In All Fairness

 He was a salesman, door to door.  She knew this when they met, it was how they met.  He would quip, "Knock on enough doors and you'll find your soul mate."  That's what they were, no denial.  Try as they might, they could not go without a nightly call or a weekly visit.  He really hadn't had a permanent residence since he left home for college.  He went from the dorm straight to the road, sale after sale, motel after motel.  Any one of the towns he visited would be nice to live in.  Picket fences, immaculate lawns, a rose trellis at the end of every porch crowned with a swing, these were criteria for happiness, he thought.  The road is a cliche of never ending journey's of woe or triumph.  He had his share of both in a modest way, as much as any salesman could have.  He had a knack for making fast friends, it was what made him a good salesman, not great, just good.  The great salesman would make the hard sell, a battle of wills forcing the buyer into an unavoidable corner and pummeling them with a litany of tax, extended warranties and delivery costs.  A friend did not sell this way, not himself or the product.  "The product picks the man," his trainer used to say.  He had colleagues that didn't care, would sell anything.  He felt a responsibility to his customers, their needs, and hopefully repeat sales because of his obvious dedication to the product, his job and his "friends".  This was the first thing that attracted her to him.  He had a nice smile, a twinkle and a dimple, smartly dressed but seemed at ease in his unassuming gray flannel suit.  His tie was even friendly, a muted green of some shade that reminded her of the moss that grew on logs crossed with the kind that hung from trees.  He had only one, so she had spent several visits puzzling the color.  It was one of the first gifts she had bought him, a second tie, periwinkle crossed with confederate gray.  He wore a matching pair of gray suede saddles, unlike most of his colleagues, who chose the loudest wingtips they could find.  Her Aunt Berte would say, "I can here that salesman's shoes from three blocks away."  She liked his hands, strong, sure and sensitive, not work hardened but with a definite masculinity.  She was certain of him after the third visit.  He wasn't sure she was interested until the fifth.  He had been struck smitten the first time she came to the screen door, something in her walk, lilt of her voice, shape of her hips, like the same old comfortable winter quilt.  He would of course, not characterize his love at first sight analogy to her.  But that was how he felt around her, comfortable and warm.  When it became obvious to both, coy went out the window.  He put her on his weekly route instead of monthly.  The VP for the area said that was too frequent, he couldn't sell that often in the same place.  He doubled his sales just to prove him wrong and justify the visits.  They did all the usual things, movies, dinner, in and out, long walks, picnics, all very casually going to the inevitable conclusion.  They married, settled into one of the towns he frequented, picket fence, lawn, trellis and porch swing.  They would spend countless nights gazing at the stars, holding hands, comfortable in the silence.   She kept house and packed his things for sales trips.  He felt a new vigor for sales now that he had to support more than himself, picket fence, lawn, swing.  He would call her from the motels, spending hours into the night talking to her about his day, her day, nothing.  To her it was like having him there, for a while.  When he returned, they would try to cram all the time they had missed into a brief moment, passionate and wonderful but fleeting.  He was a salesman, she knew this from the beginning.  Her love for him was true and only for him, but the same cliches about the road are used to describe who is left behind.  He had a boss, who had an area boss, who had a regional VP, who had the CEO of the company.  The idea being to climb that ladder to success, in an ever shortening of that distance, to that piece of the pie, the American Dream.  Friendly salesmen hold the ladder for salesmen with loud ties, loud shoes and a hard sell.  Her frustration with his advancement prospects had only everything to do with having a full time husband.  She wanted children, but she would not do it alone.  He wanted her to be happy, but liked what he was doing, the way they were.  She became increasingly despondent, frustrated with her life of endless waiting but truly in love with this person who wantonly leaves her.  She would console herself that it wasn't a dangerous job, that he would always be coming home.  He honestly enjoyed his homecomings, as if they were a first meeting all over again. She wanted it all, enough of a change that would move him up the ladder.  As time went by, her resentment of his job crept into their visits, pillow talk, phone calls.  It was increasingly difficult for him to enjoy the prospect of coming home.  They talked less frequently on the phone.  He took longer trips and stayed at home less.  Soon, they had become a matrimonial automaton, going through the motions, ships passing in the night.  He would play it back to himself over and over, how they had met, first words, first kiss.  Somewhere amidst all that chatter was the heart that he promised to love, honor and cherish.  She was certain that he had the potential but needed the right motivation.  Each with these new ideas in  their heads, fell asleep upon how to deal with the other.  Breakfast was polite, more paper rustling and utensil clanking than actual speech beyond grunts for refills or eye rolls and heavy sighs.  So the problem became, how to find some sort of compromise without sacrificing self in the process.  Was she sharing his life or was he sharing hers?  He was at the end of the block, one more house in this subdivision, then home.  Home.  Surely there was something to do to make her happy.  There were days now, that his knees ached from all the walking.  Maybe he should put in for a promotion.  