The Story of How Horace Zirkofski Made the Best Sale of His Life

            by Robyn Brown

 

Horace Zirkofski stepped out of his shiny black Chevy Bel-Air and breathed in the heat that emanated from the pavement beneath his feet. Though he was only 22, his ash blond hair was thinning and he had been squinting through thick-framed glasses since grade school. He was tall and thin; a classic string bean figure. A navy blue suit hung from his shoulders and hips, and his white shirt shone brilliantly in the sunshine.

He took in his surroundings. The suburb development reached as far as the eye could see. He looked over the rows of houses, each lined up perfectly next to its neighbor, the well-manicured and watered lawns forming a little border around them. Horace knew that this image stretched on for miles, because everyday he saw the same monotonous scene. It varied occasionally with dull details, such as a barking dog or an unusually bright begonia planted by the walk of the house. Yes, the sun was shining and the smell of fresh paint that always seemed to exude from developments like this one was in the air. Horace’s day had just started, but he already knew the beginning, middle and end. Nevertheless, he took a resolute step forward. He was ready to make a sale.

            Horace walked up to the first house on the block, an off-white ranch style with blue trim. He held his suitcase in one hand and straightened his gray tie with the other. He rang the doorbell and in the minute that ensued before the woman opened the door he went through his mental checklist. Hair combed? Check. Posture? Check. Fly zipped? Check. Smile? He beamed at himself in the reflection of the window next to the door. Check.  

Although Horace was no fox, he sure could charm the ladies who stayed home doing the housework all day. The combination of his deep, radio-announcer’s voice, and careful flattery had made him the employee of the week for 23 weeks running at the Britnoff-Howellson Fancy Brush Company. Within the first few minutes of talking to someone he could always decipher what they wanted out of life, what their secret yearnings and daydreams were, and he used this to his advantage. Of course, Horace attributed part of his success to the fact that these women had nothing to do all day but clean, cook, and do other tiresome tasks. After all, who wouldn’t welcome a fresh face now and then?

            A woman answered the door. She couldn’t have been a year older than Horace and was wearing a pink cherry-patterned apron over a blue dress. Her green eyes peered out at him suspiciously from the slits of her eyelids. “Are you selling something? Because I’m just not really looking to buy anything, at least not today anyway,” she said in a fast, high-pitched voice.

            “Good morning Ma’am!” replied Horace, not at all deterred by her welcome. “If you would just give me a few minutes of your time, all I want to do is show you some of the products I have with me…no obligation to buy anything, of course.” There was a pause as she considered the green leather suitcase that he had swung up from his side and was now holding out in front of him. She thoughtfully dusted a little flour off the cherry-print apron. “Is that apple pie I smell baking? My mother used to make a delectable apple pie…not nearly as good as yours, though, I’m sure. Do you have any children?” She blushed, her head inclined, and giggled. She was sold.

            For the next thirty minutes Horace was treated to a detailed account of Cherry-Print’s plans for her upcoming baby’s nursery and was guided through a list of possible names, putting a check next to ones he liked. He was, of course, able to sell her on a couple of fancy hairbrushes designed specifically for babies, and threw in a free fancy mustache comb for the lucky husband, compliments of the Britnoff-Howellson Fancy Brush Company. As he left the house, Horace took one last look around. Although he did not envy the humdrum lives these women led, he couldn’t help but feel a little pang of loneliness each time he saw framed wedding photos on the wall and children’s toys scattered about on the floor. He was always sad to leave at the end of these homey sessions of gossip and chit chat, but he knew that he had a quota to make which meant more houses, more housewives, and more sales.

            By one o’clock Horace had covered two blocks of Oak Street and been extremely successful, even by his standards. Only three doorbells had not been answered, although Horace had a sneaking suspicion that he had seen a person on the other side of the keyhole when he had bent down to check one of them. Of the women who did answer, only two of them had declined his products. He didn’t blame them. The absurdity of what he was selling struck him now and then with a force so powerful that all he could do was laugh and shake his head. Who needed an extra fancy eyebrow comb or fancy nose-hair trimmer anyway? He could see the usefulness of fancy nail scissors, but a fancy two-in-one cuticle pusher and earwax remover? Ludicrous.

