The Trampoline Salesman, part 4 of 4
The woman listened to Buck White’s sermon in sulky silence.
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Buck White’s footage of The Best Trampoline Action in the Whole Wide World, starring Nikki and Noel, failed to impress mama squid. “This,” she said, “This is in my backyard!” She got up and headed from the room past her squid son and the trampoline salesman.
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“I want my fifty bucks,” said the little girl squid.
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Buck White only had five bucks. He offered it to her.
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“Five now, forty-five more when your mama cuts the check.”
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“But you said!” protested the little girl squid.
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“You’ve got twenty minutes to close the deal,” said Jack Daniels.
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4:40 PM.
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Buck White always knew the time.
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Roger Allen was about to dethrone him as top salesman. That slug that did nothing but slime around all day in adult diapers making monkey noises to summon all the little squids.
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The Roger Allens of the world were consumers of the fast-food chains. Commercials, his menus. Heart disease was the number one killer of consumers. That’s okay because commercials showed you how to lose weight. Commercials told you how to trim those thighs and firm those buns, Jack. Roger Allens don’t care much for that. Too much work, Jack. Roger Allens preferred drugs to straighten out their medical conditions. Roger Allens preferred adult diapers because there never was a toilet close enough. There never was a TV-equipped electric chair fast enough to get to the bathroom.
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Buck White consulted with Jack Daniels and told the little girl squid that she had better get with the program, go find mama squid’s checkbook real pronto-like.
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The deal was falling apart before his eyes. The woman out in the backyard, she screamed like a demon. She kicked up grass at the trampoline like it was an umpire who just made a bad call at home plate. Real dramatic-like she asked the sky, how could anyone be so thoughtless? Whoever set this piece of trash up was trespassing, she shrieked. She never looked at Buck White during her meltdown. She just ran around the backyard bellowing questions at what she must have thought were hidden cameras. She pleaded her case to her TV audience. She had her own reality show now. She went to a shrub where another hidden camera was, her face all distorted with her mama squid anger. The network would have to bleep out all her cuss words.
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Cutting to commercial, Buck White would be there. He’d hold up the latest anti-depressant for the camera, Aren’t You Fucked Now, Jack? No question about it. 4:53 PM. Seven minutes to lift off to Planet Second Place. He didn’t want to be the one to pass the torch to Roger Allen and his kind. No, that wouldn’t be happening today on his watch. No sir, Jack.
The little girl squid brought him the checkbook. “Good girl,” Buck White said. He looked through the woman’s statements. She didn’t have enough in her account. She was some five-hundred short. “Pen?” Buck White asked. He filled out the check to Flyboy Machines for the amount of fourteen-hundred bucks and forged the woman’s signature the best he could.
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“I want my forty-five dollars!” said the little voice.
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Buck White looked down at her. He had to make this quick. The crazy lady in the yard didn’t need to be involved in these transactions.
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“Hold on,” said Buck White. He tore out his check and pocketed it. He filled out another one. “What’s your last name, little one?”
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“Baker,” she said.
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“Baker,” Buck White confirmed.
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He filled it out just as those hidden cameras turned on him. The consumers in TV Land would have seen a big 4:55:26 timer clock underneath a medium shot of Buck White forging that last check. The mama squid had Buck White in her sights now.
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“What are you doing?” she said.
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Buck White looked around like he didn’t know a thing. And then he tossed the checkbook up on the roof.
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“What was that! What in the hell was that!” screamed the woman. She was upon him like a wolverine in heat. She jabbed him. She pushed him. She hit at him. “Was that my checkbook, asshole?” She saw the check in her daughter’s hand and snatched it away. Without another word, she ducked back inside.
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The little girl squid begun to cry. It was time to go. Another rule Buck White would consider for future curriculum at Buck White University—GET THE CHECKBOOK, JACK.
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4:58:15 PM.
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Roger Allen would have to wait until next year to be the sole number-one cheese. All that was left to do was call his sale in to headquarters. He was on his cell as he made for the alley. Buck White told his boss about the sale. Boss said he would check the ledgers to confirm his first-place status. “Just a second,” his boss said.
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5:00:42 PM.
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The year was over. Buck White wondered if it would ever end. This would be his last year. It was time to move on to greener pastures, wherever they may be. “I’m going out on top, Jack!” Buck White said.
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“ASSHOLE!” said a voice.
