Dragons’ Teeth: And Other Stories

By John H. Hoel

There is a little of every sort of subject in this book. Some are serious, some funny. Most of the stories will take you on a trip. Some, in odd ways, will make one think deeper than he normally might if he or she would just take the time to think about what the story might mean as there are many covert symbols used throughout the context of most stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524641757

John H. Hoel

This author, John Hoel, has been having a lot of troubles for the last ten years in his attempt to write and finish a novel. However, he has been doing very well in turning out collections of short stories and has been writing about twenty of them a year, equally now approximately two hundred short stories in all. He figures that if he were to write a novel, it would have to have about eight hundred pages for it to be a satisfying read. But for the time being, he tells us we’ll just have to be satisfied reading his collections of short stories since they are as many people. This book is imaginative and very well written and full of unexpected twists and turns.

Book preview

ACCEPTABLE RISK

The bar was one of those expensive types located in the heart of the posh hotel I had chosen to use. It catered to certified public accountants, vice presidents of fast moving companies, and other people like myself, who treated well-heeled clients to dinner and drinks with the expectation that they would write big checks for the products I invariably would sell to them.

I held the heat of the night at bay by clutching my iced drink with both hands, in an unconscious effort to keep myself cool. Although the place was air-conditioned, it still felt uncomfortably warm as the outside air seemed to press upon the memory of what it was like and what it would be like again when you had to return to it for any number of reasons. As I put the chilled palm of my right hand across my forehead, I noticed a lull in the crowd’s incessant din. I looked for the possible source by which it had been contained, and noticed everyone’s attention drawn toward the entrance.

She strutted into the place, acting like she was hot. She was wearing the kind of stuff you’d find in a second hand store. She wore a skimpy little cotton dress with prints of Walt Disney’s cartoons of Goofy and Donald Duck playfully arranged on it. They seemed happy to have found a place to live on the cool summer fabric. She also wore neoprene flip-flops and a raspberry beret. On her face was a cute little pout.

Without so much as tossing me a smile from her pin-up face, she threw her lithe little body onto the empty stool next to me, which had been empty all night, even with a bar full of patrons. For a split second, a rather humorous thought crossed my mind. Perhaps the empty stool had her name on it or, perhaps, everyone knew that she was coming. Funny how the mind can think of trivial things times.

She had made the first move and, in light of that, I thought she should also be the first one to say something. But, she didn’t. And so I waited. Waiting for the first person to say something when closing a deal was usually the sign of a successful salesman unless, of course, his instincts told him to do otherwise.

I had just finished my fifth drink and was about to order another when, from nowhere, she produced five one hundred dollar bills, and laid them on the bar. She had no purse, and that is why the money seemed to come from nowhere. Her action was perfectly timed with the bartender’s roving eyes and, seeing her do it, he stepped over to us and asked softly what it might be that she wanted. With that kind of money staring at him, he probably already knew what she wanted, but his professional attitude most likely demanded that he ask anyway.

Two shots of the good stuff, Hank, and put the usual fifteen percent tip on my tab, she said.

How much is it up to now? he asked her, sort of in a chiding tone.

I don’t know, she said to the bartender with a voice that sounded as if she really knew, but wasn’t telling. Probably about five thousand or so, favors included.

You don’t know? he asked the lady.

No, should I? I thought you were keeping track, she told him.

Five thousand sounds about right. If it’s more, then it’s my loss and your gain. How about that? said Hank, the bartender.

As you wish, said the lady. Pour. I’m in a hurry.

You’re never in a hurry, why are you now? asked the bartender.

I have to move some money around. That’s why, she replied.

You’re always moving money lady, especially other people’s money. Something unusually important happening today?

Just get the drinks, Hank, and mind your own business, she told him, getting a little irrate, which I didn’t realize was one of her faults, if she had any. She didn’t look like one whose feathers could be too easily ruffled

She turned to me as the bartender turned to hunt down the rare bottle of two-hundred-year old brandy the girl said she wanted. Why she would get two shots of the stuff, ostensibly, one for herself and one for me, at two hundred and fifty bucks per dose, was beyond me. Maybe she was trying to butter me up for something she wanted from me. However, what that was, or could be, was beyond me.

I didn’t have much money on me, four or five hundred at the most. This would have only attracted the cheapest of hookers in this part of the city. I wasn’t all that good looking either, middle-aged with a balding head. I have a scar on my lip from a wood shop accident in high school, that probably made me look like a ruffian. Some women probably liked that sort of character and, maybe, she was one of them. Or, maybe, it was my sterling character that appealed to her.

Whatever it was, she appeared to have her mind already made up about me, since she was buying me a two hundred and fifty dollar drink, because of it. I wasn’t exactly impressed however, and thought the brandy would probably taste like any other rail brandy, only somehow better in ways only a connoisseur could appreciate. She introduced herself.

My name is Candy, she said, and extended her hand like a tomboy, for me to shake.

Really? I said, and then shook her hand.

Don’t you believe me? she asked, as she slowly pulled her hand away from mine. From the look on her face, she was making sure that she was leaving me with a sensuous feeling that would travel from the palm of my hand to my stomach, where butterflies might hatch. I was familiar with most tricks women of the night sometimes play.

