Mooch - By Dan Fante Page 0,1

home owner from down my block, with the wife, the dog, the table saw in the garage. We had seen each other on the street a few times but had never spoken.

As he came closer, his eyes met mine for an instant, then darted away. I knew why. He recognized me. I was one of the come-and-go residents of the sober-living apartment house on the corner. A shitsucking loser. I would live to be six hundred million years old and still never earn the word ‘hello’ from this citizen prick or his fat-butted wife who spent her afternoons digging in the garden.

Passing my car’s side window, he slowed down, bending at the waist to steal a glance inside. Maybe, I thought, maybe he’s wondering why another adult, dressed for work in a sports jacket, slacks and tie, would be sitting behind the wheel of his car in the direct sunlight on the hottest day of the year with the windows up and his motor not running, sweating, suffocating, wiggling his ignition key back and forth like a brain-damaged retard fuck.

I looked at my watch. It was 10.15 a.m. I’d never make the sales meeting.

Unable to think of anything else to do, I lit a cigarette. It was the last cigarette in my pack of Lucky’s. I took a hit and watched the inside of the Chrysler fill with drifting rivers of smoke. I hated everything. God. Everything.

‘This is Albert Berlinski. How may I help you?’

‘Mister Berlinski, it’s Bruno Dante.’

‘Dante! What’s up? Where’ve you been? You missed both of the demos we had scheduled for you on Friday night!’

‘I’ve had car problems with my Chrysler again, Mister Berlinski.’

‘Myrna had to “no-show” those presentations—call your clients, re-schedule everything herself. You never phoned in.’

For the last few days I had been reading a David Martin novel and staying in the coolness of my room because of my revulsion for door to door canvassing in the miserable heat and smog of my Glendale sales territory. ‘I was waiting for my mechanic to finish another car before he could start work on mine,’ I said. ‘An engine job.’

‘This is Monday, Dante. You’ve had three days to fix your vehicle. What time will you be in?’

‘The goddamn thing wouldn’t start again this morning.’

‘Sooo…now what?’

‘I don’t know. Personally, I’m at a loss. Nonplussed. Befuddled.’

‘Of course this means you won’t be attending the sales meeting again. I’ll have to tell Mister Fong.’

‘I promise you I’ll get the car squared away and be in by this afternoon. You have my word.’

Berlinski paused—the death pause—I recognized it immediately. It comes just before the words that tell you you’re bumped. ‘You know Dante,’ he said, ‘we’re prolonging the inevitable here. Bring in your units and I’ll cut you a final check.’

‘Mister Berlinski, I just said that I’d be there this afternoon!’

‘We totaled out the sales numbers this morning. Last month you were number twelve. Down from number ten.’

‘I can count, Berlinski. I’m aware of that.’

‘In May you were also number ten. You’ve been number ten twice and number twelve once. You also no-showed at the Track Selling Seminar last Saturday. Mister Fong himself brought that up to me during our strategy review. Not being there was a mistake.’

‘I know I missed the seminar. I felt like rat shit missing the seminar. That seminar course was a vital component in my growth as an ambitious sales professional. I had a sincere desire to be there, believe me. It’s my goddamn car.’

‘Fortunately for the company, as I just said, the issue is now resolved.’

‘Mister Berlinski, never buy a Chrysler product. They’re hog excrement. No wonder the Japs and other alien conglomerates are taking over America. My car is further evidence of the demise of the fucking U.S. economy and the American dream. May I please talk to Fong personally on this?’

‘It’s my decision, not Mister Fong’s. You’re terminated. As of today. Bring in your units and your demo kit and the coupon books. I’ll have Myrna total up what we owe you.’

‘I’m being kicked while I’m down. I fucking-goddamn strongly suggest that you reconsider your decision.’

‘How many units do you have in your trunk?’

‘I’ve got the two Kirbys, a Hoover upright and the five hand-held Dirt Devils that were distributed to my team after the show. Eight pieces all together. What about another shot here, Mister Berlinski?’

‘Bring the units in. I’ll voucher them myself.’

‘That’s it? I’m fired?’

No answer.

‘Well…okay, Mister Berlinski. But before you hang up, I would like to share something with you.