Sel Ball. His Name Was Ball. Sales Manager Of The

Sel Ball. His name was Ball. Sales Manager of the Tri-State area and he had to sell – fucking lived to sell. Anything. A breed of man as specific as a sniper, and Ball, had he been born a sniper, would’ve logged over a hundred kills. But he wasn’t born a sniper, he was born to sell. Fucking lived to sell. Besides, sitting in a tree like some goddamn papoose was death to him. Worse than that, it was boring as a mug. “Widows won’t work. We need the high-steppers not the slipper-slappers. Get me the married ones ready to earn a living. Forget the clueless, the capricious." He loosened his belt a notch. “Wrap those major-league yabows in scarves from the fifties so these old bastards’ll think about when their fat-assed wives used to drop jaws and buy 'em that semi-flammable scarf or support hose engineered by NASA. Hell, maybe we’ll spark up an affair or two, liberate the prudish souls. This is my mission.” Ball had recently found himself in a bit of trouble with the company. But he was born to sell, fucking lived to sell, and his numbers from the previous quarter could not be ignored. So rather than being terminated or possibly arrested, his penance was to train potential new hires, unpaid. Sales Associates they were called. This was their first training session. Lance watched Ball closely along with the other, stupefied Sales Associates. Ball wore a maybe-green maybe-brown suit, was fat, but did not move like it. His short arms flew like batons in a Cirque de Soleil routine. His sweaty hair, moppy and unstylish, flopped up and down with every step.

1

“Cops don’t work, either. You see a cruiser parked in front or a uniform opening the door, fucking softball trophies in the den, might as well be selling ping-pong balls to blind quadriplegics.” A foam-board map of the area appeared on an easel like a clap of thunder and Ball started smacking hell out of it with a three foot dowel. –Thwack“This area is located in the heart of a huge fucking mini-mall.” Each trainee had signed a disclaimer before the session: 'foul language may be used for emphasis.' “And not your white-trash Wal-Mart and Starbucks and Baskin Robbins 30-fucking colors. This place sells Banana Republic and The J. Crew and P. Fucking Chang’s. These are the people we want, they have money to spend and believe me or get a monkey these people LOVE to buy shit – so what are we gonna do?” -ThwackA piece of foam board launched somewhere near a girl on the brink of tears. Ball stood before them like an ape, his arms swinging. “What are we gonna do?” “Sell it?” Lance offered. A brilliant show of veneers appeared on Ball’s tanned face and his eyes locked on to Lance like an exorcist. “Genius! Fucking genius!” he yelped in a rising tone, spun a not-quite-360 degrees so he ended facing the windows, strangely catatonic. “What’s your name, son?” “Lance.”

2

“Lance what?” “Lance Berkowitz.” “No, no, no, no!” Ball turned to the opposite end of the room swinging the dowel like a saber, as if he were fencing Lance’s name. “Never ever use your real name unless it sounds famous like some candy-ass celebrity endorsing swim-wear on his fucking lanai. Something like Rob Walker, or Luke Eastwood. But a Jew name won’t fly.” Ball shook his head side to side with conviction. To Lance’s right sat a middle-aged woman dressed head to toe in crocheted, yarney-type material who was rigorously taking notes. He watched her write the word, “Jew.” "Now if you’re going to be selling near the synagogue or some shit, wear a goddamn beanie and spin a dreidel. Be proud of your Jew heritage for crissakes.” To Lance’s left sat a girl, a woman. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. She smelled like milk. He was attracted to her anyway. She asked, “Ball, what about showing some cleavage?” “YES! BEAUTY! Push those jugs out and sell sell sell; especially those highpriced condos over by the high-school. That place is full of newly divorced saps once the wife takes the house and the Beemer – those horny fucks will buy any goddamn thing just for a flash of some tit. Great question, Miss…?” “Lana. Lana Flowers.” Lance braced himself. Ball melted into the chair then popped back up again. “Superstar! What are you selling?” He pulled out his wallet and threw bills on the desk. “I’ll buy it, gimme a case, ha!” Ball was plucking credit cards from his wallet and flinging them to the floor with

