Joe sat slumped in a metal chair, samples case between his legs, lighting matches with his right hand and flicking them out with the left. A barroom trick. His dad taught it to him, one summer in the backyard. Here. In case you lose an arm and still gotta light up. You pulled out a match with your thumb, bent it around the back, reversed the book in your hand, and rubbed the match against the striker. You didn’t blow it out - men didn’t blow out matches. Women blew out matches. You either shook it dead or flicked the flame with your index finger, like you were knocking a fly off a flower. If it was a cheap book you might scatter phosphor everywhere, but most times it just went out. How that worked, he didn’t know, but it did. Most times it just went out.

He lit another, studied the flame. Cheap. It flared up too hard and died on the stalk. He’d lit six; three had splintered on ignition. You got that sort of product out in the sticks – someone came through representing a match company, sold the rube a thousand custom numbers and moved on down the road. The book was a mess; the back had the stock kid-fishing scene he recognized from McCagley Art Bureau, and McCagley had probably stolen it from a B&B calendar and hoped no one noticed. “We Grease To Please.” Jesus. That had to be 25 years old. Yellow, yet. And look at the name of the place: they couldn’t even form up the letters right.

No, they didn’t know matches. On the other hand, they knew how to fix a flat, and he didn’t.

This might be considered luck, if you had a generous definition of the word. He’d driven down to Somerset the day before to show designs to a new client – old friend of the Boss, college pals, something like that. Normally the guy would be content to do the deal by mail, but the boss liked to impress people. So he sent Joe to represent the firm, the company, the great promotional empire that was Midwest Match and Novelty. He sent him on New Year’s Eve. Sorry, Joe, hope you didn’t have plans.

He didn’t, but he made like he did, and made like they didn’t matter. Two years with the company, and he wanted two more.

Joe stood and walked over to the cigarette machine. He bought a pack of Luckies, undid the gold lasso, perforated the foil with a fingernail and pulled it back with care. He shook one out and lit with his one of his samples. The mach caught easily and bloomed well; you could hold the book sideways right away and the flame would climb down the match at just the right pace.

It’s a quality line, he thought.

He’d made the sale. The man’s office was on the second floor over a real estate office, but you could tell by looking around that he didn’t just own the office, he owned the block and probably half the town. Odd old bird; one of those thin smart guys who knew everyone and could everything done, had the mayor at his left hand and the priest at his right, and no one scheduled a smoker without asking him first. Just like the big town except legit. He had given Joe the hairy eyeball when he entered the office: another salesman. Joe was used to it, and didn’t particularly cared. People needed matches and he sold good ones. The old man had scowled at the designs, stabbed a bony digit at the one he wanted, scrawled his name on the order and bade him Happy New Year. Told him to say hello to the boss, and that was it. When Joe went back to his car the right front tire was down.

He checked the spare: you’d find more air in a time capsule.

Well. Well, well. Couldn’t go back up and ask for help; the man would no doubt have sent assistance, but six months down the line he’d politely decline to reorder. A man who cannot keep his car in proper working order reflects ill on his organization. Joe slammed the trunk and looked up and down the street. There was a Rexall sign a block down. Rexall meant a phone.

The bell dinged as he entered. The usual smell: mothballs and liniment. The girl behind the counter gave him a smile, which was not unusual but nice, coming from her. Small town and sweet; a redhead. With pigtails, for chrissakes. No doubt the daughter of bony old dad back in the pharmacy grinding up the pills. “Phone?” Joe asked.

“In the back,” she said. “It has a phone book and everything too,” she added.

“You’re terrific.”

She hunched her shoulder and grinned.

He called six garages. Six garages were closed. The seventh try got an answer. The fellow said he’d be glad to fix the flat, but he was closing up for a church dinner and wouldn’t be able to help until eleven.

“Is it an emergency?” the garage man asked. “Tell you the truth, I’d really rather go on home and all.”

“Me too. I’m down from Cleveland, and I’d like to get on the road.”

“Cleveland? Okay, I can come on by. Where are you?”

“Outside the offices for a Mr. J. Crowley, he’s on –“

“Oh sure, the old man’s block. Okay, I’ll be there after eleven.”

“Thanks. Say – where can I get a bite to eat around here?”

“The Rexall has a counter,” he said.

The redhead made him a hamburger and kept his coffee cup filled. Around nine o’clock three other girls of the same interminate age – too young, that’s all that mattered – came in, and they stood by the cash register and giggled with the redhead. Joe could feel their eyes on him. Well, give the girls a thrill. He finished his coffee, tightened the knot on his tie, put on his hat. He shook out his last cigarette, fished a book of matches from his pocket and lit it one-hand style. He held the smoke, then let it out his nostrils. He could hear them sigh in unison.

Must not get many men in good suits and hats with sample cases here, he thought. I’m not that good looking. He paid his check and smiled, touched the brim of his hat.

“Maggie says you’re not from here,” the redhead said. The girl he assumed was Maggie hid her face. “Are you?”

“I’m from a big town with tall towers hard by a great lake,” Joe said.

“Ohhhhh,” said the redhead. “I knew it. Chicago.”

Joe winked and left. Outside he flicked the cigarette into the street, wondering: why doesn’t anyone ever think Cleveland when you say that?

---

The Lucky was stale. Guess no one here at the Allen and Godby Grease to Please Service Center smoked them.

The mechanic came in from the bay, rubbing his hands. “Got it fixed,” he said. “You had a nail.”

“Really?”

“Yup.” He held it up. Long and rusty.

“How do nails get in the road?” Joe said. “How do they get from wood in a building to being all alone in the middle of street?”

The mechanic shrugged. “We get a lot of them, that’s all I can say. Okay, that’s four bucks, with the patch.”

“Yeah.” Joe peeled off a five from his roll. “Keep the change,” he said. “I’ll put it on the expense account. Thanks for opening up.”

“Didn’t have any plans. You heading somewhere tonight?”

“The Copa. Ava Gardner’s waiting in the back booth.”

“Well, happy new year, friend.”

Joe picked up his case. “Are you Allen or Godby?”

“I’m not anyone of them, I’m Johnson? Eric. I’m the weekend guy.”

“Tell them they need new matches.” Joe opened his case and took out a sample from the nudie-cutie line. Midwest Match and Novelty didn’t handle them, but he kept them to open doors and solemnize deals. He handed the match to Johnson. “Happy New Year.”

The kid pursed his lips and nodded and set the book down on the counter. “God bless,” he said.

Right. Church dinner. Joe was ten miles out of town before he stopped feeling like a smut peddlar. Ah well. What’re you gonna do. You never know. He listened to a radio broadcast from a New York nightclub; the announcer cut in between songs to tell everyone what a gay time Manhattan was having. Joe had never been to Manhattan. Well, he thought, I’d never been to Kentucky. Never been to 1955 either. But here we are.

Drive on.