Where was everyone? He had assumed the turnout would be low, but this? He checked the time again. 6:10. He sighed. A little longer, he thought. His hands fell into his pockets and he found himself slightly rocking on the flat heels of his new slick black shoes. Why the fuck did he buy them if only—he counted—eleven people (eleven?!) were here He had heard, somewhere, that the first thing people notice about someone is their shoes. But that didn’t make any sense. Unless, maybe, you were a midget. But how many midgets had he met in the professional setting? None. They didn’t seem to be very interested in sales, he assumed. He envisioned that the tables were turned and he was being sold medical equipment. And the salesman is a midget. Heh, that’d be funny. In this scenario, he would be taken to a restaurant to be wined and dined by this conjured dwarf when, as soon as they sit down, the waitress hands the little guy a kids’ menu. Even though she immediately realizes her mistake—after all, why would a child be wearing a suit?—it’s too late. The damage is done. The midget, understandably pissed, throws the menu in the woman’s face, stands on the table, and, looking up at the waitress in a fiery little ball of rage, barks at the poor girl in his shrill munchkin voice.
He laughed at the image. He should’ve been a comedian (or a writer. Yeah, a writer!), not a salesman. It was evident that he was not a good salesman. In fact, he even found himself forgetting exactly what he was selling. Sure, he knew the names of all the products: ventilators, stents, echocardiograms. The works. But he had to constantly remind himself of the purpose of the products. What were they for again? Ah, yes, of course. To save lives. Save lives…hmmph.
“Fuck this,” he exclaimed to no one, and left through the back exit. He went home. The eleven men looked at each other and laughed as they saw the man with the disheveled suit and gaudy shoes make a run for the exit.
***
“Hey.”
“Hey.” He said no more to his wife and went to the bedroom.
He kicked off his shoes, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers over his head. A fantastic feeling swept over him as he remembered his departure and his brilliant imagination. Tomorrow, he would start writing a screenplay. Yeah, a screenplay. My big break. He felt warm and soft all over. He fell into a beautifully thick sleep.
His wife opened the bedroom door, sighed, and closed the door quietly so as not to wake the sleeping child that was her husband.
C. Davis is a college student. He enjoys reading and writing short fiction and short poetry.
