Something Ordinary

Something Ordinary

When our top salesperson is euphoric and leaving us to guess how long manic episodes last, she can’t stop herself from describing to our customers her Fallacy of Dispensation. On the road between San Jose and Carpenteria, selling the same Matching Widget she’s sold on a commission basis since the founding of our company, she says to someone like Marion Blanchard or Kevin Kim, “The aggregate amount of suffering across the lifetimes of any one soul is the same for each soul. Don’t you see? You must see. We suffer as much as we cause to suffer,” she spews at Leslie Kuhn, Nicholas Lake, Martin Brandy. “We harm in like measure.” All grace goes out of her when she talks so fast. So breathlessly. Red cheeks redden. Her mouth all but glistening gushes exuberance while those eyes, an unsettling show of internal compartmentalization, soften into a look of despondence and nearly deaden. We want to put her in a hospital, but with such phenomenal numbers? She does quadruple the business those of us vying for second do. “Customers,” she explains in a quiet moment, “crave an authentic buying experience,” and falls silent when we ask how one makes this happen. We all stand the silence. We like it. She tells us more calmly about her old fashioned sense of seasons. “Hot is hot. Cold is cold. Mild is the popular favorite in a procession of landscapes, see them now parading gorgeous, heather, dark red, golden?” Then the long Visalia summers of her youth spring to life, bringing her around to baseball and her love of the Rawhide, the farm team to the Arizona Diamondbacks at play at Recreation Park a block from her family’s house on Goshen Avenue. She knows the stats by heart of every guy who ever moved up, and those of the sad young men who did not. The shortstop Knudsen gets hit wide and outside by a brain aneurysm. Who could miss a game after that, she tells our clientele, and weeps for Knudsen in plain sight. She weeps for her mother Annette and half brother Charlie who we’ve all met and know to be of sound mind and body. “We will all be present at the end of the world,” she tells Cookie de la Croix and Zach Minor. “All souls combined. No one’s left out, you know. We are there now. I feel it. This feeling I have,” she says, “is indescribable.” None of us look her in the eye when she gets like this but fantasize about rising through the ranks to Regional Manager to gently lay her off. For now, she is our safety net and our bread and butter, and we are her Sentinels of the Accelerated Imagination. Mess with her, call her mad even once, and see how hard, how fast we come down on you.