It would mean moving to where the head office was located.  He loved their house.  He made his way up the steps and rang the doorbell.  He had just planted apple trees in the back yard, it would be years before they produced.  A gentleman answered the door.  He gave the man his opening salutation and sales pitch.  He couldn't understand why she wasn't happy.  The man invited him in.  Maybe if she got involved in the community, she wouldn't feel so left behind.  They sat across from each other on matching sofas.  He opened his product case and arranged his colorful product photos and testimonials.  Maybe the Jr. League, or something they could do together, club bridge.  The man asked if he wanted tea or coffee.  That might satisfy her for a little while.  The man came back with a tray filled with tea service and cookies.  How should he approach her without sounding like he was putting her off with a hobby.  He took  a sip of his tea, felt the warmth as it washed down into his stomach.  Pulled from his self reflection, he  noticed the other man for the first time since their meeting.  He was a small, timid looking creature.  He served and handled the tea service with a feminine quality that belied a casual passing with the China set.  His eyes were expectant as if he was waiting for a compliment on the tea or had he asked a question?  The warmth that he had felt in his stomach from the hot tea persisted and grew ever warmer.  He felt the warmth radiate out to the rest of his body.  He looked at the other quizzically.  The man's face changed to sly grin.  He began to tell a tale of woe as the salesman tried to stand.  He fell back onto the sofa trying to focus on his movements, listening to the other going on about something.  He was only catching snippets through the now increasing pain.  He felt as though his head would explode.  His vision swam, his heart pounded in his ears, drowning out whatever monologue the other was going on about until it all went dark.  The other stopped, realizing that the salesman had expired.  Disappointment filled the other with rage.  He sat there until darkness fell, seething about the salesman's premature death.  He still didn't have the dose right, even after eight tries.  As night fell, the other took the salesman by a foot and dragged him out the back door and into the yard.  A high privacy fence blocked the grizzly event from casual view, as he proceeded to bury the salesman.  She sat, watching the phone, more out of ritual than expectation.  She finally went to bed without a thought about it.  He would call or he wouldn't.  No sense in losing sleep.  For three days past his return date, she waited.  On the fifth day of his being past due, she called the head office.  "No, we haven't heard from him... No we haven't processed any orders in eight days...You are right, that is not like him...Yes, we will let you know as soon as he checks in."  This was unsettling for her but not in the way one might think.  She felt a kind of relief and anger.  She continued to wait by the phone, in fact it became her daily ritual.  More anger seeped into her from his lack of attention.  One afternoon, the doorbell rang.  She picked up the phone, "Hello?"  The doorbell rang again, she looked at the door, then at the phone and put it back down on the receiver.  She went to the door and opened it to a salesman.  He was all shine from the wing tipped shoes to his pearly whites.  He wore an aubergine, double breasted suit and a tie so green that it actually hurt her eyes to look at it.  She realized he was pitching.  Something in his manner gave her pause, some hint of how her husband talked to her.  She started to produce a kernel of an idea.  He had stopped and was looking at her expectantly, she realized.  "Do come in, would you like some tea?"  He glided into the living room and in a flash had his samples out for her perusal.  She excused herself to get the tea and left him on the couch.  She went into the kitchen and allowed that kernel to take shape.  She looked around the kitchen, went to the cupboard and pulled out a heavy cast, iron skillet.  She would have to do this just right if she didn't want to kill him or get blood on the couch.  It was a matching set to the chairs and ottoman.  It wouldn't do to get blood everywhere.  She walked back into the living room, skillet hanging from her clenched fist held tightly by her side.  His back was turned to her and he was slicking back his greased hair.  She could see that he was balding but still managed to conceal the fact with a clever bit of comb over.  She was trying to pick her spot when he turned to acknowledge her.  She brought the skillet up in an arch and caught him right on the chin.  He never saw it coming.  She took the salesman by the feet and dragged him to the basement door.  She put him in a sitting position on the first step then gave him a push.  He somersaulted into the depths of the house.  She rushed down and put her finger to the side of his neck, still alive.  She grabbed his feet again and pulled him to the near wall, propped him up and went to a shelf of boxes.  She remember what was in each after memorizing their contents during one of the times her husband had been gone.  She found the box she was looking for, pulled out a length of chain and a combination lock.  She bound his feet at the ankles with the chain, then ran a length to a pipe, three feet up the wall.  She brought the length back down and attached it with the lock to one of the links binding his feet.  She stood and straightened her dress, patted her hair to make sure none was out of place, and sat down on the bottom step to wait.  After an hour or so, the salesman started to wake up.  He looked groggy and his face contorted with the pain of what had been rough treatment.  He soon noticed his chains and began to understand his predicament.  He started blathering, tears rolling down his face.  Then he turned to anger and made quite disgusting threats upon her person.  He finally fell into begging for his freedom.  