Das Road

  I wouldn’t consider Frank’s tactics as being merely “a little nudge.”

  “The biggest thing to watch out for,” Frank says, “are people who say they’d rather be cremated. That’s the kiss of death for us, so to speak! Best to give them the old ‘meat hook’ routine.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Tell them that their loved ones will be manhandled with hooks at the crematoria,” Frank says. “Why should anybody care what happens to bodies that are going to be burned anyway?”

  “Good grief!” I say. “Is that true?”

  “How should I know?” Frank shrugs. “Probably not, but it sure works with the customers.”

  He removes a newspaper clipping from his briefcase and smoothes it out reverently. I notice, with some astonishment, that the Clarion’s name is on the header. The title of the article reads:

  Families of Deceased Sue Crematory Owner

  “You can show them this, too.” He hands me the article. “I’ll make you a photocopy.”

  The news story concerns a crematory owner who is being sued for not doing his job. Hundreds of decaying bodies lay scattered around his property, unburned. He’d been providing relatives with urns full of cement dust instead of the ashes of their loved ones.

  “This will convince them if nothing else does,” Frank says.

  I shove aside the remains of my steak. Frank smiles wryly and takes back the clipping.

  “I’ll be out the next couple weeks,” he says. “My wife finally talked me into taking her on a cruise. Got to keep her happy, right?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  I feel an odd mixture of relief and dread. It will be nice to get rid of Frank, but I’ll also feel insecure without him.

  “You’ll be on your own most of the time, as the other agents are pretty tied up right now,” Frank says. “They’ll show you how to work telephone contacts, though.”

  I look doubtful.

  “What’s the matter, a little gun shy?” Frank asks.

  I nod.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get over it. Hell, I was that way myself at first.”

  “Come on, Frank. You’re a natural.”

  He smiles, accepting the compliment as his due.

  “Look, I’ve got two customer leads I’d like you follow up while I’m away,” he says. “You just might earn your first commissions.”

  ***

  That night I have a major blow up with Julie on the phone. Something stupid, really. She wants me to visit the campus the coming weekend for a concert. I say that I will be busy then.

  I could make it, actually, but I don’t want to see Julie yet. My job is pressing down on me hard, like a coffin lid. Julie’s expectations are weighing me down, too. I simply can’t handle them just now.

  I need a break from her, that’s all. But I handle the situation badly, talking to Julie in my condescending jerk mode.

  She responds in her control freak persona: What! How dare you have a life without me, Tyler!

  Finally, she slams down the phone. I do the same.

  44: Cold Calls

  “Everything seems stupid when it fails.” – Raskolnikov, speaking in Crime and Punishment, by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  Dusk is approaching when I arrive at the deserted cemetery and exchange my Chevy for the big, slab-sided company Lincoln. The car is unlocked with keys in the ignition. Mr. Vulchine is certainly very trusting. Then again, people in this neighborhood are not likely to be thieves.

  Sliding into the driver’s seat gives me the sensation of entering some vast, sepulchral enclosure. I toss my heavy briefcase onto the back seat and close the door. It clunks shut with finality, the air pressure hurting my ears a bit. I pull away from the darkened office building and head for the cemetery gate. I try to turn on the radio, but it seems to be disconnected.

  Always before, Frank had done the driving and a great deal of talking, as well. His physical and acoustic bulk had taken up much space. Now I occupy the cavernous automobile alone in oppressive, hermetic silence.

  Or am I alone?

  As I negotiate the winding necropolis lanes, I have the creepy impression that somebody is sharing the car with me. I look into the rear view mirror, then glance over my shoulder to the back seat.

  I see no one, of course, but as soon as I fix my eyes on the road I feel the presence again, right behind me, as if somebody is sitting in the back seat breathing past my ear – or maybe not breathing at all. The hairs on my neck bristle.

  I turn around to peruse the back seat again just as the road takes a curve without me. The Lincoln’s front end bumps over the gravel shoulder and starts descending into the ditch.

  “Whoa!”