It’s not that I don’t believe you, I said. But, that name sounds like it belongs to the image of a hot little Playboy center-fold.

She didn’t smile, which was bad. Perhaps, I said the wrong thing about the picture because, for some reason, she didn’t find it humorous. I thought maybe I had said the wrong thing, because it might be her real name, and not just a name a pimp had given to her. How she acquired it was probably another interesting story. I couldn’t have imagined that she would take it upon herself to describe to me how she came by it, but she did.

Well, that’s my name. I rather like it. And no, whatever your name is, I don’t pose nude for men with money. As for the name Candy, my father gave me that name when I was two years old. I would constantly beg him for chocolates because, one night, he had made the mistake of giving me a chunk from his candy bar, which he sometimes ate after supper, just before bedtime. In fact, he came into my room that night and woke me up to give it to me. That is, most likely, one of the reasons the desire for chocolate candy became fixed in my little mind. Imagine waking up just for a candy bar. You might remember that for the rest of your life.

"Well, that’s what happened to me. From then on, I always asked my dad for chocolate candy when he was home and, soon, he started to call me ‘Candy’. The name stuck after all these years, and I went to the trouble of changing my real name, from Melissa Clark to Candy Clark, after I graduated from high school. You can remember my last name like the Clark candy bar if that helps."

Before we have our drink, why don’t you quit looking at me so curiously and tell me your name, seeing that I already told you mine? I still like chocolate candy by the way. In fact, I think I have a downright obsession with it. So, what’s your name.?"

She finally stopped talking after asking me the question regarding my name. I guess it was, more or less, pressing on her mind when everything else had been exhausted from it, instead of it being something that was socially polite. After her little diatribe, I decided that she was not a hooker. Although she still could have been, offering services to men who had fetishes for girls with the mentality of twelve-year-olds, since Candy seemed to be one of them.

She had told me a great deal of things, which was much more information than I really wanted to hear. It seemed that under that beautiful package, she was not much more than an air-head. And, she was blonde to boot. So goes the saying about dumb blondes. There is also another saying about them.: Blondes have more fun.

I now wondered if it really is true that blondes have more fun, and it seemed like I had the opportunity to find out. My question to her about whether they did or not, would be like keeping in step with her babbling. Hopefully that would make her just a little more comfortable that she had chosen to sit next to someone who really didn’t care that much about what she said.

It wasn’t, exactly, that I didn’t care. It was because she was so beautiful that I didn’t care what she said. That she had anything to say at all was good enough for me. It was all about how she said what she said. Her silly little voice sort of aroused me, and reminded me of the high school years I spent trying to get into the pants of girls in my class who, of course, were blonde like her. I had a thing for blondes.

Needless to say, I didn’t have much luck, chasing blondes that is, and those days had long since passed. But now, the sound of Candy’s voice brought back sudden memories of them all. In a way, I was thankful that Candy had the power to do so, since for me it was yet another way to get a cheap thrill, one that didn’t seem to cost me money, like I imagine any old peep show would. Not just yet, anyway.

It was usually the girl who wanted the man to talk to her. Tell her sweet little things to make her feel good. Innuendo or, even out and out lies. Things that make the peach fuzz just below her belly button get stiff.

But that being just for a women, isn’t always true. Guys have feelings, too. They have egos that need to be massaged, cared for, titillated, and sometimes challenged. Candy would probably fall into that last category of ability. To listen to her was a challenge. She seemed to have a way of making my mind swirl. Like a roller coaster ride on rickety old wooden trestles, still in operation because the owner found it easier to bribe the inspector than to effect repairs. She probably even talked during sex. Sleazy. I imagined that her brain was made of chocolate pudding and that her breath always smelled sweet.

I made her wait for almost a minute before I answered her. Remarkably, during that time and for those few seconds, she managed to keep her mouth shut and say nothing. It was then that I knew she could probably hold her liquor too.

Jake Thorndike, I told her, as I smiled at her for a second, and then lost it. I was an insurance salesman, and had learned years ago that if you could control the prospective buyer’s emotions without being detected, then you could lead him or her to purchase one of your products. I wasn’t really selling anything, but I had the strong feeling that the possibility existed that Candy was maybe a little more than she let on to be.

She wasn’t showing all the cards in her hand by giving them away with her face or voice, or the subtext of her words. She could be concealing something. After all, putting five hundred dollars on the bar for a couple of measly drinks should have some kind of an ulterior motive attached to it. Otherwise, it would be a silly, probably insane gesture on her part. The thought occurred to me that it would be fun if I made it my business to find out which of these two things it really was, silly or insane. Anyhow, I would walk cautiously and try to avoid any potential traps she might try to lay before me.

She also made me wait for her reply, as I had done. By then, the bartender had already poured us two snifters of the rare and costly brandy, which he then heated with his cigarette lighter, which was gold plated and probably equal to the cost of at least one of the drinks. Candy picked her glass up and gently inhaled some of the fumes. Her action was followed by a break in her temporary silence.

