Thank you. Thank you very much.
I don’t have a speech prepared. Truth be told, I really didn’t think I was going to win. Truth be told, I really don’t deserve to win.
When the fat host of the evening announced my name I was downing my third glass of champagne. My “wife” gently slapped me on the back, whispering shrewdly in my ear, “Get your ass up there!”
At the podium, looking out at all the drunk businessmen I’ve never met nor care to, looking at my “wife” whose name seems to have slipped my mind at the moment, looking at the crystal plaque that was given to me not fifteen seconds ago, I say, “I don’t know what to say.”
This produces a warm round of laughter amongst the crowd.
I feel my own sobriety slipping a little. I grab the podium with one hand to steady myself, remembering to blink, remembering to breathe.
Thank you. Thank you very much.
“It’s been a tough year,” I say. “For more than half of it I wasn’t sure if I was going to still have my job by the end of each quarter.”
Another round of laughter. I never considered myself lucky, but I guess I’ve never given myself enough credit.
I say, “But here I stand, holding this plaque, still wondering how I got up here.”
Truth be told, I really, really don’t deserve this award.
“Best Salesman of the Year Award.”
How touching. How thoughtful. How empowering. How encouraging.
But, seriously, this award should go to someone else.
I’m not being humble, I’m being serious. If there’s anyone who doesn’t deserve this award, it’s me. Again: I am not being humble. I’ve never been more serious in my life.
My “wife” over there, sitting at the table with my boss and his wife and three other people I don’t know, they think she’s my wife. When I picked whatever-her-name-is up tonight, I told her to put on this ring. It’s not flashy, not extravagant, but I insisted she put it on her ring finger. I have a gold band on my ring finger. It was my father’s. I’ve been wearing it for years, even though I’m not married. I’ve never been married.
If you ask me, there’s no time to get married. There’s no time to “settle down and have kids.” There’s only time to work, work, work.
If you ask me, my parents wasted their time with me. It took them ten years to get pregnant, have a miscarriage, get pregnant again, and have me. That’s not even including raising me. That took even longer. Eighteen years, can you believe it? Some parents spend a lot longer on their children. If you ask me, I was ready to leave the nest when I was nine.
As I stand behind the podium, giving a speech I didn’t prepare because I should not be up here, I pray that no one else asks me to introduce my “wife.” I’m pretty sure I’ve already told three different people three different names. Whatever-her-name-is just goes with the flow. It’s her job to go with the flow, accept whatever name I assign her.
Yes, my “wife” is an escort, but I am only paying for her services for this event. I was up front with her. Do not expect me to sleep with you. Do not expect me to contract whatever STD you’re currently suffering from. Do not expect a tip higher than fifteen percent, because what you are doing for me is filling a void, not providing pleasure.
She just looked at me like she’s heard this all before.
To get back on track, I’m probably the worst salesman ever to be in the recreational vehicle business. Or in any business, probably.
I’m the worst because I make promises I cannot, will not, and do not keep.
For example, just yesterday some retired old fart came to the dealership interested in a sports car.
Over eighty-percent of the customers are retired or are over fifty-five. You’ve driven by an incredible hot rod on the road only to see your grandpa driving it. Hot rods are made to look like they’re made for the young, but our target audience is really the elderly. The men suffering from a mid-life crisis. We specialize in selling non-practical, too fast, barely street legal sports cars. It doesn’t sound like a very honest business to begin with, but trust me when I say that I really do not deserve this award.
Anyway, so about this old guy. He comes in already knowing exactly which car he wants to look at.
This is also, typical. Customer comes in already knowing what he wants, but almost always leaves with something completely different.
This old guy wanted some cherry red Italian car with turbo or suspension or whatever the hell it was. After half an hour, he left with a moss green used convertible made in Japan.
I don’t tell the old fart it’s a Japanese import. If I did, I’d lose the sale.
I don’t tell the old geezer that it’s used, that it has almost fifty-thousand miles on it. If I did, I’d lose the sale.
He wanted something new, something hot, something red. Something that reminded him of his late wife’s red lips.
Sure, I told him. We have something like that. But have you seen this model?
Of course he hasn’t. He says he knows everything there is to know about recreational vehicles, but he doesn’t know squat. I don’t even know squat about most of the vehicles on the lot.
What I do know is that people want to be told what’s better. We all think we know what’s best, some of us even claim we know what’s best, but what we really want is for someone to tell us different.
Especially experts.
Now, I’m no expert, but the customers don’t need to know that.
This old man, this old fart came to me with something already in his head. When I told him differently, his brow furrowed, he smiled. He was interested. He trusted me.
Never trust a cars salesman.
I told this old guy that a French diplomat owns this car. I told him that moss green (puke green, really) catches the eye more than cherry red. I told him this is the only type we have on the lot and it’s the only kind we’re going to get.