            Horace breaked for lunch and went back to his car to find a nice place to eat. Every sub development that he had worked had afforded him a quiet bench under a tree, or a playground where he could watch the little children eat sand and ride on springy plastic animals. Sure enough, he spotted a cleanly constructed wooden bench set back a little from the immaculate street, in the shade of a big-branched Liquidambar tree. He sat down and unwrapped the bologna sandwich that he had made for himself that morning. He settled back into the quiet tranquility, interrupted occasionally by a passing car or the shouts of children in the distance. His first sale of the day had been on his mind all morning. He kept imagining how the new baby would be raised in this never-changing land of perfect lawns and flat streets. Then the baby would grow up and be able to get away, as Horace never could. He licked a speck of mayonnaise off the side of his mouth and gazed into the distance, thinking about what he was going to do with the rest of his life. He had no specific plan, but he had seen enough of the suburbs to know that he did not want to spend the remainder of his days convincing families who already had everything they dreamed of to buy more of his useless merchandise. He didn’t care how many employee-of-the-week awards awaited him; he just could not bring himself to always be on the outside looking in.

            All of a sudden, his lunchtime musings were interrupted with the quickness of a careless smile passed between two women walking by on the sidewalk. One of them had honey-blond hair, curled up at the bottom where it hit her shoulder. Her bluish-gray eyes squinted as she laughed at something her companion said and the two of them passed by without so much as a glance in Horace’s direction. He thought that he had never seen anyone more gorgeous than the blond woman in his life. Horace continued to gaze in the direction they had been walking long after they had turned the corner. After a minute or two, he shook his head briskly and got up, crumpling his brown bag in one hand and brushing a crumb off his shirtfront with the other. He couldn’t let himself get distracted. He had a job to do.

            Horace drove back to the area he had been working before lunch and continued his rounds, but he couldn’t chase the image of the beautiful girl from his mind. He was uncharacteristically unsure of himself and at one point, when a woman showed interest in a product, he had become flustered and clumsy. At the end of the block he was discouraged to find that not only was the woman from lunch still on his mind, but he had only made two sales, a dismal low for him. As he crossed the street his mind was a hopeless jumble. In his heart he knew that his sales performance was suffering because he could not rid his mind of the image of the nameless woman. He considered trying one more block and seeing if he could somehow raise his spirits, but instead he slowly turned back to the black Bel-Air, which sat parked on a side street. His heart hammering, he walked deliberately toward the car, for he knew what he had to do. He bit his lip nervously as he thought about it. Deviating from his carefully planned route was risky enough, but doing it to find a women, who in all probability wouldn’t even give him a second glance- that made him gulp. All he wanted to do was see the woman one more time. That was all.

            He drove back to the bench and started a new route, feeling better because even if he never found the woman, at least he had tried. He quickly forgot his last few disastrous sales attempts. Pouring enthusiasm on top of exaggerated charm he broke the barriers of icy first glances and point blank refusals. Yes, Horace was getting back into his stride, but he had now turned the corner and gone three blocks past the bench and yet there was still no sign of the beautiful woman. Horace felt rather mad at himself. Sure, it would be great if he found her, but then what was he going to do? He certainly didn’t have the courage to ask her out on a date, perhaps to go see a movie, get a nice dinner…no, he would never be able to do that. Besides, he didn’t even know if he was going in the right direction. She could have turned multiple corners, walked infinite blocks after he watched her go. She could have just been visiting a friend and have returned back to her own subdivision, miles away, by now.

            He made up for his uncertainty with renewed vigor at each door that cracked open, each suspicious face that peered out. Horace smiled to himself and tried to convince himself that, as beautiful as she was, he might never see her again, and he was okay with that. Horace reached the end of the third block and decided that even if he never found her, at least he was selling with more success than ever. Since beginning his new route he had sold six fancy all-purpose hairbrushes, four fancy mustache combs, and five fancy seven-product gift baskets. He strode up the walk of a mint-green ranch house with brown trim and rang the bell, his finger connecting firmly with the button. A man answered the door and Horace, taken aback, looked at him with a confused expression.

            “Can I help you?” The man’s eyebrows were raised and the corners of his mouth were pulled down slightly in an expression of impatience. He was around 54. His graying hair was combed neatly to the side and a pair of reading glasses hung on a chain around his neck. He was wearing a blue bathrobe over a pair of khaki slacks and a white tee shirt. His nose was broad, his face tan, and even though Horace was standing on the stoop beneath him, he could tell that he would have to look up at the man if they were on level ground.

            “Yes, sir, I was wondering if I could just take a few minutes of your time today and interest you in some fancy brushes and other grooming products…maybe…” Horace’s confidant voice trailed off as the man continued to give him a stony glare that clearly said he did not want any grooming products of any sort.

Horace was about to turn away and continue down the street, but right at that moment, a youthful voice behind the man said, “Who is it, Daddy? Here, let me talk to them, you should get back to bed and keep resting. I’ll bring you a glass of O.J. in a minute.”

