| Busy day at the lunch counter; every stool taken, ten people waiting. The room was humid and close, and smelled of grease and cigarettes. Joe sat next to a fiftyish man in a green jacket; he was making entries in a small notebook between sips of his soup. After a while he took out a pack of Kents and some matches, and lit up. “Excuse me –“ Joe began. The man moved the ketchup over. “Ah – thanks. Say, you from Chicago?” Joe said. “Huh? No. Why?” Joe tapped the matchbook next to the man’s ashtray. “Couldn’t help notice. Just a guess. A bad guess.” “Not that wrong. I represent the outfit in this territory. At least for the next few weeks.” “Changing territory?” “Changing jobs.” He pushed his plate away and took a sip of coffee. “I got dead brands and no one’s buying. Briar Ridge coffee – who knows it from Adam? Some stores carry it because they got one or two old ladies who swear by that Briar Ridge difference, but hell, it’s the same stuff they use in every other brand. The only reason they like it is ‘cause the can’s green. Then the ladies drop off and so do sales, and it’s Hills Brothers from floor to ceiling.” “The peas look good,” Joe said. “And they’re mammoth.” “Yeah, that’s a word I’d use to describe peas. Mammoth. Like you open the can and there’s two peas the size of tennis balls.” He lit another Kent with the matchbook and stared at the pea can with weary boredom. “Mary Jane Watson brand. It used to be a good seller – nothing big, but steady. I guess people thought they could send a telegram to Mary Jane herself and she’d write back in nice longhand on paper with her name on the top. Like she invented peas or something.” “Well, maybe it’s better than the Green Giant. That guy could kill you.” “Which is why you’d want to keep on his good side, maybe. Like by buying his peas.” “So who are you going to work for.” “I don’t know. Consolidated Grocery, maybe. They handle most of the brands a guy doesn’t feel small representing. The sale’s made before you walk in the store; the manager just tells you how much he needs. You don’t need to sell him ten cases Daily Delight coffee because you’re low on your quota.” “I’m sorry,” said a voice to Joe’s left, “but did you say Daily Delight?” It was a middle-aged woman with an apologetic expression. Joe leaned back to let her talk to the salesman. “I loved it, and I can’t find it anywhere anymore,” she said. “They stopped making it,” said the salesman. “Something about rat poison.” The lady blanched, and went back to her grilled cheese. “I got a hundred cases in the warehouse,” the salesman said to Joe under his breath. “To hell with it.” |
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this is a work of fiction c. 2005 j. lileks. / joe home / lileks.com home