Nice name, she said. Jake rhymes with bake, stake, make, sake, and probably a few other words that I can’t think of right now except for the word ‘take.’ Like taking other people’s money. Is that what you do for a living Jake? Take other people’s money? Maybe you sell insurance, and find the necessity to instill fear in the hearts and minds of people and get them all worked up over the notion that they presently are not covered adequately, and that’s where you come in. Am I close?

Bam! Whew! Just like that. A totally different person pops out of her. And, quite unexpectedly too. That she could tell that I was an insurance salesman just by my looks and possibly the sound of my voice, was in and of itself, an insightful detail I couldn’t help but notice. And now, well, she wasn’t just an air-headed blonde anymore.

She now appeared to be downright intelligent, and it was just a quirky little nervous thing she did when she babbled on about nothing. It was like being in the company of twins, one on one side, and the other just waiting for her turn. One masochistic, the other sadistic and both were squeezing your brain with their words. Good cop, bad cop.

I smiled at her weakly, now thinking I just might be out of my league. Or, maybe, I just might have to go into overtime to see whether or not she was benevolent or malevolent, two things I had not considered about her yet.

How did you know? I asked.

It’s a gift, she said. Keeps me in demand. I take other people’s money too and, like you, I’m expected to give them something in return.

A moment of silence between the two of us began to take place as if it were an unspoken agreement. I wanted to say something, but I sensed she preferred that I tend to the business at hand.

I picked up my glass of brandy before it had a chance to cool down, and also took a sniff. I didn’t know how to drink rare and expensive brandy, nor did I even know why I was drinking it, yet. I was pretty sure I would be finding out shortly, after the fact, that I was probably drinking to something. Perhaps, it was to seal a deal of some sort that had not yet been revealed. It was like in the movies, where the private eye is poured a drink by someone who hopes to exercise influence over him, either to put him on to something or slow him down.

I watched her play with her snifter, adding wrist motions to the glass, so that it moved circularly and gently swished the amber-colored alcohol an inch closer to the top of the snifter. When she stopped, the brandy slowly fell back to the level of the rest of the liquid and, the slower it crept back, the finer the quality of the drink. I did this too. I would have been a fool not to. I was holding two hundred and fifty dollars’ worth of booze. I wanted the enterprise of drinking it to be fashionably correct, even though it was another’s money which had made it possible for me to taste the stuff. It was precisely because it had been purchased by another’s money, that made it so likeable. I wouldn’t have dreamed of spending that kind of money on one drink. For me to have the chance to try it, seemed even more special because Candy, for whatever reason, was doing it for me.

After all this had been done, she took a sip, swished it around in her mouth, then swallowed. She then took a deep breath, through pursed lips, to suck in the fumes for full effect.

I did the same.

It must have looked pretty funny how I copied her every move if someone had noticed us, that is. But like monkey see, monkey do, that’s how everything in the world gets done and done right. The brandy was pretty good, I had to confess. Now I knew what two-hundred-dollar-plus brandy tasted like.

With the taste of it, came the realization of what had just transpired. She had not said a word to me, edgewise or in any other way, about the brandy, if I wanted it, or what we were drinking to. It seemed to be a buy now, pay later type of deal, if there was to be a cost involved for my participation. I no longer could wait to know. Instead of waiting for what may well have proved to be the inevitable coming revelation on her part, I sought to find out preemptively.

So what’s the occasion, Candy? I asked. Why did you spend what I would consider a small fortune on a couple of drinks that only give a few moments of pleasure, and then they’re gone?

I want you to remember this moment, she replied.

Remember what moment? I asked.

The moment we met, she answered.

Suddenly, my brain switched from being rather passive, in that I had no questions to ask her that I could permit myself to ask, to being almost supercharged with possibilities. It sounded as if she might be coming on to me and, since I still had a thing for blondes, that seemed to be just the thing my doctor should have ordered long ago. What had kept him, I had no idea. Better late than never.

It must have been either the heat or the brandy that forced me to consider the possibilities behind her statement, about us meeting each other. I now wanted to know what was so significant in our meeting that she would find it worth spending five hundred dollars on something that she believed would help me remember it.

However, only one question popped into the forefront of my mind, and all others would have to wait in line.

What’s so significant about that? I asked.

Providence, she replied in a single word that seemed almost mystical.

It was but another facet of her character that came poking its head out from any number of characters that it seemed she might possess. Our conversation was beginning to get interesting and, somehow or another, it appeared as if I was going to be treated to an all night dialogue with her. This, of course, might mean that it would lead to something a little more than just talk. But I knew nothing much exciting would happen unless I continued to move my tongue and my mouth.

What kind of providence? I asked.

A symbiosis, she replied. A union of spirits for their mutual benefit. Magic.

Magic? I asked. What kind of magic?

She answered. It was interesting.

The kind of magic two people find when they do things they each find they can do with relative ease. Then the effect is multiplied by combining these things together, for the purpose of acquiring something desired. Call it gifts. Call it luck. Call it wired. Call it anything you want. When you find something you are extremely good at, it’s almost like magic.