  I swing back onto the road.

  I keep my eyes outside the car now, whatever the eerie feelings creeping up my spine from the back seat. Where is that damned gate, have I made a wrong turn?

  The car rides silky smooth, its massive engine making scarcely any sound. The large, graphic crucifix of the Catholic section passes by, casting a long shadow like a sundial. Then comes a walled-in area of elegant tombstones – the Beverly Hills of the cemetery. A freshly dug grave with a mound of dirt beside it glides past.

  I recall the windy day when Bob West and I visited the Taiwanese cemetery. That had been rather fun, like watching a horror movie – until we’d found that strangled cat. How would Jon Glass handle this situation, I wonder. Probably better than I am.

  No he wouldn’t. He isn’t here. As awful as this job is turning out to be, at least I am doing something Glass could never have dreamed up. This is my own, unique adventure, however perverse.

  The Lincoln rides as quiet and secure as a wheeled coffin. Yes, that giant back seat is big enough to hold a corpse, isn’t it? I cast a jittery glance out the side window, half expecting to discover pallbearer rails bolted to the car’s flanks.

  Suddenly, the gate looms ahead and I slam on the brakes. The car throws its massive inertia forward, pitching me against the steering wheel. Something thuds in back, and my heart stops cold. I fling the door open and am half way out before my mind registers what has happened. I turn slowly and look in the back to see my heavy briefcase lying on the floor. I close the door again and punch the access code into the remote control.

  The motorized gate grinds slowly open. Suddenly, the sensation of somebody being in back of me returns, overpowering in intensity. This time the perception comes from outside the car, back by that fresh grave I just passed.

  The gate is half open; the presence approaches my tail lights. The gate is almost fully open; I sense something hovering right outside my door. I gun the engine and the behemoth takes off, nearly hitting the edge of the retreating gate. I roar into the land of the living.

  Several miles later I am cruising a working class suburb looking for the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Flynt. The street is a mixture of modest frame houses and larger, semi-shabby structures. This doesn’t seem a very upscale neighborhood, not an area where you’d expect to find the most prosperous customers. Then again, people must die here as often as at any wealthier locale.

  I park a few doors down where a large enough space is available. A rush of cool wind bathes me as I exit the Lincoln, drying the sweat which has collected on my forehead. The rays of a dying sun thrust across a sky filled with slashes of high cirrus, as if some vicious animal has clawed the heavens. I move up the walk toward the Flynt’s front porch and notice a Confederate flag hanging in the picture window. I hesitate, my Northern sensibilities prickling.

  Don’t be silly, I tell myself, most people who display the Stars and Bars are only paying respect to their heritage. The Flynts must originate from the South and are just showing some regional pride. Heck, don’t I have a Korean flag on my wall – what would some stranger think of that?

  Then again, it is equally true that some individuals thrust their arms beneath the colorful imagery and embrace the cruel spirit within – dark personalities who would be delighte
d to see slavery return. Once at a bar, I’d suffered the misfortune of being embraced by such people. Maybe I just looked dumb that day, or perhaps the lighting was too low. Anyway, a small group of these jerks mistook me for one of their own, even buying me a beer. Their leader wore a denim shirt with a Confederate flag patch. Every other word they spoke was some racial epithet.

  Man, I’d thought, if us white folks are supposed to be a superior race, you guys are one helluva lousy advertisement!

  Since I didn’t join in their ugly talk, they became suspicious. I thought it best to make a quick exit.

  Are the Flynts this sort of Neanderthal?

  What of it? I bound up the steps and ring the bell. If they are Neanderthals, I am selling something they can use. The sooner the better.

  Nobody answers. I ring again. The flag hangs limp in the window, no one moving up behind it to open the door. I feel like an idiot, dressed up in my somber suit, briefcase in hand – a half-baked death angel left standing at the altar. How’s that for a mixed metaphor?

  I look around the street, grateful that nobody is passing by to stare at me. What should I do? My next appointment doesn’t expect me for some time yet.

