The Confidant (Part One)

Apr 19, 2008 - 03:50 AM PST

The first part of a short story I'm having fun with. I'll be posting more in the next couple of days. If you read this I'd appreciate any feedback. This is definitely a work in progress . . . . . Enjoy

The Confidant

Telemarketers don’t have the courtesy of dialing a number. We have these machines that do it for us. They’re made of that not quite white, not quite gray, industrial plastic. We come into work and turn on a little box that generates a customer’s number and after one ring it presents their name on a little green digital display screen. Only then do we make a sales pitch, which is the easy part. Because when a person really thinks about it there’s always a demand for the product. It’s just the nature of things. Yes Mr. Baah-nn-isss-ter, Banister, I understand you’re a single man, living alone, in a big city, but don’t you perhaps think your asocial tendencies are somehow derived from the sexual repression you’ve forced upon yourself by not wearing women’s underwear? No sir, I most definitely am serious, experimentation with cross dressing very well may be a necessary factor for a normal, healthy, fun, passionate, lifestyle. Yes of course it worked for me. The panties come in pink and black, the black ones have little lace ribbons. Black it is. There’s always a demand for the product.

So I, Eli Waters, have woken up every morning for the past two years to ride the number six out to the suburbs of Chicago where I sell sweat-shop fuck skivvies to middle aged men. Those little boxes, the ones that don’t let me dial, are all programmed to call masculine names. Johns, Jims, Steves, Bruces et al. only apply, women aren’t afraid to buy lingerie in public. And everyday I sneak in the split-level entry door of my bosses five bedroom, three and a half bath sprawling abode and let the box call the Mr. Banisters of the world. I’m good at what I do and no, I’m not proud. I’m not ashamed either. Pride and shame aren’t even visceral reactions. They’re not to be trusted. Look in a proud man’s sock drawer and you’ll find the polka dot thong model with the front zipper option (a good seller). Ask a proud man what’s in there and he’ll lie. The box has made a lot of calls for me and I've spoken to a lot of men who are nothing more than things with brains. They tell themselves they are proud then buy the purple brazier with nipple bells because they are curious. They indulge a general desire for the avant-garde that springs up in the lives of utterly normal people, that's all.

This morning was no different than any other until I saw this monster dressed to the nines in a three-piece black linen suit. I couldn’t help but see him because he was enormous and for the fact that he was standing in the middle of the street with his back turned to the number six as it was barreling towards my stop. “Hey, hey mister.” Nothing, he didn’t even look at me. The driver put his fist to the horn, brakes screaming, this could be messy. “Hey, look out! Get off the road!” Jesus, this guy was a pinch under seven feet pushing three-hundred. I should have been worried about the bus but I ran out, grabbed his arm and pulled him back onto the curb. The number six reluctantly came to a stop right beside us. The door opened and I asked this house to get off of me, it was my stop and I had panties to sell. I don’t think he heard me but eventually he got up, laboriously, and I found myself unusually lost for words. I’d never saved a man’s life before, what do I say? Should I offer him a discount? Neither of us said a thing but he did give me a business card. Miles Turner, Confidant, his number was on the back. Miles continued down the street and I hopped onto a bus full of passengers who couldn’t quite look at me. Don’t be afraid people, I’m no hero.

I take the seven-fifteen out to the suburbs. My boss’ house is four blocks away from the station and I don’t mind the walk. If the outside lights are off that means the wife has whisked the kids off to school and is wasting her money on power yoga or ambient light therapy, fuck I don’t know. That also means I don’t have to kill time by walking the streets of a decidedly upper class neighborhood. So this morning I round the corner and behold, my place of employment is illuminated. Oh well, time to walk. I pass brick ranch style homes and three story Victorian salt-boxes, all built to mimic something classic but their guts are made from poly-test tube compounds bought from the cheapest provider. I can’t help but think of the guys who built these places, what they thought about on the bus rides back to their one-bedrooms not high up enough to kill the sewer stink of the city. My money says they couldn’t help but think about what they could do if the boss’ money was their money. One house, they would say, think of what we could do with the loot spent on just one house. My money also says these guys left a steaming pile of last night’s supper under the floorboards of the foyer, which is why I’m glad I’ll be sneaking in the side door once the lights go off.

I stroll for about an hour before I’m allowed in. I don’t talk to the boss, not in colloquial terms anyway. There’s no hey Eli, or how’s the city life Eli, or damn Eli when I was your age. Boss just makes sure the lights are off, the door’s unlocked, and the little box is primed for action. I make him money, I make me money, but if I knew where to get lady things for three cents a garment I could be self-employed. I sit down on a run of the mill swivel chair stationed in front of one of those cheap, some assembly required, computer desks. But there’s no computer, only that little box with a blinking red light that tells me it’s dying to sniff out my first prospective buyer. Here it goes, head set on, do your work little buddy, dial away.

George Pappas hangs up. Mike Winters tells me he's going to hang up then gives me a credit card number, and yes the billing address matches his mailing address. Timothy Favors kindly says no. Eric Samuels declines not so nicely which tells me I almost had him. Then something happens that has never happened before. The box quits. The green display screen goes dark and the eager red blinker shuts off, caput. I sit staring at it for what must have been some time because when I look down at my watch I realize I only have twenty minutes to split before the boss’ wife comes home. Not really knowing what to do I take Miles Turner’s card out my pocket. Confidant, what the fuck is that? Is he in a band? Is that his underground wrestling name, heavy weight division? I didn’t want to know Miles or know what he did. Sure his designation made me think a little, but when you sell nipple pasties to CFO’s you stop judging people by their titles. What made me a bit curious was that phone number printed in Baskerville Semibold across the back. In two years of sneaking into this fully finished mini-mansion I had never once dialed a phone number. And now that this box, this thing created for only one purpose, was dead and useless I decided to make a personal call. Going upstairs was always risky but the boss would want to know about this. At the top I pause to knock, no answer, I push into the main level anyway. The boss is a sight, flannel pajama pants, no shirt, laughing his ass of at something on the television. This piece of work actually gets suited and booted to kiss his wife goodbye in the morning only to tear it off for something more becoming while I waste away in the basement. But no hard feelings, we’re making a killing and we sort of have command over the market. Boss sees me, not happy. I show him the corpse of the box and tell him I was in the middle of a sale when the thing kicked. I’m allowed to use the house phone in the kitchen and I take out Miles’ card. I punch the ten numbers emphatically and get a voice-automated machine. For two years a machine gave me people and now my only personal call gives me a machine, I should have let Miles take it from the number six.

You have reached the office of Miles Turner, Confidant. If you would like to schedule an appointment please press one. Boss thought I was selling unmentionables so I had to stay on the phone a little longer. I pressed the key-pad, number one. I’m sorry, there are no available times today, if you would like to schedule an appointment for tomorrow please press one. Okay Miles, Confidant, you’re a busy man whatever it is that you do. One. I’m sorry, there are no available times tomorrow, if you would like to schedule an appointment for the day after tomorrow please press one. One. Miles, what in the wide world of wide men can you be doing? I’m sorry, there are no. . . next week. . . . . the fourteenth. . . . . . April. . . . May. I was curious. I would be seeing Miles Turner, Confidant, in five weeks for my appointment.

-smd 2008

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