Candy then looked at the bartender, who was looking at her for that one split second. She must have given him some kind of signal, because he left what he was doing and came over to the drink station, which was a couple of feet away from where we were sitting. Then, without asking me, or Candy, he poured another special brandy from the bottle he hadn’t put away yet. He put the drink in front of me.

On the house, he said.

Why, thank you, I said.

Thank Candy, he replied. She was the one who decided it was time you listened to the voice which defies reason.

Before I could ask him what in the world he meant by what he had said to me, he turned and walked away.

Candy directed her face toward the almost empty glass in front of her and smiled at it. I was sure she was not smiling at the brandy so much as the words the bartender had said about her to me, and what those words might cause me to think.

She still had a sip of brandy left in her snifter. Instead of drinking it, she looked at it as if the spirits in the stuff had something important to say before they disappeared inside of her and changed into something else which had a different voice and message. It was the thought of having another brandy with a pedigree that made me think of such a thing. At least that is what it seemed to be, considering the possibilities of cause and effect.

Maybe the reason the brandy cost so much was that it had magical properties that caused me to have unusual thoughts. Or, maybe, I was just imagining it all because I already had too much to drink. That was one of the reasons I drank anyway. To become entertained by the thoughts one could have while intoxicated. I then remembered the question I was going to ask her about blondes having more fun. There was one thing I was quickly learning about her. In many ways she acted like the jokes about dumb blondes, but, then again, she seemed to possess considerable smarts, and probably was an A student when she had gone to school.

Now that I had determined that she was as smart as some of the CPA’s and Vice President’s of fast moving companies I had the pleasure of doing business with, my question to her about blondes having more fun seemed inappropriate. But if the same thought came up again in the course of talking with her, I made a deal with myself to go ahead and ask her just the same. Generally, when something comes to my mind more than once, and keeps coming, it is certainly something to consider acting upon. This was giving my subconscious enough latitude to affect me in useful and productive ways. And I had a strong sense about Candy’s ability to affect my subconscious. I had the feeling that my mind was like a bottle of wine and she was the corkscrew.

Magic, that was what we were talking about. Magic, like a corkscrew.

A union of spirits? I queried. Is that what it’s about, Candy? Two spirits and the magic they can make together?

I knew I was letting my other head affect the implication of my words, but hell, I hadn’t been laid for over two weeks and my thoughts were getting kind of thick. Of course she had something to say about that, and my apparent innuendo.

"I don’t think you understand, Mr. Thorndike. I’m not talking about physical passions. I’m talking about the passions of the mind, the spirit of man, not his man-hood."

Her mouth was saying no, but yet her body screamed out, YES–TAKE ME NOW!

But maybe, just maybe, I could wear her down, like a fighter pilot who chases a bogey and doesn’t let go, a champion fisherman who gets the big one, a hunter that stalks big game, a poker player who never folds, a clown who never cries. Instead of recoiling from her reproof, I shored up my mind. I came back with a veiled hard line that I intended to make seem soft and pliant.

I see, I said.

She saw right through it.

No you don’t. Why don’t you take a minute and go to the rest room, lock yourself in a stall, and think about me as you hold onto your problem and relieve yourself. Then come back sober so we can have an intelligent conversation.

She caught me square between the eyes, and it smarted. For me to say anything else that even came within a mile of anything remotely associated with a bodily function would have been a mistake. So I took a deep breath and went as deep as I could to find nobler thoughts concerning what a man and a woman could do as far as an association between the two of them. I started off with an apology.

I’m sorry. I’ll do my best not to let it happen again. I promise. So what is this magic your talking about? I swear I am interested. I really am.

That’s better, she replied. Yes, the magic. It’s all about the magic. Your magic is the ability to sell things. You’re a salesman. That’s your gift. You probably make a quarter million a year, I bet, by the look of your tailor-made suit and hand made shoes and Rolex diamond and gold watch. You’re probably wearing between ten and twelve thousand dollars worth of clothing and jewelry. You would most likely try to top that if you could justify it by making an even greater amount of money, let’s say ten times that much. Together we could do it.

You’re crazy, I said angrily, not because she said it, but because of the knowledge that to make that kind of money meant I would have to get out of the insurance game. I would have to get into something else, like corporate real estate, similar to Donald Trump. And that, I knew nothing about. I could learn, but I don’t think my heart would be in it. I could, however, start my own manufacturing company and make edible panties and other such paraphernalia for rich old men to give to their girlfriends. I’d get rich that way, but the chance of that ever happening was not only slim, but virtually next to impossible. Yet I imagined myself doing it, in my dreams of course.

But, going from two hundred and fifty thousand a year to two point five million was just that, only a dream. It was most likely a dream that would never, ever materialize. I could see the possibility of doubling my income by selling insurance, but I couldn’t conceive in any way, shape, or form being able to increase it ten-fold.

But, she had fired the gun that put the silver bullet of a tempting possibility into my brain. I was now enticed to ask her the question that would probably put me on either of two sides of this river of delight. The one side could possibly be in my camp and to my advantage, if she had a viable idea. On the other side of the river could be some sort of scam she was running, requiring my participation by laying out a sizable portion of cash. Either way, I now wanted to find out and, I suppose, by using my business acumen, what little I possessed, I could discover on what side of the river she was located.

