. Don’t know how I got there.” My heart begins to race - the nicotine, alcohol, and adrenaline mixing in my blood making me nauseas. My face tightens and becomes warm with blood while my lungs ache from the smoke.

You did it now, I think. No turning back. How did my life become so unreal so fast?

“So you’re telling me that you blacked out?” James asks.

“Not exactly,” I say. “It’s like when you’re driving in your car and all of sudden you realize you can’t remember anything you’ve passed. Like you was sleepwalking. Still able to do stuff but just don’t remember doing it.” Saying this out loud made me feel even crazier. Maybe I should tell him I’ve been getting rectal exams from little green men and call it a day. I drag my cigarette down to the filter.

James says, “So you don’t know if Becky is hurt. I mean, you can’t remember what you did. Don’t you think you’d remember hitting your wife?” He signals to the bartended two bring over another pitcher. “Bring two shots of Beam,” He yells as an afterthought.

The bartender delivers the drinks without looking at us.

“OK, lets take the edge off and think about this.” James hands me a shot glass. We flick the shots in our mouths in perfect unison.

“That’ll put hair on your ass,” James says as he thumps his chest with his fist. “Now, you don’t remember what happened?”

“I remember getting pissed,” I say. “I felt like I was going to reach out and strangle her. I just don’t actually remember doing anything. I was afraid to go back in once I was outside. Didn’t want to see what I’ve done.” That wasn’t the complete truth. I wasn’t worried about Becky. Hell, I wasn’t even worried about getting into trouble. I was more worried that I was losing my mind; that I’d be put in a hospital where they’d take away my shoelaces and make me take little pills with every meal.

James says, “Why don’t you just call her. Maybe this is all weird-ass misunderstanding.” James gets up from the booth and says, “I’ll be back. Gotta take leak”

“I think I saw a cruiser parked in the alley you could use,” I say.

The few moments alone allows me to reflect on my situation – to take inventory of the facts. Fact one, I hurt someone, or something, in my house. Fact two, my mind was slipping a gear. Fact three, I’ve never felt more alive then I do now, sitting in this piss smelling bar confessing my sins to a drunk. Another fact: I didn’t go back into the house so my rush wouldn’t end. The unknown was a thrill. Especially because I created this uncertainty; it wasn’t given to me. I therefore didn’t want it to end. It’s not that I wanted Becky hurt; never raised a hand to her in my life. I just wanted to walk in the skin of a different man; feel what’s it’s like to be cool. As I stood at the end of my driveway I felt the weightless relief that a pardoned convict must feel. It was exhilarating. I spent my whole life walking down a path forged by those around me, but the man that stood at the end of the driveway took a step into the unknown. I felt charged.

“Tell you what I did,” James says sitting down in the booth. “I called Becky to see what’s going on. And you know who picked up the phone?”

“Man, why’d you go and do that?” I ask. A wave of anger falls over my body.

“You’ve been acting crazy,” James says. “And this is coming f
rom the guy who streaked at the Founder’s day parade. I had to call her ma
n.”
“Who picked up?”

“What? Oh yeah, Becky did. Told me that she slammed a glass
on the counter cause she was so pissed at you and it broke and cut her hand up pretty bad. Said you walked over to her as cool as a cucumber, took her hand, wiped the blood off and left the house. Not saying a word.” James takes a drink of his beer, settles back into the booth and waits for a response.

“That’s it? That’s all that happened?” I ask.

“Yeah. What, you expected something more dramatic?”

“I didn’t know what to expect.”

“Man, you better get some help or you’re going to find yourse
lf running in my circles. Neither one of us would want that.”

I start to say something then …

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I emerge from my mental fog and find myself standing in front of my manager’s office with one hand grasping a golden metal pen and the other holding a bag of donuts. Man, my skin feels groovy.