3

bratwurst fingers, “Take plastic? Do you? Lana Flowers. Zoinks! I bet she out-sells all you buster browns ten times over.” Ball looked at Lana's breasts and declared, "Forget Falwell. Sex sells!” The crocheted woman was shaking her spent Bic, trying to get the ink down to the tip. She turned to Lance. “Can I borrow your pencil,” she whispered. She wore a name tag that read "Darcy" although none had been handed out. Lance handed Darcy his dull Ticonderoga and turned his attention back to Ball, who was squatting in a judo stance, panting. Lana whispered, “Cool.” ** The next day they began the workshop session of the training. "You know which part of this godforsaken training is my favorite?" Ball asked the class. "This part?" asked Darcy, still wearing her name tag and a slightly different color of crochet. She was dutifully taking notes with the pencil Lance had given her the day before, only it was noticeably shorter. "No. Not even close. Nice try, Tracy," he snickered into the back of his hand. "No, class, my favorite part is the Field Challenge. My true inspiration does not come from this casket of a classroom, but from out there.” He inhaled deeply through flared nostrils and gazed out the window. “In the field." "So you were a Sales Associate, too?" Darcy asked. "I paid my dues, Marcy. I paid my dues. Nothing has ever been handed to Ball 4

Solomon. If I want something you can bet your sweet potato ass I go out and get it!" He was looking nowhere near Darcy as he spoke. "What is this Field Challenge, Ball?" asked Jimmy Nguyen. Jimmy was the oldest in the group, easily pushing sixty and hard of hearing. "Put it this way young Jimmy. Ever heard the saying," Ball raised his voice to a girlish pitch, “He can sell ice to an Eskimo?" Jimmy had never heard that saying before, but he kept quiet. "Well it’s bullshit, James! What Eskimo would ever want to buy ice and what sort of douchebag would sell it to him!?” Ball added, "Another thing. The winner of the Field Challenge--" The lethal dowel had suddenly reappeared, balanced perfectly on his finger. "Whoever wins shall be invited to my home for a special dinner prepared by moi." He smacked the dowel into the palm of his hand. "Now, split into groups of three you sorry sap-suckers!" -ThwackLance insinuated himself into Lana’s group. She was wearing a short-sleeved button-down chemise with yellow flowers embroidered on the sleeves. The top three buttons were unburdened. It was the fourth that bore the full load. Just as Ball had suggested, she was displaying the tanned tops of her tremendous ta-tas. She had done her homework. “Damn,” thought Lance, “I could love a woman like that.” Darcy was also in their group. “What are we supposed to do?” she asked. “Sell,” Lana said flatly, crossing her arms.

5

“I know that – geez. But how?” “Like this.” Lana looked at Lance for the first time in his life. She looked at him like she was his Optometrist. “Give me that pencil,” she told Darcy. Darcy handed it to her. “What’s your name, buddy?” Lana asked Lance, sitting on the table in front of him. “Lance.” “OK, Lance.” She slid the pencil between her celestial breasts so the eraser stuck out towards him. He wanted to take it in his teeth. “Wanna buy this pencil?” “Yeah,” he said, barely holding her smoldering stare. “Gimme a buck.” Lance did as he was told and reached for the pencil. Lana grabbed his hand and redirected it to the top of his head, holding it there flat. She pulled the pencil from its fleshy nest and opened her mouth, “Aaaaaah”. Lance obeyed and she slid the warm, faux-lead end of the pencil into his mouth, his hand still on his head. Lance noticed the entire room was silent, staring at him, Ball included. “Beauty!” Ball squealed. Lance realized he had just paid a dollar for his own pencil. *** One year earlier, while Ball was researching his highly anticipated trip to Africa, he found an interesting article in National Geographic. It described a python hunter in the Adamawa region of Cameroon.