Crazy? she asked. For what? Wanting that kind of money, or being able to produce it out of thin air?

Both, I said.

Then, you must be crazy too, she said. Because I know you’d do practically anything to have the extra income, wouldn’t you?

I suppose I would, I had to admit. However, the usual problem is that one either lacks the moxie to carry out the endeavor which may garner a huge amount of money, or one simply lacks whatever ability it takes. I’m sure I would fall somewhere on both sides of this equation, having disabilities arising from both reasons. But I was curious about just how she thought I might be able to increase my income by ten times. And so, I asked her.

Just how might I do this? I queried.

You don’t have to do anything, she replied. All you need is a secret formula. Something that will enhance your ability to sell ten times the amount of insurance you’re selling now.

If it wouldn’t cost me anything, I must say that my curiosity was now piqued. I guess I wouldn’t be putting myself at any risk by asking her what this secret formula was that she was referring to.

So what’s the secret formula? I asked. And will it cost me anything to know?

It’ll cost you a little, she said.

How much? I asked.

Five thousand now and, later, when you start making more money because of it, fifty percent of everything you haul in.

That, was a hell of a lot of money. I guess I would have merrily parted with half of a ten-fold increase and been satisfied with the increased profit. It was the up front five thousand that caused me to almost dismiss the whole thing as being a little shy in the true and honest department. But, yet, the promise of a five hundred percent increase over my normal earnings was just about enough to make me overlook the five thousand as an acceptable risk. Had it been any more than that, I probably would have looked the other way.

I silently agreed to her terms and reached for the inside pocket of my suit coat where I kept my checkbook, and brought it out. Candy watched, but did not say anything. It was looking like she was a good salesman as well.

I wrote a check for five thousand dollars and put her name on the pay to line, then signed my name. I gave it to her and, as she took it, she offered a put-the-baby-to-bed kind of comment.

Well Jake, you’ve made an excellent decision. From now on we’ll be working together. When you wine and dine your clients in order to sell them insurance, I’ll be there with you as your escort. Of course, you will tell them to bring their wives or girlfriends so that the four of us can make a little magic. We’ll turn the spendthrift into someone who just can’t help but buy and buy and buy.

I hope so, I told her.

We will, she assured.

Where are you staying? I asked. Maybe I can drop you off.

I don’t stay anywhere, she said.

You don’t have a home? I queried.

No, she answered.

Then where do you sleep at night?

Motels mostly. Sometimes with the last man who bought me a drink. It all depends on what I feel like doing.

I see, I told her.

Do you? she asked.

Maybe not, I said.

Well, Jake, I’ll meet you here tomorrow night. We can discuss business and some of the tricks I’ve learned about men and their motivations. I think you’d be interested to know. Besides that, it’ll give you a little head’s up on the way I operate. Until then.

She blew me a kiss and walked off into the night.

Hank, the bartender, saw that she had gone, and so he walked up to me and smiled at me sympathetically. I wondered why. And then I found out.

You shouldn’t have done that, he said.

Done what? I asked, knowing full well, of course, what he was probably talking about.

You gave her five thousand dollars, that’s what, he replied.

Anything wrong with that? I asked him

Well, yeah, if you like to hold on to your money, and not give it away to con artists like her.

She’s a con artist? I asked, acting as if I was surprised.

You couldn’t tell? he replied. Didn’t you even suspect? Come on, Jake, tell the truth now.

Well, maybe just a little, I answered.

Maybe a lot, he said. It was if she knew you were coming tonight. She probably did. I think she dressed just for your, mister. She said all the things that only you would have wanted to hear. Yup, she’s a pro alright. She even knows how much to ask, neither too little or too much. Just enough to make you greedy, instead of a distasteful amount beneath your dignity or an amount high enough to cause dismay. If you ever see her again, you probably won’t recognize her. She’ll be wearing something altogether different. Her hair, makeup, and even the way she talks will be different, too.

You knew this, and didn’t warn me? I complained.

We have an agreement, her and I. I let her come in here, and she gives me ten percent of whatever she manages to make. Besides, it’s bad manners to interrupt the business between two people who are engaged in a rather interesting sport.

You call what she just did to me sport? I said with a chuckle.

Do you have a problem with that? asked the bartender.

I suppose not, I replied.

Consider it an education that cost you five big ones.

Yeah, real smart I am now, I said, as I wondered whether he was going to heat my brandy for me.

He did not. But I drank it anyway. All two hundred and fifty dollars of it.

And that was the last I saw of her. She cashed the check before I could put a stop payment on it. In a way, I guess, I was lucky to not see her again. If I would have, she would probably find a way to talk me out of even more than just five thousand, and I probably would have given it to her. But secretly, I admired her gall and even thought how kinky it would be to meet her again. It would be just another acceptable risk that I would be willing to take.

ANIMAL INSTINCTS

When I was a little boy, I remember thinking about how life around me–words, sights, sounds, and even the smell of things and how they felt when I touched them–was somehow something more than what it seemed to be. Considerably more than what I was told about, their meanings and assigned uses, and what everybody else thought about things in the world and what they were supposed to be doing with them. I guess the world was, to me, as I began thinking about it in my early twenties and as I do now, in the classic use and sense of the words, nothing is what it seems to be.