It’s one of a kind, just like you. You’d be stupid not to get it.
The old man bought it without even taking it for a test drive. He almost didn’t even sit in it to see if he fit in the green trash can.
This is a great choice, I told him. Your friends will envy you. Everyone will be impressed with this purchase.
It was as if he now abhorred the thought at ever considering a cherry red hot rod.
“Where was it made?” he asked me as I gave him papers to sign.
“America,” I tell him. Always say America. That’s all anyone cares about are local made vehicles.
“Other countries are dying to have this car, it’s so popular. Not just Americans.” I reminded him a French diplomat owned the same car. A French diplomat was driving an American import. This made the old geezer chuckle.
As I stand at the podium, looking at the tops of people’s heads instead of in their eyes, looking at all the empty bottles of champagne, looking at my “wife,” I say, “Thank you. Thank you very much.”
“I also want to thank my wife.” I stop myself short before I give a name.
“To another good year,” I say, wishing I brought a glass of champagne up with me.
Everyone raises their glasses then drinks.
I go back to my seat with the crystal plaque. Whatever-her-name-is kisses me on the cheek. Later I will remind her that she’s still only getting a fifteen-percent tip.
My boss leans over to me and says, “Congrats. You earned it.” He says, “I’m so proud of you, Chuck, you’ve come such a long way. You know about sports cars a hell of a lot more than any of us.”
I smile a false smile, but he’s too drunk to sense it.
Thank you. Thank you very much.
At the end of the night, I drop my “wife” off on the corner of a random street, fork over her fifteen-percent tip, and go home. The next day at work, a customer comes to me looking for some German import with blue detailing and torque––or something that sounded like torque.
Sure, I tell the man who I’m guessing is in his late seventies. I tell him, But have you seen the new American, all-wheel-drive sports car?
Of course he hasn’t, because whatever I’m describing doesn’t exist.
He doesn’t look at the car longer than ten minutes before he decides he can’t live the rest of his life without it.
“Great,” I say. “Let’s get to the paperwork, then.”
My boss passes by my office where I’m with the customer, giving me a thumbs up.
The old man glances at the crystal plaque on my desk. “Congratulations,” he says.
Thank you very much.
“You’re very good at your job.”
Thank you.
“I’ve been wondering how you’ve been.”
Excuse me?
The old man chortles down at the papers. He has one more left to sign. I offer it to him.
“It’s been a loooooong time.”
“What do you mean?”
He laughs again, grinning, looking at me with this weird twinkle in his eye.
“I didn’t know how I should approach you, since it’s been so long, but I wanted to see you again before it was too late.”
“What?”
“I see you got yourself hitched. I hope she’s a nice girl.”
I glance at my father’s wedding band. For a second, I think I’m suffering from a brain aneurysm. What it is, is a memory. When I look back up at the old man sitting across from me, I find myself stuttering:
“D–D–Dad?”
But that’s impossible.
My dad’s dead.
“Who are you?”
“You know who I am. I’m your father. Charles Jensen the seventh.”
My eyes grow wide. My mouth drops open.
But that’s impossible.
“So, do you have any kids? Am I a grandpop?”
Unaware, I shake my head.
The old man––my dad––suddenly becomes serious. “No kids? Why not? Infertile? You’re only able to reproduce for so long before your too old to raise a child.”
Unaware, I say, “I’m not really married.”
It’s your ring, I tell him. I just wear your ring.
His brow furrows. “So you’re telling me you’re not married?”
No, I’m not married.
“Why not?”
I don’t say anything.
“Why are you not married?”
I shift in my seat. Outside, my coworkers think I’m just selling one more car. They’re looking in wondering what my big secret is. How does he do it?
I say, “I’m sorry, but aren’t you, uh, but aren’t you…dead?” I ask, “Didn’t you die when I was, um, nineteen?”
His expression remains solemn. The pen I lent him is still in his hand, propped and ready to sign the last paper. I don’t think I’m really selling this car.
He sighs, “Yes, your memory is correct. I died when you were nineteen.”
This should calm me but it doesn’t. My mouth is still ajar, just waiting for a fly to come zooming down my throat.
Truth be told, I’m starting to doubt my sanity.
If you’re dead, then how are you here? Right now, how are you sitting in my office?
“I’m checking up on you.”
A shiver races up my spine, licks the back of my neck, and slithers back down. My boss walks by my office again, his thumbs still up, as if they’re stuck like that.
What does he mean by checking up on me?
“I’m making sure you’re carrying on the family. Procreating. Keeping on the family name.”
“Uh…”
What am I supposed to say? “Sorry, dad, but I’ve never been interested in finding ‘the one.’ It just was never my thing. I believe there are better things to do than live through a younger, stupider version of myself.”
