The Fifteenth Representative
Hilla Dagan
Copyright © 2021 Hilla Dagan
All rights reserved; No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the author.
Contact: wyysshr@gmail.com
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Message from the Author
Chapter One
Oh, and there sat the most beloved cashier, pleased as punch at her new position.
She worked long, tiring hours, and already knew everyone. And by everyone, I mean people of all genders, colors, and beliefs. Each had the same story, though it mattered who told it.
I approached her with a smile, ready and waiting to hear what she would say, because I had an answer set, one prepared well beforehand—before she could have dreamed of it.
During my last visit to the corner store, we briefly discussed the matter of fresh herbs. She came across as someone who held a vested interest in the subject and, judging from her chubby appearance, it was more personal than theoretical.
The other options were an iron hurdle on the way to the head cashier, where you would also get an offer to become a member of the chain or have a colleague take her time— “Jagger style.” Well, other’s time that is. And it’s not on his side – it’s mine!
This was the moment. Wit to wit. Eyeball to eyeball. The game was on.
I held myself tall, all of my one-hundred-and-seventy-one centimetres, and leaned casually to the side, asking, “So, how did that casserole with the basil turn out?”
“Not great,” she answered. “I over-blended the sauce and it was too thin. It was like eating pasta served in its own cooking water—only the water was red.”
“But I told you to add meat, didn’t I?”
“Yossi, my husband, only eats kosher, and he buys meat from a special butcher in some godforsaken hole. I had to make food for the girls. If I worked according to his schedule, everyone in my house would starve.” She gave me a smile as she struggled to find the barcode for one of the products.
“You don’t seem concerned or hungry,” I said, giving her a measuring look before adding, “Fresh herbs are the best. Fresher, healthier, and they smell great. Other than cilantro, however. In my opinion, at least. And I say that as someone whose family comes from Iraq. Up front. That’s the problem with herbs like that. If you accidently add even a little cilantro to something that has basil, mint, bay leaves, oregano, thyme, or what have you—you’ve ruined the food. And that’s without I get started on mushrooms, which I love. They’re delicious in a cream sauce, but dangerous when you pick them.”
By the time she had fully comprehended what I’d said, I had already walked down the street to my electric bicycle that was resting against a crate of apples at the grocer, one shop over. As I neared the bike, I remembered I had forgotten to tell her something. I went in once again and told the cashier, who was already busy with another customer, “Oh, and one more thing. You’re looking as happy as always. It’s great to see. Just, remember, you asked for advice about your sister. That whole subject is so irrelevant, you should simply stop worrying. You’re good.” I winked and left, this time feeling smug. At least a little.
A few visits ago, she had mocked her sister, though I could see in her eyes that she cared for her, really.
Two girls together—sisters, cousins, colleagues, partners… trouble is always guaranteed.
Luckily, I mainly have guy friends, no girlfriends. I wonder why.
Now, I needed to rush home, put the shopping away and meet Timothy. I was probably already late for the train—though, worse comes to worst, I’ll board the next one.
I hate being late. It’s disrespectful to the other party. But I love it when people are late to meet me. They’re always in an inferior position—they feel bad. For a business meeting, it’s the best possible start, but a boon that has to be used wisely. It’s been years since my meetings have been with gullible suckers.
For personal meetings, you could play around with the reason as to your lateness—within good taste, of course. And I believe the basis for good taste is basically everything and anything but cilantro.
In my opinion, God created cilantro to encourage vomiting after eating poison. A few weeks ago, the father of the kiosk owner from next to my house told me that even goats regurgitate cilantro—something he had seen them do many times as a child. I can’t say that surprised me much, to be honest.
By the way, having someone start a sentence with: “I’ll be honest,” lets you know they will be lying.
I really hate cilantro. Some love it. But I’m sure it has killed many a person throughout history. The Persians also have something they can’t eat; something due to a genetic, inherent sensitivity. But I’m not too sure about that. Oh well, at least that way they don’t need to buy it. It saves money and coincides with the spirit of the given ethnic heritage.
Chapter Two
The last thing I want is for you to think I’m arrogant. I’m really not. I’m against any kind of showing off unless it’s for a specific cause—hopefully a positive one. It’s rather paradoxical, I’m aware, because if it’s a positive outcome for one person, it most likely means a lesser fortune for another. It’s all in the eyes of the beholder, as they say, and in my case, it’s my eyes that do the looking, since no one else will do it for me.
And that’s also incorrect. If I merely lift my arm, people look my way. Standing in a long snot-filled line.
Being a little over one-hundred-and-seventy centimeters, with captivating, wise eyes, legs for days, and tits that you
