the writings of john scott ridgway
Chet Miller valued a few things about himself. One was the thought that he could have been much more than a car salesman if he had pursued what he saw as his talent -- comedy. Started when he received big laughs in a junior high production, and he still cracked his customers up. For the last twelve years, his talents were on display at the annual customer appreciation dinner, where he did a few jokes and introduced the winners of the various sales contests. Confident this year, his 49th, was going to be the same as the last decade, he waited silently throughout the early morning meeting, idly playing with his pen as the new models were discussed, waiting until his boss finally asked, "Okay, is there anything else?"
"Yes, there is." Chet sat up in straight in his chair, set down the pen, and made eye contact with everyone around the table as he said, "If I'm not mistaken, we should have already ordered the invitations for the Customer Care Event. I haven't even . . . "
"You won't be in charge of it this year. We've made you do it every year. It's time to get someone young and pretty up there, like Midge."
Spontaneous clapping around the table surprises Chet. Midge, a petite, pale girl with cherry red hair streaked with white, was one of the dummest people he had ever seen the firm hire. She could sell, but her profits were usually well below the more experienced salespeople. He almost thought they were pulling a joke on him but he knew they weren't quite that creative.
After the meeting he goes out into the garage, by the wide open back doors, feels the crisp autumn wind as he struggles to get a cigarette going with a dying lighter. No one had expected him to care one way or the other. Midge had honestly seemed embarrassed by all the attention. He looks into a windowpane and sees his features superimposed over a hoist with a rusting, red mustang; thinks how his face has roughened with the etchings of the years.
Is that why they wanted me? The way I looked to them? Do I keep myself that hidden from them? Or do they know me, and I don't?
He isn't used to having such thoughts. Like he has trained himself over the years when doubt crept into his mind and threatened to undermine his confidence and blow the all important sale, he tells himself, "Easy does it. You are what you are and that is good enough. Period." The feeling doesn’t leave on demand. He goes back to his office and sets around for almost half an hour looking vaguely through his rolladex thinking about people who he would call if he were the mood. It seemed to him like there was a problem that he was trying to solve, but it was eluding him… He tells his boss that he is going to go visit a car rental company that he was trying to sell on a package of used cars – a total lie that he surprises himself by telling. He had walked into the bosses office thinking that he was just going to ask for the afternoon off, say he had some personal business. His boss would never know, of course . . . still, he drives home puzzled by himself?
He comes in the back door through the kitchen. The dog is waiting for him all excited. He pets her and hears the cat behind him, finds the grey tiger on the cabinet chirping quizzically at him. He plays with them and talks to them like children, feeling the small event of reunion with a little of their pure enthusiasm. He opens the refrigerator and looks to see what is for dinner. He was going to cook for her tonight.
Later, when they've eaten and walked the dog down by the lake and are simply sitting in front of the television half listening to talking heads, a tension seems to break somewhere inside his chest and a flash of relief flows through his mind . . . at the thought that he was not going to have to get up there this year and make a fool of himself ---whether he meant to or not. He turns to his wife and kisses the soft skin of her forehead and feels her warmth through his lips. . . and for a long moment, she is all he ever needed.