first short, short story

So, This is Living


Fields of corn were being harvested. The town was a small town just outside the state’s capital. Steve and Arnold drove into Ashland in the middle of October. Steve drove while Arnold looked out of the window.
Arnold was just out of college and a decade younger than Steve, who had a wife and two children. The men were selling tax equipment to the different business owners in the small town.

Each man was dressed professionally—shined shoes, pleated pants, ties, and suit coats. They rode in the Honda, jacketless.
Steve was an experienced salesman, and now considered himself a financial consultant. Arnold, just out of college, still considered himself a student, and the job as only temporary.

Steve was fat, red-faced, red-haired, and wore a red beard. He drove and talked continually on, chewing tobacco and every so often spitting into a metal can.

They pair of men had been driving for two hours.

“You can do this. You have the personality. You seem to be a sharp kid. Don’t forget to give yourself more credit,” Steve said.

Arnold looked straight ahead out the window. He went long periods with saying anything. Steve was still growing accustomed to this. He sighed.

“O.K. now let’s review: the acronyms S.E.E ad L.A.R.C stand for. . .?
Arnold looked at his manual, then stated: “Smile, eye contact, enthusiasm, listen, agree, rebuttal, and close.”

“Yes. Exactly,” Steve said growing excited, “remember ABC—always be closing. Its all a system; its all in that manual; stay within the system and you’ll be fine.”

He continued on, “Let me put it this way. You’re a spitting image of me six months ago. You’re Steve, six months ago. The beautiful thing about Vantage Point is that you move up. Its all about management, getting six figures. Jesus, look at Deuce.”

Murphy Williams II, or Deuce, had been the manager who interviewed Arnold. There was something about Arnold that Deuce liked. Arnold was knowledgeable, and didn’t talk himself into ruts. He was good looking as well, which helped. Arnold still had the baby face college graduates keep until it is broken by living.

Arnold looked at Steve. The Honda continued to drive by brown fields of wheat and corn. It was overcast. Wind swept through the open windows.
“Deuce started out exactly like you and me. Ground level, cold calling and hearing ‘no’ a-l-l d-a-y l-o-o-n-g.”

“Look at him now,” Arnold said.

Steve glanced at the student through his peripheral.

“Exactly,” Steve said, “he’s making six figures now.”

“So this is living,” Arnold said.

“Exactly. You start as a trainee. The move to trainer, then assistant manager, and then to manager. It is all in the manual.
Arnold held a thick packet in his lap. Steve waited, then sighed.

“Look at me. I’ve been in sales my entire life. Banking, and before that, mortgaging. I left all of it. Gave it all up, for this. I’ve been in this six months. Its all a matter of time. Its simply a numbers game.”

Arnold grew frustrated. So this is living, he thought. Then it occurred to him, or rather, he grew confused. Had Steve been selling him this entire time?

Arnold let the feeling sit, with silence, wondering what it meant to be an actor. He looked out the window. So, the actor had a stage, and knew that he was performing. Further, he had stage directions and a script.

The student thought—the actor becomes something else entirely, a character with or without morals, specifically portrayed in careful lighting.

But no, Steve was not acting. He had, in fact, become a salesman over time, and could no longer separate the child from the adult.

Steve spit tobacco into the metal can.

“Look at it this way. My boy is in cub scouts. Next, he goes to boy scouts, and then eagle scouts. It is all a matter of time and keeping with it, through thick and thin.”

The student wondered what Steve was talking about. Steve paused, then sighed.

“It’s a rite of passage,” Steve said.

“Sales?”

“No, remember you’re not selling anything. You’re helping the owner out, saving him money.”

“So helping someone out is a rite of passage.”

“Now you’re getting it, boy.”



Later, Arnold would find out that according to the business owners and farmers, the two salesmen were just individuals passing through their town.

Afternoon would take light.

Soon, the corn being harvested would be bought, husked, and boiled. Buttered and salted and eaten.

As for now, the farm hands continued to harvest.
Every time the silence between Arnold and Steve grew almost too fat, Steve exercised his rite to educate the student on sales.

Something strange happened today. It was a good thing, though. I starting reading poetry that I liked. I read and read Raymond Carver and Robert Frost into the night. Re-read all my dog-eared pages. I listened to music I liked—I listened to Oasis. I smoked cigarettes in my room. Cold air came in from the night into my bedroom. I looked at my fishing poles and the old tackle box given to me from my dad, and thought of all the fishing I’ve been doing recently. Good fishing, catching a lot, even at the river. I thought about driving to the park and falling asleep under a tree, and then waking up to a pee-wee football game—the flood lights and parents screaming. I thought about my own life—don’t we all in that poetic way? I thought about my friends, my sponsor taking me to the magnolia record store where I got the Oasis CD. Guilty pleasures, maybe. But I came up with this poem:

Broken Belt

I watch, lying in front of a church,
Cars pass on the street
Like soft and silent orbs into the night.
My belt, my father’s old leather belt,
Has split into halves.
Carefully, I take each end
And hide them away in the church’s vines.
This has become my life:
A broken belt, alone at night,
Nowhere to go, nothing to do,
And frustrated about it all.


I thought some more about Raymond Carver. Him as a struggling poet. Working as a janitor at a community college. Attending that same college and meeting john Gardner. What dumb luck. I thought into the night about my next move and what it should be. Another job, then pay rent. Live like this, singular, but not. Happy. Happiness comes over me tonight, into tonight, unexpectedly. One night in the future, I'll remember the night where I was happy enough to stay up for it.

There's the river. There's always the river.
This river: low, shrunken in October.
Islands of gold weeds sprout in its middle.
Blocks of concrete
(with the roadway)
stand from an old bridge.
Faded, spray-painted, chipped, and screwed.

Leaves fall lightly from trees.
Every so often, a branch snaps--
the sound similar to an image
of a couch disarded to a curb.

Branches overhang the shores;
wind takes the leaves down river;
light lessens the water.

There's always the river. This river
only slightly grazed by us with garbage.
This old river, always
lessened by light and us.
If only it was as is without us
growing and winding freely with its course.