  A more important question – what would Frank Meade do?

  Why, he’d make a cold call. That’s what I should do, too. What is there to lose besides the tattered remains of my self respect? The house two doors down has a tricycle on the grass, along with some other little kid toys. Little kids mean younger parents, and young couples are our most prized customers.

  I abandon the porch and cross to the other house. A label on the mail box says “Chuck and Peggy Scott.” I ring the bell, and a not unattractive, though rather frazzled looking, young woman answers the door.

  “Mrs. Scott?” I say.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Tyler Lakatos from Valley Oaks Estate Planning. Your neighbors, the Flynts, told us that you might be interested in hearing about our services.”

  The lie sits uncomfortably on my lips. She looks apprehensively toward the Flynt house.

  “Them?” she says.

  “Er ... yes.” I take a step back.

  “Who is it, Honey?” a male voice calls from inside.

  “A salesman, the Flynts sent him here.”

  “The Flynts?” he sounds as baffled as his wife had been.

  “Actually, I’m not here to sell you anything,” I say, feeling a guilty twinge.

  The man comes to the door and stands beside his wife. He seems a decent sort – around 30, well built, working class type of guy.

  “Come on in,” he says.

  I cross the threshold and go into autopilot. It’s as if Tyler has remained on the porch and Frank Meade has stepped inside. Sure, I’m an unlikely substitute – at least a hundred pounds lighter and 50 points higher in IQ – but in spirit I am the same.

  I go into Frank’s standard pitch, hanging onto it for dear life. I present our free estate planning guide, complete with attached business card, and begin talking about making wills, avoiding probate, and looking out for our loved ones by planning for the ultimate realities.

  As I talk, the Scotts become increasingly emotional, sitting close to each other, holding hands, looking into each other’s eyes frequently. By the time I pull out the BOOK, they are both misty-eyed.

  Amazing! I’ve brought them to this catharsis as skillfully as Frank Meade ever could. I begin the core sales pitch, extolling Valley Oaks, rhapsodizing about the eternity of peace they can expect to find there buried together. Both are crying freely now. This is the moment Frank would go for the jugular, but I hesitate too long. Chuck stands up.

  “I’ve got to get away for a while,” he says, wiping tears from his eyes.

  He leaves through the front door. I dumbly watch him go, uncertain about what to do next. Peggy stands up.

  “Please excuse me,” she says.

  She retreats to the bathroom. I hear water running and loud nose blowings. A little boy, about four years old, peaks around the corner with huge round eyes. I smile and wave playful wiggly fingers. For an instant I am the old Tyler again, back in Korea bantering with Mr. Jong’s son. The moment passes.

  Peggy resumes her seat on the sofa across from me. She looks pale and distraught, her fingers stroke the cemetery book on the coffee table. The phone rings, she answers.

  She hands me the receiver. “It’s for you, Mr. Lakatos.”

  I take it from her, utterly confused. Chuck is on the line.

  “Get the hell out of my house!” he shouts.

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  “I’ll be back in three minutes, and you’d better not be there.”

  Click!

  I hand the phone back as if it’s a venomous snake.

  “I really must be going, Mrs. Scott,” I say. “There appears to be some misunderstanding.”

  As I pass the Flynt’s house on the way to the car, I notice a light on in their living room, shining through the Confederate flag. I keep going.

  My next prospects, Ray and Linda Pricor, live on a short, semi-rural lane that curves along the course of a small creek, crossing the right angle between two main roads. By the time I get there night has fallen, and only a couple of strangled, yellowish street lights illuminate the area.

  I pass a little church and drive down the residential portion of the street vainly seeking the correct house. No porch lights burn, and there are no address-bearing mailboxes on the lawns. Cars parked along the street tilt at weird angles, leaning into the drainage ditches.

  I do not want to chance having the Lincoln slide into a ditch, so I pull into a gravel driveway to turn around. My headlights catch sight of a junked car in the backyard and an engine block on the front porch of the shabby frame house.