Nothing is what it seems to be. That thought still haunts me as I think about it, like it did when it first came to me. Something is always hiding behind the things that surround me. Secret meanings. Secret games. Secret thoughts certain people had, people who knew more than what they would admit to. People having secrets.

Just my thoughts of what they could be, taunted me like no other. Aroused me. Unsettled my mind. Each and every day, in fact. Sometimes I think that it is all just in and from my imagination.

But, these thoughts have persisted and it leads me to think that perhaps they don’t really come from my imagination. Perhaps, somehow, my subconscious mind is actually awash with the little bits and pieces of those other meanings. Perhaps, it notices seemingly innocuous but incongruous things poking their heads out from behind the curtains. Their only purpose is to hide what the otherwise seemingly ordinary life maintains as some kind of defense against intruders who would not, and could not, possibly understand their importance. These carefully concealed things are important to living life, and would soon become important to me.

Of course, these thoughts didn’t prevent me from earning a living and doing the things that most people do when it comes to performing everyday tasks and taking care of business.

After I graduated from high school, I found myself thinking that I could probably make a pretty good living as a salesman. Any product would do, or so I thought. I had fun selling boxes of candy for school fund raisers to buy new instruments for the music department and, earlier, with the Boy Scouts, so that we would have money for our camping expenses.

From early on, I always knew I would like to make a living as a salesman. It was just a matter of getting into people for the fun of it. Seeing how they might react to my pitches, and then leading them down the primrose path to ask them which side they wanted to get laid on. To me, sales was just as enjoyable as sex was.

I ended up taking the classic route–life insurance. There was residual involved.; Once I sold a policy, I would continue earning on it for decades, or as long as the person I sold it to paid the premiums. If someone already had a policy through another company, I would just make up my mind to sell him one more policy from my company.

I believe what helped me the most as a salesman, was the fact that I was fairly handsome and could put on a killer smile. I have told my belief to other salesmen in my company. Without exception, all disagreed with me and, I guess, for good reason.

We’ve all been taught in our company training that as far as sales are concerned, technique and aggressiveness are probably two of the best tools a salesman could ever want to employ. They are touted as having the largest influence over whether or not someone will make a sale, good looking or not.

But, I will always be convinced that good looks and a killer smile will sell a policy better than any kind of technique or aggressiveness can. I’m convinced, and I have proof. Take catalogue sales or television commercials for instance. Both employ the best looking models they can find. Not just average looking or good looking, or even great looking. It is the killer look that sells more products than anything else, including the spoken or printed word. Advertisers can tell if someone is going to make a good model or not. They can feel it in their gut. A great looking model gets the viewer’s adrenaline pumping and, otherwise, leaves them with a breathless feeling that makes them want whatever that man or woman is showing to them.

One of the first things I always tell the potential buyers of my policies, is that I own a million dollars worth of life insurance. Right from the get-go, I focus their attention on me. This is to avoid the usual wall of resistance that comes when a salesman introduces himself and identifies the product they are pedaling. They then look at me and notice how good looking I am, if they haven’t already noticed. Then, I usually begin to see the expression on their faces soften, as they think that this good looking person in front of them, with a killer smile, has a million dollar policy. So, if he’s got one, then maybe I should have one, too. After they see my face and how I smile at them as I tell them about the million dollar policy, they are usually ready to sign. It is that simple. I usually don’t have to do anything else as far as saying things about why they should have life insurance or, in some cases, more of it

I am the highest paid salesman in the company. I sign quadruple what the next leading man signs, with all his techniques and aggressiveness, ostensibly, on his side. Everyone asks for my secret, including the president of the company. All I have to tell them is the fact that I am good looking, and know when to smile.

Nobody believes me and they all think that I’m joking. It’s their loss, not mine. Even if they did believe me, there wouldn’t be a damned thing that they could do about it, anyways. You’ve either got it or you don’t.

It is simply the good fortune of having been given a gift from God. Either that, or the right kind of ancestors having babies and so on and so on, until, presto!–me. I suppose that kind of action could be inspired by the Devil himself, just as well. No matter. It is still a gift, regardless of where it came from. I never gave it the least amount of thought that, possibly, certain others might also covet this gift in a way that made my possession of it dangerous to me.

I got a call one Saturday morning early, about 5 o’clock in the morning. Of course, this interrupted the best of my intentions to sleep later than I do on the weekdays. I took the weekends off so that I could enjoy the fruits of my success as a salesman and was not in any way a workaholic. The voice on the other end of the phone spoke roughly to me after I groggily said Hello.

Get some clothes on. A suit would be fine, preferably a dark one with a bow tie, and patent leather shoes, if you have them. Go outside to your mailbox at precisely seven o’clock this morning. Mr. Sullivan, who you probably know as the Salesman who can sell anything, will be waiting for you there in his very luxurious and very expensive limousine. He has something he wants to discuss with you.

