The Financial Lives Of the Poets

empty storefront-as is the tanning salon. In fact, this whole mini-mall appears to be on its way to becoming surface parking.

Mark Akenside, sly salesman who bait-and-switched us into the more expensive Maxima, also escapes CI OH-2. He no longer works for the Nissan dealer, and neither does Dodsley, his old manager, the capo who dry-sold us winter floor mats. “It’s been a bloodbath this fall,” a surviving car salesman confides, staring out at a savannah of starving sedans.

Fine. There are others. Always others. It’s Friday, so I find our old phony Aussie real estate agent, Thomas Otway, running an open house on a foothills cul de sac.

“’Ello, mite,” he says when I come into the blond-wood foyer. “I ’ope you’re ready to see the house-a-yah drimes.” He sweeps his arm toward a living room tastefully appointed in French Colonial furniture, with a grand staircase and a completely updated kitchen.

“Oh, it looks like a dream all right,” I say. And then I smile and explain that we already bought one dream from him.

“Oh?” Thomas doesn’t remember me. In fact, he doesn’t seem to register people at all, any more than a reef shark notes the kind of fish it’s eating. But he does remember the house when I describe it. “Ah, yeah. A tudah, on almost a half-acah. Go’geous home. Only drawback was the neighbah-hood school if I remembah roight.”

Oh, you remember roight.

Thomas Otway’s skin is perfect. He has longish, soap opera styled hair, light brown with crazy yellow highlights, and besides affecting more accent earlier in the sales process, he apparently frosts his locks, too, and I begin to imagine a system for determining who I’ll entrap, giving points for various crimes against humanity: Real estate, or any kind of predatory salesmanship, is four points. Fake or affected accents? Two points. Frosted hair? Four points. Right away, without even knowing if he beats his kids or fails to stop at red lights, the bastard’s at ten, which will be the threshold for incurring the wrath of CI OH-2.

No, I’m not bad at this. For one thing, it’s easier to bring the subject up than I thought it would be. The key is patience. So I let Thomas show me around the house, pretending to be interested in the lush runner carpets on the wood-floor hallways, the limited edition lithographs on the walls, the horrid Chihuly blown-glass chandelier. I think the transcribed wire in this case could be used to train other informants:

CI OH-2: It’s certainly bigger than it looks from the outside.

Suspect 2: Mite, this house has 3,600 square feet on two floors.

CI OH-2: Wow. And does that include the basement?

Suspect 2: No, bisement’s unfinished.

CI OH-2: Good, because I have big plans for the basement.

Suspect 2: Pehfect for a home gym, roight?

CI OH-2: Actually I might put a grow room down there.

Suspect 2: What? You serious?

CI OH-2: Serious as a bloody reef shark. Why, do you smoke, Thomas?

“Sure.” Thomas smiles out one side of his mouth. “I used to,” he says.

“You should try this stuff I have. It’s killer.”

Thomas stares at me for a long second before shaking off the temptation. “Nah. I’m try-ning fur a meer-athon. I’m a runnah. That stuff…bad for the lungs, roight? But listen-” He looks around, then leans in close. “I don’t suppose you can get your hands on some coceene?”

Side-note for my handlers, Randy and Lt. Reese: you have got to get me some coke.

I check my glowing watch as I drive out of the cul de sac, through the splotches in my exhausted eyes. School’s almost out. Work’s done for the day.

I never thought I’d like working in sales, but it is strangely satisfying getting people to do what you want. And I’m not just working; Randy says I’m doing something for society and maybe I am, in my way-ridding the world of parasitic, layoff-happy newspaper editors and asshole real estate agents, home-wreckers and tailgaters and people who speed on residential streets, all the pho

nies and villains and fuck-sticks in the world. As Righteous Randy might say, I am the Light and the Dark.

From now on I will answer every phone call from a telephone solicitor with purpose-No, I don’t need a new long distance provider, but would you like to buy a spliff? I think of the assholes I meet every week-snooty waiters and people who park in handicapped spots and all the arrogant, selfish, lying cheats. I can bring them all down, one by one.

I’ll do my homework: research the most calloused bosses, inept congressmen, corrupt bankers, greedy brokers, predatory lenders. I’ll drive my Nissan to Detroit and sell to the auto company CEOs and I’ll go to New York and sell weed to that asshole trader I heard on NPR and to the dipshit investment bankers who broke our financial system through their unchecked greed, the lousy ass-ticks who told us all to give them our money, to vote for them, to trust them, guys who said the markets would regulate themselves, that the world was fair.

I sit in revved-up silence in my car, outside the boys’ school, my own breathing deafening. Hands shake. I feel flushed. Mind racing, I’m having conversations I can’t track with myself, offering justifications and pleadings. I want to sleep, preferably next to my wife, and I wonder what she’s doing now. Sitting at her desk at the stupid optometrist’s office, staring into space, thinking of…him? God, I wish Chuck was a pot smoker. How much easier would that be? I happen to look up to see Elijah Fenton’s dad, Carl, walking past the line of waiting cars toward the school. The guy wears a softball jacket with the name of his paving and concrete company on it, as if he’s taunting jobless losers like me with the fact that he still has a company and that his company still has a softball team-the arrogance of the employed! No doubt made aware of my son’s unprovoked clacker aggression, Carl Fenton shoots me what can only be described as a threatening glare. Is there any way the

guy really made out with the second-grade fertility goddess, Ms. Bishop? Who knows? All I know is that next week we’ll find out if Mr. Carl Fenton wants to buy a reefer. Oh, and there’s Nicholas Rowe-he of the T-Ball prodigy son, Caleb-Nick Rowe who famously cut second graders from the second-grade T-Ball team because he feared their lack of coordination might affect his son’s draft status a decade from now. (Ten point bonus, that.) A long shot, of course, but perhaps he’d like some weed.

Beyond all these deserving targets, I wonder if I can find my own eighth-grade baseball coach, Mr. Stepney, or Tina Sprat, the girl who refused to kiss me after I spent sixty dollars on dinner before a Sadie Hawkins dance my sophomore year, or the guy in college, what was his name-Yalden!-who sold me that Chevy Luv pickup with the cracked block. Or…or…

I snap awake.

Was I sleeping?

School is out.

Kids drift to waiting cars.

The doors open. Franklin and Teddy climb in the backseat.

“He-e-ey.” I try to not sound crazy but my voice goes up and down the register. I can’t stop blinking. “H-h-how was school?” Why is my voice doing that? I’m cracking. Nervous breakdown? Anxiety attack?

“Fine,” Teddy mumbles.

“Great!” says Franklin.

“Great? Really?” I turn to see Franklin’s big earnest eyes. “What happened?”

Franklin shrugs. “Nothing. It was just a great day. I love Fridays.”

I laugh again. And then a whimper, a kind of weep seeps from me, from some deep cavity. I can’t say why Franklin’s great day causes me to whimper-maybe the eight-year-old in me recalls

that nothing has to happen for a day to be great. And then it feels as if this broken thing in my chest cracks like an ice dam, and begins sliding up into my throat. I happen to glance down and see the glowing watch around my wrist. Shit. I forgot to press the stop button after my meeting with M-. The voice activation has presumably kicked in.

I imagine the transcript:

CI OH-2: “He-e-ey! How was school?”

Unidentified Juvenile Male 1: (Unintelligible)