  I return to the church parking lot and leave the car. A huge electrical tower looms above, wires humming ominously. A freight train parked on a railroad overpass crouches like some great, slumbering beast. Gravel crackles under my shoes as I cross the parking lot, sharp little edges poking my feet through the leather soles.

  Only the right side of the street has a paved walk, and I begin creeping along it like a burglar casing the environs. A single-story white cinder block house glimmers dully on the far side of the street. This whole neighborhood is on the far side.

  I approach the first house to see the address, but am driven back by the frenzied barking of a large, violent dog. Two red eyes stab out at me from the darkness. I grasp my briefcase like a shield.

  I move on and the barking subsides. Acrimonious thoughts occupy my mind.

  Gee thanks, Frank, for giving me this outstanding sales lead!

  The situation does have its ghastly humorous aspects, although I scarcely feel like laughing at the moment. Well, the new guy always gets knocked around a bit, doesn’t he?

  I pass another house, wrong address, and continue walking past a large, unkempt back yard festooned with white lawn statues that shine in the dimness like tomb stones. Then the sidewalk abruptly ends. The creek emerges from behind the houses and continues along a vacant area of tangled underbrush.

  Ahead, where the street curves back to the main road, a large Psycho style house lurks, dim light flickering from a third-story window. That couldn’t be the place, could it? I’m sure not going there if it is – to hell with what Frank might say when he returns.

  I cross the road and head back. A street lamp partially illuminates a vacant lot containing two battered metal lawn chairs and a rusty, upended oil drum. I am reminded of the wine house décor in Korea. Beside the pavement, somebody has dug a shallow oblong hole and heaped a little pile of dirt beside it. I hurry past.

  I come to the white cinder block house again and, wouldn’t you know, it is the correct address. My little stroll down nightmare lane has been for nothing. I knock on the door, and a tall, very thin man with longish, greasy-looking hair answers.

  “Mr. Pricor?” I say.

  “That’s me.”


  “I’m Tyler Lakatos, from Valley Oaks – ”

  “Oh, yeah,” he says, “come on in.”

  I enter the small living room. It is tidy, with fairly new, if cheap-looking furniture. The air is bad, though, stinking heavily of stale cigarette smoke. My eyes begin watering.

  Ray lights a cigarette. “I was expecting the fat guy.”

  “Would you be referring to Mr. Meade?” I ask.

  “Yeah, that’s him, but you’ll do. How about a beer?”

  “Sure, thanks.”

  He calls back toward the kitchen. “Bring us a coupla Buds, Linda, okay?”

  This is against protocol, but I badly need a beer. I could drink a whole case, actually. A pallid woman, as tall and stringy as Mr. Pricor, enters the living room carrying two cans of beer.

  “This is my wife, Linda,” Ray introduces.

  “Glad to meet you.” I shake her hand; it is cold and bony.

  I pop the tab and, seating myself on the couch, drink the cold beer gratefully. As I mellow out with the brew, I am struck by the similarity between the two of them. They could almost pass for brother and sister. My God, maybe they are brother and sister!

  Pushing the grotesque idea from my mind, I go into my spiel again, just as I had at the Scotts’. Ray sits next to me smoking while his wife remains standing, leaned against the wall.

  All the time I speak, Linda watches me intensely, never diverting her half-hooded eyes. Her gaze seems to slip right under my three piece suit. I feel like a stiff spread out on an examining table, my uneasiness increasing by the minute.

  I try to concentrate on my pitch, which is difficult because I receive no feedback whatever from either of them – no tears, no comments – just that awful stare from Linda and Ray’s continuous production of cigarette smoke.

  But when I get to the gist of the presentation and bring out the color illustrations of the cemetery, Ray interrupts.

  “Naw,” he says, “we ain’t interested. We think cremation is better.”

  The cautionary voice of Frank Meade gurgles up from my memory.

  “Don’t let them get going on cremation,” it says. “That’s the surest way to send our profits up in smoke. Give them the old meat hook routine.”

  I take another swig from my beer.