 The man sighed, rolled his eyes and, leaning forward, said to Horace confidentially, “The one thing my daughter does not need is another hairbrush. Good luck.” Horace chuckled nervously as the man retreated back into the dim, air-conditioned interior of the house and the young woman moved forward with a sway of her hips. It was her.

Horace thought his heart might stop beating. He completely forgot his mission as a salesman and simply prayed for the chance that he wouldn’t embarrass himself too much. She was wearing a short-sleeved blue dress that buttoned up the front and fell to just below her knees. Her arms were lightly tanned and her fingernails were painted the palest pink. She smiled at him and he was sure that she could see his heart thumping through his shirt. “You’re selling something?” she prompted, when Horace continued to stand mutely before her.

Her voice had entranced Horace and when she was done talking he realized that he was expected to respond. “Uh, yes, yes I am. Erm, would you like, I mean…can I show you some brushes?” he stammered. She smiled an affirmative answer and Horace fumbled with the clasps on his suitcase. He finally managed to open the case, but instead of displaying its contents with the suave gesture he had perfected, the case slipped out of his sweaty palms and fell to the ground, closing on impact. Horace felt himself blush and, trying to hide it, bent down quickly with the pretense of picking up the suitcase. He stood up again and, too embarrassed to look her in the eye, occupied himself with brushing flecks of dirt off the suitcase.

 “Why don’t you come in. We can have some pop and you can show me your brushes,” she said, seeming to realize that Horace was not going to take any initiative of his own.

“Oh, yes, that sounds nice,” he said a little too loudly. He followed her into the house and sat down in the kitchen. She hummed a familiar tune while she got two cokes out of the refrigerator and Horace started to come back to his senses. Yes, here he was in this beautiful woman’s home and now he had to sell her something. That was what he had to do. This is easy. I am good at this, he told himself. She sat down across from him at the square Formica table and smiled.

“So…can I see your products?” she asked kindly, when Horace continued to smile at her from across the table.

“Oh! Yes, of course. I was just noticing what lovely hair you have.” Then, remembering his job, he added, “You know, we at the Britnoff-Howellson Fancy Brush Company have many fine products designed for beautiful hair just like yours.”

She blushed. “You’re just teasing me.”

“No,” Horace replied, earnestly. “I’m really not.” He unlatched his suitcase and opened it with a flourish. Inside were numerous brushes, combs and clippers, all lined up neatly, secured to the sides of the case with elastic bands. They were many different colors and ranged in size from the smallest eyebrow scissor to the biggest hairbrush, all bearing the symbol of the company in gold. After a few seconds of consideration, Horace selected a medium-sized aquamarine hairbrush and removed it from its place next to a matching comb. “I think this would be the perfect thing for you,” he said, handing it to the woman. As she reached across to receive it, their hands touched and Horace had the feeling that he might implode at any moment.

            “Ooooh, this is exactly what I need!” she said, examining the brush. “Does it come in any other colors?”

            Horace rotated the suitcase to show her the array of colors that model of brush came in. After deliberating for a minute or two, she picked out an orange one. He finished the sale and packed up his suitcase, all the while sure that something would happen that would stop him from leaving. He was exactly where he had dreamed of being for longer than he realized and now if he didn’t do something soon, he would find himself standing on the sidewalk outside of the house and cursing himself for not taking action. As he was thinking this, they were walking towards the door. All of a sudden he found himself turning the doorknob. Right before stepping outside, Horace stopped abruptly and turned around to face the woman.

            She looked at him inquisitively, eyebrows furrowed. “Is everything all right? Did you forget something?”

            “No, I’ve got everything,” Horace replied. Although his heart seemed like it was about to jump out of his chest, his voice was miraculously steady. Just tell her, Horace, you know how to do this. It’s just another sale. Okay, here you go.  “Everything but your, uh, phone number, that is. I, uh, think you are beautiful and, well, I would like to take you out on a, um, date, sometime, but you know, only if you want to, I mean I understand if you don’t.” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, and he winced because they were so corny, albeit sincere.

            The woman laughed merrily, her eyes squinting up, but it wasn’t a mean laugh. She smiled at Horace and said, “Sure. Let me write it down.”

            Horace steadied his shaking hand before taking the paper from her, opened his suitcase a crack, and slipped it in. The scrap of paper sandwiched itself between brushes and clippers, and Horace knew that this was, by far, his biggest sale of the day. He closed the suitcase with a satisfying snap, shot one more nervous smile at the woman, and walked out of the house with a happiness that enveloped his entire being.