I forgot
The man was a great salesman, articulate, down-to-earth, very – dammit, what’s the word – convivial. No the thesaurus suggests genial – that’s the word I was trying to remember. Very genial, very likeable. He also, when in hard-sell mode had a mind like a steel trap. ‘Sell, and don’t let anything stop you’ was his motto, and with unfailing bonhomie – no that’s not the word that was in my head – good humor – was that it? – he bore down on the prospect with tunnel vision? No no no no – single-minded? No – laser-like intensity.
Right now he was selling insurance. Last year it was light fixtures for small and medium-sized businesses. He enjoyed light fixtures; his job took him all over the country, but he was disorganized and the orders came so fast that he couldn’t keep track of them. I know how that feels, so many different things to remember, and you lose the thread; forget. Where was I?
He liked selling insurance. He kept his books tidy and his route compact, and when he trawled, fished – what was the word on the tip of my tongue? Trawled for new business he saturated a small square of streets (saturated?) and kept going until he had hit every building. Ten, fifteen, sometimes twenty percent of his calls were successful; ‘start them off small and build up the good customers’ was another motto, and in the past few months he had almost doubled his route.
It was winter and wet snowflakes fluttered past his face, some settling on his nose and melting immediately. He glanced at his book and pulled… pulled (I had it. I knew exactly what I was going to say – really smooth segue into the cozy pub, the only building left standing on the far corner of a four block redevelopment area. )
He was about three-quarters through his calls and the ritual break for a sandwich and a pint of beer was pure pleasure. He looked forward to thawing out and relaxing for half an hour before tackling the rump of his round. Then, as he entered the warm homely room, smelling of old wood and beer he hesitated. There was a nagging feeling of something forgotten, spoiling slightly his first moment of relaxation.
Sitting at his usual wobbly table, he looked over the place. Despite the cheerful décor (no, I was going to say wallpaper) wallpaper, and the slightly faded but still buxom and cheerful barmaid, the place was almost empty. The neighborhood had departed, and the pub hung on grimly, waiting for a new, modern high-density high-rise community to grow around it.
The insurance man shook his head; there was something forgotten, something right from the beginning. It was to do with his round. He took a quick gulp and thought about it. He looked at his route book. He hadn’t missed anyone. One beer was normally enough, but he went up for another, and watched as the ivory and brass handle creaked and the beer foamed into the dimpled glass.
He carried his pint over to the old wooden table, and the feeling got stronger. He almost had it, that déjà-vu thing (now why did I write that?) that déjà-vu feeling about the old pub, the old long-gone pub.
Oh dear. It was so long ago. Insurance sellers don’t walk their routes any more, certainly not here, in this huge modern half-continent of a country with its concrete and glass skyscrapers and sterile steel drinking establishments. There aren’t many real pubs left anywhere, certainly none like that one, grubby and ramshackle. It’s been five decades, half a century. That old place was dying when I used to stagger in, warming myself at the old fire, drinking cool beer in dusty glasses. It’s all gone now. I forgot, I forgot, I forgot.
Mike Morris has travelled all over the United States, and has lived in the big cities and hidden in small towns. He has always wanted to write, but he started only recently.