She watched all this with a kind of detachment, resolute in her actions.  She finally stood, and turned to go up the steps.  The salesman was unable to hear her words as he screamed after her.  She stood in the doorway, light from the kitchen back lighting her slim frame.  "I said, now you will never leave me."  The salesman looked up in horror at her, understanding her words as the door closed off any light or possibility of release.  The other had finally gotten the dosage right after twelve.  Everyone after this, counted.  The salesman on the sofa, paralyzed from the poison, was a listening prisoner to the other's monologue.  He said, "Three years ago, a salesman knocked on my door.  My wife answered, as I was at work, and let him in to hock his wares.  Needless to say, it wasn't anything we needed but she was intent on lining his pockets with my money.  In due course, he would return...frequently.  My wife was a prodigious spender, but it was no secret to him, that she wanted more than his wares.  I came home one day to an empty house and a polite letter.  She wrote that they were in love and I would be better off without her, that she had fallen out of love with me, yada, yada, have a good life.  Needless to say, I have become somewhat preoccupied with the death of all salesman.  You might suggest that all salesman are not wife stealers.  But I would counter, that any man who chooses sales as a living, is cut from the same cloth.  One just as culpable for all.  And that's my story.  Really, not a very good one, but I have time to develop it.  You won't be the last salesman to my door, but this is the last door for all salesmen.  The salesman woke, his vision swimming with color from a nasty blow to the head.  He was being unceremoniously dragged.  He heard the sound of chains and felt his feet being bound.  He tried to struggle but it made his head swim. He heard her mumbling something as she climbed the stair.  When she opened the door to the kitchen, it bathed the basement in an eerie glow.  His vision had come back just in time to see what he was in for,  Six other well dressed men, were chained to the pipes that ran the length of the wall.  They were in various states of decomposition.  He saw no food or water and understood his plight, he yelled at her as she closed the door.  "That's another that won't leave."  It was a banner day for the other, three salesmen in one day.  Must be a record of sort outside the military.  He was seated at the counter in an old style diner from the 50's.  Everything chromed or stainless.  He liked it because it was clean.  The entire structure was designed for one thing,  feeding people.  There was no kitch or fluff about the place, all business.  He was a regular, in fact probably the only thing he was not random about outside his home.  There, he was obsessive.  He always had the same thing, a Manhattan with turkey.  The same waitress always took his order, made him feel safe.  while he was waiting, a woman came in the door.  She was a handsome creature, straight as a board with curves you couldn't help taking your eyes off.  She pulled the silk scarf from her hair and sat down at the bar instead of a table.  Her manner bespoke of good breeding or of practiced pretense.  Her eyes would tell, but she still had her sunglasses on, the kind movie stars always wore.  They gave her an insect likeness.  He laughed at himself for the musing.  She took off her sunglasses, folded and tucked them into her clutch.  The waitress came around the bar, pulled out her pad and looked at the woman expectantly.  "I'll have a Manhattan with turkey but I want the meat on top of the potatoes and a glass of tea."  She looked up and noticed a man staring,  "You should take a picture."  He didn't realize he was staring.  A Manhattan wasn't even on the menu, but anybody who was regular knew that the cook was from Indiana and it was the best thing he could muster.  He said, "I'm sorry, I just ordered the same thing."  "Really," she said.  "We must be soul mates then."  She took a quarter turn away from him on the spinning bar stool and crossed her legs.  "I've never seen you in here before, how did you know they would make a Manhattan?"  "Who are you, the diner police," she said over her shoulder without looking at him?  "No, its just...odd."  He dragged out the last word like fingernails on a chalkboard.  She turned back to him on her stool, now giving him her full attention.  "I am not used to being accosted in diners, especially one that I come to every other day, if its any of your business."  He looked at her funny and said, "Which days?"   He ate there Monday, Wednesday and Friday without fail since his wife had left.  "Tuesdays and Thursdays, if you must know.  Now leave me alone!"  He said, "Today is Friday."  She used to like small talk, witty banter, but that went the way of her husband, gone.  She sighed and said, "Sheriff.  You are the diner sheriff."  He smiled and said, "Yes.  Matter of fact."  She put her elbows on the bar and folded her hands under her chin, a pose that almost shook his calm.  "My husband was from Indiana and loved this place, came here all the time.  We ate here when he was in town.  I still come here out of habit, I guess.  I was having my hair down yesterday...what do you think?"  "What do you mean, when he was in town," he asked?  "His work took him away," she said.  She liked saying it that way.  It meant that he hadn't left her but that his work was responsible.  It was an easy lie to tell herself.  "Away?  What did he do," he said?  "He was a salesman.  Why?"  It was in the way she said 'salesman', with a hint of disgust.  It was something that only he would detect.  He said, "I would love for you to join me.  I have a story I think you might like."  She gave him another once over, harmless.  The waitress made her mind by placing two Manhattans on his table.  She stepped off the stool and slid into his booth.  Something about his eyes and the smell of her sandwich made her at ease.  "OK," she said.  "What's your story?"  He smiled and said, "Once upon a time....