“That’s asinine.”
“Sorry?”
“I’m Charles Jensen the seventh. That means there were six Charles Jensens before me. You’re Charles Jensen the eighth, which means there were seven Charles Jensens before you.”
I do realize I come from a long line of Charles Jensens, but that’s not going to change my mind about––
“If you don’t get married and have a son, then Charles Jensen will no longer exist. You will no longer exist.”
“I’m aware that one day I will no longer exist. I know death is a reality.”
My dad leans forward in his seat, forcing me to level with him.
“If you die, I die.”
Excuse me?
Sighing, he says, “I am you. You are me.”
I try to grab hold of the concept.
…aaaaaaaaaand it’s gone.
“You lost me.”
The more my dad sighs the more I remember how much I didn’t like him when he was alive. I ask, “How did you get here? If I go to your grave, will I find a hole?”
“That’s not important. I’m here to make sure you have a son.”
“Well, sorry, but you’re not going to change my mind there.”
He gestures toward my plaque. “Are you proud of that thing there? That award? You’ll be remembered for all of eternity for your contribution to this business, will you not?”
Clearing my throat, I answer, “Sure. Yes.”
“If you die alone, with no son, forget that receiving this award every happened.
“Forget about any aspirations you have in the future.
“You will be forgotten.
“You will never have existed.”
For the third time, my boss walks by, this time with a quizzical expression on his face. I produce a reassuring grin long enough for him to walk away.
“I can solve this problem for you.” He leans back in the chair, checking his watch. The watch he was buried in. “At nine tonight you will go to Del’s. It’s a bar, I’m sure you know where it is.”
Sure, I know where that pit of a bar is. I know that it’s a place I never want to go into.
“The waitress who works there is a female. She is around your age, a year or two older maybe. You will impregnate this woman.”
Excuse me?!?
He looks at me like what he just said were the most sensible words ever uttered in the English language.
I shoot up from my seat, pointing at the open door behind him. Get out, I say. I don’t know who you are, but my dad’s been dead for fifteen years.
“Get out before I call the cops.”
Slowly, too slowly, he rises to his feet. “If you do not do this, you will die, and all of the Charles Jensens will die with you.”
“Why don’t you go crawl back into the grave you came from?”
He smirks. I hate when he smirks. His nostrils flare and his lips pull back spasmodically. He says, “I know what it’s like to die.”
He says, “Trust me. If you do not carry on Charles Jensen, then you do not want to find out what it’s like to be dead.”
I extend my arm, my wrist, my finger more intensely to the door. “I said get out!”
I take the rest of the day off and go home. Having no siblings, no aunts or uncles, no cousins, no parents, I own my entire family’s photo albums, family trees, heirlooms. In all actuality, I don’t have to work if I don’t want to. When you’re entire family dies, even if none of them were gloriously wealthy, everything adds up.
I spend five hours going through all the photo albums, stretching back nine generations. Starting with the first Charles Jensen. This is something I’ve never done before, never got around to doing.
Truth be told, I could not care less about my family lineage.
When I flip open the first page, I see a man who looks exactly me with a woman who I assume is his wife. Sitting between them is a son. By the end of those five hours, pouring through the lives told through photographs and sketches, every single man and son looks exactly like me.
It’s uncanny.
It’s unsettling.
Each family has had only one son, even my own father.
And then there’s me. Barren and liking it that way.
The waitress who works there is a female. She is around your age, a year or two older maybe. You will impregnate this woman.
Just so everyone knows, I have no intentions in going to Del’s dive bar. None whatsoever. If anything, I’m doing it to spite my father, to spit on his grave. Curse the family name.
I’ve never wanted to not be a father more than right now.
So, when the clock tells me it’s nine in the evening, I go to bed early.
And you know what? I’ve never slept so well in my entire life.
If you do not do this, you will die, and all of the Charles Jensens will die with you.
I think my dad missed the part that everyone dies eventually. Yes, even I will someday croak. I have come to terms with that. My one goal in life now is to die single and alone. I’ve never wanted to be alone more than at this point in my life.
Today isn’t any different than any other day in my life, besides what happened yesterday. I go to work, lie to a few customers, and sell a few cars.
A day in the life of Charles Jensen IX.
In fact, I almost forget yesterday even happened until I find the unsigned paper on my desk. The last paper my dad needed to sign to buy whatever car I coerced him into getting. Without a second thought, I send it through the paper shredder with the papers he did sign. Just then, my boss comes in, knocking softly on my open door.
“Hey, Chuck,” he says in his wheezy voice. “There’s a guy here interested in a couple different cars. A couple, did you hear that? I was thinking, maybe, you should show this guy around the lot.” He smiles and gestures toward my crystal plaque. “Seeing as you’re the best salesman of the year and all.”
