It was a rainy night, not a "dark and stormy night" but one with a light and glad rain.

I'd been out and about, mostly selling, all day. My wife, Em, was at home, in one of the periods when she wasn't doing very well, with my son Jasper. Lupus comes and goes, and it didn't have her in the hospital, but part of it was her iron will. Must. Not. Go. Hospital. Hospitals are bad places to be when you're sick, she'd tell me. People get sick and die there. She should know. She'd spent enough years working in the Intensive Care Nursery.

Typically, I'd sell as hard as I could all morning long. Sales is a terribly draining job. You're putting yourself on the line, asking people to buy your product, but they buy your product because they trust you, so when they say no, it erodes your soul. If they say yes, of course, you sell them some more, or something else. "Never quit a winner" means you always leave a loser, no matter if you leave with a big wad of cash in your pockets, or merely a bit of lint.

I Dared Not Eat Lunch At Home

I couldn't go home for lunch. I knew myself. If I gave myself half a chance, I'd not leave the house again. I'd buy a newspaper, sit in a coffee shop and eat, and read to divert my attention from the fact that I'd soon be out in that corrosive atmosphere again. It had been an especially bad morning, though, and today, I'd not eaten in a coffee shop but in Kelty's, a working man's bar.

It must have been a Tuesday, for Kelty's had cornbread and bean soup, much like the navy bean soup served to Congress but with white northern beans instead of navy beans. It was a marvelous restorative, and went well with a Carling Black Label. I didn't often drink beer, then or now, and especially not for lunch, knowing that alcohol on the breath was just another good excuse for saying no to a salesman, but a cold beer with Kelty's bean soup and cornbread was hard to resist.

I crumbled the cornbread into the soup, and the waitress brought me extra butter to add to the admixture without my asking for it. She saw me often enough on Tuesdays, and knew me for a consistently fair tipper. I wasn't overly generous, as I couldn't be, but I think she'd heard me once call out to another regular that he'd forgotten to tip.

The Transmission's Gone Out

"I can't," he said, "the transmission went out on my truck, and I'm short this week." You had two beers, I pointed out. So you're having bad luck, is that her fault? The guy gave me a funny look, and came back and left a nice tip for the waitress.

But I wasn't noticing anyone else today. I was sitting in the left corner, hoping to get a little sunlight on my face as I ate. That's why I'm having a bad day. It's dreary out. It's gonna rain. Then I started reading the paper. I always read through first, looking at the ads. Often they'd tell me someone needed what I was selling. Then I'd read the business briefs, for the same reason. Then it was the obits, to make sure I wasn't listed, then the comics, and then I'd work the pencil puzzles. Never been one to read the sports pages.

But I didn't get to the comics page. The obits not only had our county, but the next county over, where I'd grown up. Warren Jackson had died.

I Always Ate Lunch Late

I always tried to stay out every morning as long as I could, because it was so damned hard to go back out again. There are, I suppose, born salesmen. I died the death of a salesman every day when I went out there. And when I ate lunch, business had tapered off in the coffee shop or lunch room where I ate. Vickie brought my soup and cornbread, set them next to the Black Label, and slid into the booth opposite me.

"You're awfully glum," she said. "Your wife doing worse again?" She had never met Em. She only knew what I'd told her. Yeah, I said, but and it was a bad morning, but mostly, Warren Jackson was in the obits. Big guy, she asked? Red hair? Worked at the GE plant before he retired? No, I said, she wouldn't know him. He was shirt-tail relation, short and slight and thin gray hair, a bitchy boss, and a bitch for a wife, and I don't think he ever had a happy day in his life.

I didn't notice her getting up, and I don't remember her coming back, but when I stood up, there were two empty beer bottles at the booth, and when I went to pay, Kelsy wouldn't hear of it. Vickie said to tell you that you damn well better not leave a tip, either.

Will You Be OK With Jasper?

Kelsy's was on the outskirts of town, and I took back roads back home. You're home early, babe, she greeted me. These overcast skies, I can't imagine anyone is in the mood to buy. "I've got to go over t'home. Will you be OK at home with Jasper?"

I can get dressed, honey, if you want. Do you want me to go along with you? I couldn't imagine her getting dressed up, getting Jasper dressed up, corralling Jasper. She needed to relax in her gown, lie on the sofa or the bed, and enjoy Jasper playing where he knew the limits already. I couldn't ask her to go to the funeral home for a man she had never met.

And 45 minutes later, I walked in. I kept meeting people there that I didn't think of in association with Warren, and then I reached the casket. My God! I thought. He had a puffy face, and his body was all swollen, his graceful thin fingers were puffy. "What did he die of?" He died in his sleep. We're thinking it was probably heart failure. That's what his father died of."

And They Asked

And several people asked me how I knew Warren. From the paper? No, we were related. Shirt-tail relation, on my mother's side. They would nod.

It was maybe 7:30 when I got out of the funeral home. I headed out to the farm. Mamma was surprised to see me. I told her that Warren really had changed. I wouldn't have known him. Then she asked me how I knew Warren. I told her that she'd told me that we were distant cousins, and I used to see him at the store where he worked. I wanted to give him my respects in death, seeing how little respect he got at home and on the job.

Suddenly, she broke out in laughter. Yeah, you are related, but this is a different Warren Jackson. The one that died is about a fifth cousin on my father's side, she explained, and the other one is about a second cousin on my mother's side. And they are no relation to each other, at least this side of Noah's Ark, they aren't.

A Newspaper Cone of Popcorn

Dad had popped some popcorn, and he brought me a cone of newspaper, filled with popcorn, to eat while we talked. Every five minutes, one of us would start laughing, and all three of us would laugh, and after an hour more, I had to get on home to Em.

When I got home, I told Em about my day and my night. Busted my ass working, I said, and didn't sell a damned thing, and then I went to a funeral, and made an ass of myself.

Don't say that, Em protested. Nobody thought you were an ass. They thought you were a distant relative. And you are, right? I nodded. And the guy that died, he was worthy of respect, right? I again nodded.

And You Saw Your Folks

And you went over and saw your Mom, she continued. I've been wanting to send you over to see your folks, 'cause I haven't been up to it, and I didn't know how to get you there without me. She kissed me. Thank you for leaving me home. That was thoughtful of you.

And Vickie and Kelsy felt good about buying you lunch. You get so wound up sometimes, thinking that you need to be a better provider, but you don't know how many people think you're a hero. "They didn't tnink I was a hero, they thought I was pathetic," I protested, but she put her finger on my lips.

Poor Warren. Em broke into laughter. No respect from his wife, no respect from his boss, and when he dies and you go to pay your respects, they bury some else's fucking corpse and we broke into laughter. She jumped up - and at this point, she didn't even stand up very fast, but it was a jump this time, she jumped up and walked out to the refrigerator and returned with two Falstaffs and a church key.

No day's a complete failure when it ends with the woman you love laughing in your arms.

As a postscript, I should mention that the population of Indiana grew by one on Tuesday. Jasper's popping with pride, and I understand that Jewel played some minor role in the birth as well. Women are like that, you know, claiming credit at childbirth even though everybody knows that it was the father who sweated bullets for months. I suppose we ought to humor them....

Other Bloggers On Related Topics:
bean soup - Carling Black Label - childbirth - congestive heart failure - cornbread - funerals - General Electric - hospitals - laughter - lunch - lupus - newspapers - Noah's Ark - popcorn - rainy night - respect - salesmen - shirttail relatives - tipping