All I heard after that was a click, and then a dial tone. No explanations, no apologies for having called at such an ungodly hour in the morning. Nothing except what seemed to be a demand. Just the mention of the name Sullivan, sent most people into a tizzy. Him, being a salesman like myself, I guess, made it even worse for me.

I shot out of bed, heart beating considerably faster than what it had been doing when I was yet asleep. My senses almost immediately starting taking everything in around me, in a way that caused me to think I was living in a cartoon.

Everything was either bigger, smaller, or of a different color or shape than what I had remembered before the phone call from one of Sullivan’s servants. I wondered if some kind of power had entered me through the wires of the phone and originating, of course, with Sullivan, caused me to hallucinate. The rumor was that he had special powers.

The fact that Sullivan was probably one of the ugliest men on the planet didn’t seem to interfere with my respect for him and the tens of billions of dollars that made him, probably, the richest man on Earth. He was a small man, a dwarf by birth, but his minuscule size was almost always quickly forgotten when he started to sell you something.

No matter how much money you had or didn’t have, he always got you to spend at least half of it on something you probably wouldn’t have given a second thought to at some earlier moment. No matter what he tried to sell you he could, like a skilled surgeon, find what was in your brain that would get you to the point that you would immediately write a check, run your card, or fork out the cash in order to take immediate possession of the item. No one could ever explain how he did it, and he never offered an explanation. All I could figure was that he had the ability to not only create desires within someone’s mind, but to satisfy the ones he found within you. He did this with what seemed to be no more than the effort to just to look in your eyes and spot what it was that made them hungry.

My thought on the telephone call, was that he had somehow chosen me to be the one to whom he would reveal his secret. Why me? I had no idea. I guess the thought that he wanted to reveal his secret to me was just as strange as the cartoon-like things which, I now imagined I had seen. I put my slippers and robe on and went to the bathroom to take a pee. I then fixed myself some coffee, and took another pee soon after. All I could think of, while standing in front of the toilet, was that Sullivan probably made more in one day than I could make in my lifetime, and that now I was going to meet the man himself.

I chose to have a breakfast that wouldn’t cause unusual odors to emanate from my body, whether it would be through my pores from the slight moisture that was always released by the skin, or from the front or back end of my alimentary canal. I would be wearing my best and most expensive cologne, but I didn’t want that to be mixed with such things.

The only thing I could think of to eat, was a couple of dry pieces of white bread toast and a few under-ripe bananas. I didn’t have to really eat until I was full because my nerves didn’t allow it, but I did have enough so that I wouldn’t have a growling stomach, should my visit with Sullivan last more than a couple of hours.

After breakfast, I took a really long hot shower that penetrated my muscles and, I swear, went so deep that it penetrated my bones. This helped me relax to the point where I no longer saw things as if they were cartoons. My thoughts about Sullivan no longer made me feel like a monk that had just received an assignment to safeguard a centuries-old and most valuable religious relic. To say the least, I felt normal again and not in the least disturbed by the fact that I was going to meet my hero. Somebody I had all but worshiped almost all of my entire life. I dressed and was ready by seven.

Sixty seconds before my watch actually said seven o’clock, I opened my front door and walked out. Several steps before I got to the mail box on the street, a white stretch limousine pulled up, and double parked. Almost immediately, a big husky man on the passenger’s front side opened the door and climbed out. He went to the rear passenger’s door and opened that, and then stood at what seemed to be some kind of soldier’s parade rest. He stared me down and watched me walk the rest of the distance to where he was standing and waiting with the door opened. There was no sense of urgency on his part. It seemed to me that any powers he possessed were due to the time he spent in the company of the powers gathered by Sullivan himself, and were not his own.

Even though I was impressed with all the hoopla, I managed to maintain some self-composure, and even smiled at the body guard as I dipped my head down low enough to get into the limousine. After I had slipped in, the body guard closed the door behind me. It took a while before my eyes adjusted to the dim light of the limousine but after a few seconds, I realized that Sullivan was not sitting in the back seat with me. It seemed that in his place was another man who was, most likely, either some kind of an assistant to Sullivan or, possibly, even his secretary. Which one, I did not know. That is, until the man opened his mouth and said something to me.

"On behalf of Mr. Sullivan, I would like to offer you a position with his company, as one of his salesman. As you already know, this means a great promotion and is due to your ability to conduct yourself as a salesman. You will be able to make many times the amount of money that you make now. We know all about you Mike. I guess it is your turn to begin to know something about us.

Would you like a Bloody Mary? I’m assuming you had something of a miserable breakfast knowing that, in all likelihood, you didn’t want to offend Mr. Sullivan with the bodily smells, that an otherwise pleasant breakfast might cause.

I hesitated, thinking that somehow this might be a test, and I would be graded as to what my response might be. To have a Bloody Mary for breakfast or not. What would Sullivan do? I didn’t even know if he was a drinker or not. Maybe he was a teetotaler and abhorred alcohol at any time of the day. Or, perhaps, he wasn’t, but didn’t permit himself to partake before noon. Again I didn’t know, but wished somehow that I could.

Quickly, said the man. Quit thinking about it. What is your gut response to having a Bloody Mary? It either should be yeah or nay, Sullivan would like you to know.