I’ve already told my boss that I didn’t deserve this award, but there’s no use in repeating it. I’m nothing special, never have been, but when the world believes you are…well, are you?
Am I?
I tell my boss sure and make my way out to the lot. A rather tall and lanky man approaches me. He’s wearing a puke green suit and is carrying a black cane. When I look closer I notice that the handle of his cane is a serpent. He exposes tiny, screwed up teeth in a curling smile.
“Chuck?” he says in a reedy, almost shrill tone. I have the sudden urge to plug my ears.
“What are interested in today, Mr…”
His off-putting smile remains. The tip of his tongue sticks out from between them. I feel my stomach harden. I can’t take my eyes off that smile. He says, “Could I take that one for a test drive, perhaps?”
He points to a deep blue, two door Chinese import. It’s one of the cheaper cars we have on the lot. I clear my throat, saying, “Actually, we have a blue, two door, American import just over here that drives a lot smoother and takes sharp corners like you wouldn’t believe.”
Smiling, always smiling, he says, “All right.”
Of course, the car I’m talking about is a German import, looks more purple than blue, is a convertible, and has four doors. Also, I’ve been on test drives in this car. The Chinese import drives a hell of a lot smoother than this piece of junk, but this guy doesn’t know that.
He throws his cane in the back and adjusts the driver’s seat so that it almost touches the backseat. His knees still stick up around the steering wheel. I explain that the car was designed for a more cozy feel. Use words like “cozy” or “homey.” Never say “cramped” or “tight” or “small.”
This is one of the few cars on the lot that are automatic. He takes it out of its spot and moves it onto the road. I suddenly feel uncomfortable.
Cramped.
Tight.
Small.
I’m sorry, I say after we’re on the road, but what did you say your name was? Mr. What?
Without slowing down he takes a sharp right turn. I hold on to the sides of my seat, chewing on a shriek in the back of my throat.
He says, “I didn’t say what my name was.”
He adds, “You will know soon, though.”
Excuse me?
He accelerates. Soon we’re on the outskirts of town. Looking out my window, I spot a woman on the corner. After we pass her I realize it was my “wife.” I realize that I may have screwed up. I realize it might have been wiser to go to Del’s bar last night then go to bed early.
After ten minutes of silent driving, my blood is boiling. Not from anger but from pure fear. I can smell it on me and I think he can, too. His mouth is still curled upward, that pink tongue poking out.
Who are you?
“I’m the successor.”
Successor? Successor to what?
He punches the gas and I’m thrown back against my seat. Then, compelled to look straight out the windshield, I see that he’s catapulted us off the side of a cliff. I dig my fingers into the sides of my seat even further, as if doing that will save me.
Truth be told, I didn’t feel a thing.
Truth be told, dying is just having the world as you know it fade to black.
Being dead, though, that’s a different story.
When I open my eyes, he’s looking down at me. Him with his puke green suit and sinister smile. Him with his slender torso and his greasy black hair.
Where am I?
I look to my left. I look to my right.
I’m surrounded by people, by men.
I’m surrounded by me.
I spring up, turn around, and face my dad.
“Dad?” I ask. “Where am I?”
“I told you what to do. I tried to help. Now every Charles Jensen has been erased from all of history. We are forgotten. We never existed. Because of you, we’ve lost all authority.”
Authority of what?
“Of Hades. Of the Afterlife. Of Hell.”
Of everything dark and terrible about death.
“I was you, you were me. To carry on ourselves, we carried on what we controlled in death. We always needed to be alive so we could control death.”
I don’t understand. All I remember is falling off a cliff, plummeting to rocks and bushes and dirt.
I look back to the man in the puke green suit. “Then who are you?”
He laughs maniacally. “I’m the successor.”
I still don’t understand.
“I’m Jonathan Johnston the first. I’ve been waiting for my time for…well…” He chuckles. “I thought it would eternity, but I’ve only been waiting nine generations.”
I look to my dad with pleading eyes. “What does this mean? What was death like when you––when I was in control?”
Jonathan Johnston I places a boney, disjointed hand on my shoulder. “It was a lot more civil than it’s going to be now.
“People had more freedom, more time to reflect on their lives, more time to despair, more time for emptiness.”
Switching my pleading eyes to Jonathan Johnston I, I ask, “What’s it going to be like now?”
Laughing, he answers, “Let’s just say I have a proclivity for chaos.” He sighs, like my dad. Like me. “I don’t like order. I like pandemonium, drama, mayhem.” He leans in closer to me. What I smell on his breath makes me think of carrion. “We’re going to change this place. We’re going to change the world.”
Truth be told, eternity is a lot longer than everyone thinks it is.
Truth be told, I really, really wish I listened to my dad.
707Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡd0e2CSsFKp