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It was the woman. He could feel the hidden cameras on him now. Down on the gate latch there was a hidden camera somewhere. It read his face. It told the TV audience that he already had all he needed and telling off this woman would be his final finale. Buck White turned to face the woman.
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“Bring back my check,” she said. Her little squids stood behind her, both crying up a storm. Mama squid had a shotgun in her hands. “How dare you steal from us! How dare you! You’re on private property, asshole!”
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“Bucky boy,” a voice said from his phone. “Bucky boy?”
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“Yeah?” said Buck White.
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“Bring my check over here now!” she screamed.
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“What’s going on over there, Bucky boy?” said his boss.
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“Tell me I’m on top, boss.” said Buck White.
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“Now!” screamed the woman. Buck White approached her.
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“You’re tied with Roger Allen, Bucky boy.” said his boss. “I don’t know how you did it. But you tied him. All you need to do is bring that check in, Bucky boy. Bring it in, Jack! I’ll pour us a martini. You’re one crazy S.O.B! A goddamned walking commercial! Did I ever tell you that, Bucky boy? You’re a goddamned walking commercial!” his boss said.
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Buck White resented the comment but let it slide. He had a shotgun pointed at him.
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“Put that phone away and give me my check,” said the woman.
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Buck White put his phone away. The woman regained her composure for her close-up shot. She had a slight grin on her face. She was in control now and she wanted her TV audience to know it.
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“I threw it on the roof,” Buck White said.
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“You’re going to go up there and get it down for me now, aren’t you?” said the woman.
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“Sure,” said Buck White. What else could he do? But once on the roof he’d make a run for it. He’d toss the checkbook down. He’d make his getaway across the roof, out and down through the front yard. He’d run around the block and call a cab.
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The woman pointed to a ladder. Buck White went over and leaned it against the rain gutter.
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“You try running and I’ll blast you,” said the woman. “You’re nothing but a robber up there with my checkbook. That’s what I’d tell the cops.”
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She had uttered two keywords, ‘cops’ and ‘blast’. And she had her boom-stick to back them up. It was get-the-hell-out-of-there time. Buck White found the checkbook on the faded shingles. He lifted it up for the woman to see.
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“Put it in your front pocket,” she said.
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This was not what Buck White wanted to do. He expected her to have him toss it down. That was when he’d make his escape. She wanted the evidence planted on him. She wanted to turn him in with the goods. She wasn’t as dumb as she looked.
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“Now!” screamed the woman.
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“I’m going out on top, Jack.” said Buck White.
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She pulled back the hammer of the shotgun.
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He flung the checkbook way out into the sky. It fluttered away like a bat with rabies. “Think fast, wet rag!” shouted Buck White.
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Buck White had to reconstruct the slow-motion footage of what happened next in his mind. After the fact. It must have happened something like this. First, Buck White turned. Next was the shotgun blast. Then came the pain and the collective gasp from the TV audience. Then came Buck White hitting the roof hard. He must have come rolling down, rolling right over the rain gutter. He hit the barbeque grill square on. That would explain the smell of burnt charcoal all over him. Now he laid part way on the concrete patio, part way on the lawn. There was pain. Plenty of that. And there was blood. Then a funny thought occurred to Buck White as he laid there, dying. If a child bounced on a Flyboy Machines trampoline in the middle of a forest with nobody around, would anyone care?
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Buck White had to laugh.
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The woman had retrieved the bloody check from his pocket. She stood there looking at it in the afternoon sunshine. “I get paid tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll cover the check.” She looked down at Buck White with a big grin. “I better rewrite it. It’s forged and all bloody. Guess what I’m going to do, Buck White? Can you guess?”
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“Call an ambulance?” Buck White said.
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The woman just laughed. She instructed her little Nikki squid to get her camera. She wanted shots of the trampoline. She wanted shots of the bloody check. And she wanted plenty of shots of the dying door-to-door salesman, Buck White. She had plans for everything, she told him. There were auction sites on the internet, oh yes. Someone would pay her dearly for what she called ‘death merchandise’.
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Another big little snuff movie, Buck White thought. Another commercial for some consumer somewhere. He had no doubt someone would buy that trampoline again. Perhaps in heaven they’d give him credit for two sales. Maybe he’d be the sole number-one dog at Flyboy Machines, after all. He’d plead his case to someone.
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But for now, it was time for Buck White to leave. They had changed his channel. And unlike commercials, Buck White would always leave, Jack.
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