I’d better not, I said.

No, Mike, he replied. That’s not what we’re asking here. What we are asking is whether or not you really want one right now, with no reservations, doubts, or second thoughts. Are you having trouble doing that?

I guess I am, I have to admit, I said. And for the life of me, I wish that I knew why.

Then I had a silly thought.

Is that why Mr. Sullivan is not here this morning, in the limousine with us, because I’m having trouble figuring out whether or not I would like to have a Bloody Mary for breakfast?

In a nutshell, replied the man. "At least you have one ability intact as a salesman, and that is a sense of guilt. Only instead of it being something you can use, coming from a potential buyer, it is your own. Which of course, isn’t so good.

But we can rectify this particular nuisance, Mike, if you are willing to go though with Mr. Sullivan’s offer. Take his suggestion that you have a Bloody Mary for breakfast, since you damned well know that is what you’d like to do.

I nodded my head and Sullivan’s assistant went ahead and made me that Bloody Mary. It took him only about a minute. In that amount of time, I got to thinking that whatever Sullivan planned to do with me would most likely be a major overhaul. That, followed by his usury of any newly acquired and coveted sales skills which I had acquired.

I downed the Bloody Mary and, boy, was it delicious. Plus it made me feel good enough to believe that Sullivan’s plan for me might be better than I could have imagined. I was past the guilt about whether or not I should have something as easy as a Bloody Mary for breakfast. My gut instinct, which came from my id, urged me to have one but, my superego, being the master of my soul, had caused me to think otherwise.

I immediately saw the problem. My quandary had been skillfully rooted out by Sullivan’s suggestion that I would be presented with the offer for a Bloody Mary. This would test my ability to act as a master salesman, by making a decision about what to do. I had been tested, and I failed. Or so I thought. But, according to Sullivan’s assistant, this was fixable. Giving me the Bloody Mary anyways was proof enough that Sullivan was still interested in having me on his team.

How Sullivan could fix what was wrong with me was now the question I had. An intense training seminar? Hypnosis? Something else I couldn’t think of? Perhaps a new wife? Maybe all of those things. I could only dream what they might be.

I told Sullivan’s assistant that I was now their huckleberry, and would like to enter their program for training salesmen. The assistant smiled at me. There was something underneath that smile that made me wonder, though, about what I was getting into, and whether or not I could cut the mustard.

We drove to the airport, where the driver of the limousine let us out at one of the airport’s foreign carriers. The assistant and I got out, and we headed toward the ticket counter. There we picked up two tickets and, within twenty minutes, were heading toward Hawaii.

We were placed in first class and had champagne and packages of the finest mixed nuts I have ever remembered eating on a flight. Two meals and a bunch of alcoholic beverages later, we were landing at the Honolulu International Airport. We disembarked, and were ferried by another limousine of the same type that first picked me up in the States. We were driven to a pier on the south end of the island, where a seaplane was waiting for us.

It was another five hour flight to the south, before we arrived at a remote island. We landed and the seaplane was tied to another pier. There were five other fellows in the plane with me and we all disembarked and gathered at the spot where the pier met the shore. After a few minutes in the hot sun, with nothing but a tropical breeze to help us keep cool, one of the men saw a figure coming down the beach, out of a clearing of palm trees. It was someone who looked like Sullivan. As he drew, closer we all became sure that it was him.

He had on a loud, colorful shirt and khaki cargo shorts that looked like they might be from a British army surplus supply store. He wore no shoes, and it looked as if he was taking pleasure in walking barefoot in the powdery, very hot, pure bleached white sand. He had a broad, kid-like, delinquent looking smile on his face, as though he was thinking that some special packages had arrived for him and he could hardly wait to open them.

When he got close enough to speak without needing to raise his voice so that we could hear him, he said,

"Greetings gentlemen. Welcome to my very own private, tropical island. This is where you all will be staying for the next couple of days, while we get you prepared for your assignments. If there is anything that you find you need or want, just let someone, anyone, know and I’m sure we’ll be able to accommodate you handily.

I will have to warn you, however. If any of you so much as vociferate the tiniest little complaint or criticism against me or my staff, we will have no choice but to serve a summary execution upon you by chopping your head off. Just thought I’d warn you beforehand.

Sullivan paused for effect and made tiny movements with his eyes, so that he could see all of our faces without moving his head. He was only about three foot tall, and this made him appear to be very, very mischievous, indeed. He waited for one of us to speak. And of course, one of us did. It was a loud-looking man, and one who’s appearance reminded me of the kind of person who could never keep his mouth shut, no matter how hard he tried, or wanted to.

Oh come on, Sullivan, you really don’t mean that, do you?

Sullivan clapped his hands with glee. Got you all going there, didn’t I? he howled. It’s just that you were all just a little bit too serious for me just a second ago, so I needed something to break the ice. Something dangerous. Something shocking. And most of all, something that I would take great pleasure in doing. Because it is the taking of what pleases you, never mind if it is good or evil, that is the spice of life. As you will, no doubt, soon be finding out for yourselves.

He turned toward the trees just a little bit and pointed at something, then turned back.

"You guys look as though