| Boss, it’s like this. I’m getting killed out here because I can’t offer a current product. I know what you’re going to say and I know we’ve had this argument, and I know we make more money on buttons than matches. All I’m saying is that it wouldn’t hurt to make as much money on matches as we make on the other novelties. I can price this stuff out so it works. What do you say? Joe, you’re a genius. I’m giving you a raise. Have a cigar. Not damn likely. Joe stared at his grilled cheese, drummed his fingers on the counter. Well, it wasn’t hopeless – he could just never show up at the stores again. He hadn’t taken any money, after all. But he had taken another order. For color, too. “Sorry about that, hon.” The waitress placed a bottle of ketchup on the counter. “Red lead. And your matches.” Joe stared at the book. See what you could do with color? He checked the spine, and grinned – ah, the Consolidated Razor Blade Company. A division of Consolidated Gas. Everybody was consolidating. So much for anti-trust, I guess. Bring on the Razor Trust. “Tissue thin” was a lousy slogan – tissues were thin, sure, but they fell apart; who wanted to shave with a Kleenex? "It’s the edge that counts." Well, with a razor blade, that’s true. No argument there. Sort of like saying try Coke, it’s wet. Berkeleys. Damn. When Sal was killed in an accident in Basic they sent all his stuff back to his parents’ house. There was an unopened pack of Berkeley blades, GI issue. He’d saved them. One of those things. His folks hadn’t missed them. They were somewhere around his house, probably in the top drawer with the cufflinks and tie clasps and other things he’d taken from Sal’s room. If I got hit by a bus tomorrow no one would know they belonged to Sal. He shrugged. What can you do? Put them in an envelope, write “these belonged to Sal”? They’d still go in the trash. After he’d left old man Johnson’s store he’d driven down the block, spotted another drug store, and decided to see if he was on a roll. It was a smaller store with disorganized, half-empty shelves; what remained in stock looked battered and dusty, suggesting perhaps it was just a front for a man in the back who ran the numbers. But he found a neat thin fellow in a pharmacist’s smock counting pills into a bottle, whistling softy. He had a bandage around his right index finger. “Hello,” he said when he heard Joe approach. “You must be the fellow from General Medical.” Joe had introduced himself, laid his card on the counter. “Huh,” the man said. “Matches. How about that. I ran out last week. I used to be with United, you know. They supplied all those things, but we parted ways last week. I just didn’t see what a chain was doing for me.” “People trust the independent guy,” Joe said. “They know it’s your name on the line. So why not have it on the matchbook?” “Well, exactly. There have to be fifteen Uniteds in town anyway. The matchbooks didn’t even have my name. You know they took all my stock when we split?” He frowned. He touched the bandage on his finger. “The fellow from General was supposed to be by this morning, sell me a new line. He’s late. Had a fellow come in just a minute ago for Epsom Salts, and I didn’t have any. He’s never coming back. What could I say? Sorry, I got some combs, and an Ace Bandage over in aisle three, maybe that’ll help? No, if you’re going to be a drug store, you ought to have some drugs.” “Makes sense. You know, we could put something on the match that says ‘Your independent neighborhood pharmacy’ on the back. Give you a competitive edge over the Rexalls.” The man’s eyes widened. “You sell to Rexall? Are they coming in around here?” Joe shrugged. “I’ve heard. I was just over at Johnson’s. He’s . . . well, concerned, I suppose you’d say. But I can do for him what I did for you. Custom matches at bulk prices. You don’t like the sample I cook up, we shake hands and that’s it. Can I show you some samples?” He left with an order. On the way out he noticed streaks on the door, fragments of an old decal. Someone had spent a lot of time razoring the United decal off the cold glass. Joe guessed it wasn’t the guys from the chain. |
 |
||
 |
|
||
this is a work of fiction c. 2005 j. lileks. / joe home / lileks.com home