| His last night in Ashtabula. Joe was waiting for the elevator, listening to it stop on every floor. He could hear the laughter before the doors opened. Ding! The doors opened. Four men in suits, very drunk. They were attempting to move the thickest fellow out with kind words and hard prods. The world’s smallest Shriner convention, Joe thought. He looked down while they pushed the fellow out, as if he had no interest in the matter whatsoever. He noticed a orange matchbook half-buried in the sand of the ashtray, like some ancient relic revealed by the wind. Joe waited until the men had staggered down the hall, then he fished the matchbook out of the ashtray, and puffed off the ash. Opened it. Hmm. Cheap staples. There was a man standing next to him with a suitcase. He pushed the elevator button. The door opened, and they both got in. “You need some matches?” he said, pushing FOUR. “No, I, uh, had something on this one. Phone number. Forgot about it when I threw it away.” Joe put it in his pocket, feeling as if he’d picked up someone else’s gum. “Really.” The man gave him a look. “Because I could swear that’s the one I threw in the ashtray a few minutes ago when I went down to the lobby. It was a very slow elevator. Joe coughed. What the hell. “Okay, you got me. I’m in the trade. I sell matchbooks. So I’m always interested in the competition, what they’re doing. Couldn’t resist looking at it, seeing what the other guys are up to.” “And?” “And . . .?” “What do you think?” “Oh.” He took it out. “Well, it’s a bad print job, but you get a bum batch every now and again. I never liked the Big Boy mascot - he’s a fat kid, he has a rash on his cheeks, he’s running, and he’s looking at a hamburger. My mother told me never to run with hamburgers.” The man nodded. “Okay, the B side. You got the name of the chain repeated, which is good, but here’s a diamond, and on the front it’s a banner. Doesn’t tell the customer what to look for.” Ding: third floor. “And then there’s the picture of the burger. I don’t know what this white stuff is – asbestos? Some sort of albino lettuce? I had one once, and it was just dripping with thousand island. I couldn’t finish it. Felt all greasy afterwards. Felt like doing some running of my own, if you know what I mean.” “Where’d you have it.” “Around here somewhere. I don’t remember.” “That would have been a Frisch’s Big Boy. That’s a matchbook for the Azar franchise. Different territory.” “Ah. And, ah, your line of work is –“ “I manage a chain of Big Boys.” Ding. Joe let him go first, hoping he’d turn left. He turned right. They both walked in silence to the end of the hall; the man had the room next to his. They nodded good night. Two hours later, Joe brushed his teeth, and like everything else he’d done since he got back to his room, he tried to do it as quietly as possible. |
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this is a work of fiction c. 2005 j. lileks. / joe home / lileks.com home