6

Before the hunter enters the python pit, he wraps a thin, gazelle skin around his forearm. Holding a flaming handful of twigs to light his way he enters the pit headfirst. As he closes in, he offers his forearm to the coiled serpent. The snake strikes, mistaking the animal skin for prey. The hunter slips his arm from the gazelle hide, drops the nearly extinguished torch and grabs the python at the base of its head. Slowly, he backs out of the pit returning to the daylight, pulling the massive snake from its home. After reading the article Ball wanted to hire this man with balls the size of he knew not what to be his guide. After tracking down the journalist who wrote the piece, Ball was dismayed to learn the man featured in the article had been strangled to death by a sixteen foot python, and was unavailable for hire. However, a far more skilled tracker was referred to Ball by the author. Madi, she assured Ball, was not only a better shot, he wasn't a "son of a bitch poacher". “I swear to Christ you are the blackest person I’ve ever seen,” was the very first thing Ball said to Madi while vigorously shaking his hand. Madi spoke only French and Fulfulde and had no idea what Ball said, but responded with a blinding, white smile. They crashed into thorned Acacias, they stumbled over loose boulders and trudged through deep, soft sand in search of what brought Ball to Africa in the first place; the perfect salt lick, or, as Madi said in his tribal tongue, lammudam kaa’e. Madi watched in amazement as the white man tramped resolutely through the bush, ripping through branches, some of them snapping back to catch Madi in the face. He fingered the black stone in his pocket used to remove snake venom, expecting Ball to startle a dozing cobra any minute.

7

After following the river bed for a few hours, they found what Ball had traveled thousands of miles to claim. “Beaut--.“ But before Ball could finish, Madi shoved him hard to the ground and took quick aim with his rifle. A large, one-eared hippopotamus looked lazily at them, licked the salt lick once more then grunted and went crashing into the river. The thing resembled Ball so much that Madi giggled. Amused, he lowered his firearm. "Atta boy!" hollered Ball, lying prostrate in the mud. Madi had once seen baboons steal a newborn baby, he had seen a goat standing upright on the roof of a speeding van and he'd seen his own nephew devoured by a hippo. Allah as his witness he could not believe what he saw next. The white man, this nassara, squatted before the massive, half-buried mineral protruding from the ground, stuck out his tongue and licked it like a hippo. “Madi, go get some of your people and let’s dig up this sucker!” Ball yelled over his shoulder. Then Madi suddenly realized a disturbing fact. The one-eared hippo was the same one that had slaughtered his nephew, Hamdou, years ago. Madi had only managed to shoot the filthy beast’s ear that day, his aim affected by a severe bout of malaria. Before he could reload, it plunged to the bottom of the river, taking his brother's eldest son with it. He recognized that stealing a salt lick from the hippo wasn't much, but it was something that might give Hamdou a chuckle in Paradise. Two days later, with the aid of a diesel tractor and Madi’s family, extended and immediate, the thousand pound rock was wrested from the silt. Madi had explained to 8

his family that removing the salt lick would help to send the dangerous hippos elsewhere, and allow Hamdou to truly rest in peace. **** It cost Ball nearly $20,000 to find, ship and install the salt lick in his two bedroom condominium. “You can't lick a Picasso,” Ball declared with every check he signed. He had tried to hide it at first, flirting with a sliver of self-consciousness. But Ball Solomon did not hide anything well. He hired an interior decorator, a gay one, since Ball settled for nothing but the best, and decorated around the thing. Paintings of African landscapes hung on the wall nearby, softer colors blended with the salt lick’s peppered face creating an "outdoor-indoor" motif, so named by the dandy designer. “I’d kiss ya but I don’t want you to think I smoke pole. Know what I’m saying, guy?” Ball slapped the youngster hard on the back and laughed, pleased with the innocuous incorporation of the salt lick into his living room. He invested in an enormous flat screen television and placed it opposite the salt lick. Ball himself was amazed at the limited attention people paid to anything not on the flickering screen. It was not long before he had simply forgotten there was anything wrong with having a salt lick inside one's home. Many a date would end with a lick to the thing. Some women found this quirk attractive, appreciating a man who seized what he wanted. A man who would ship a thousand pound salt lick from Africa when Morton's just wouldn't cut it. *****

9

"Today, my minions, I would like to congratulate all of you who persevered through the entirety of this training program." Only three Sales Associates remained, Lance, Lana and Jimmy. "On a different note, I have a quick announcement. You'll all be happy to know that our very own" Ball paused to open a crumpled piece of paper bearing law firm letterhead. "Our very own Darcy Brigham.” He paused and looked agitated. “Darcy? Who the hell is that?” “She’s the one who wears the name tag,” blurted Jimmy. “Whatever.” Ball continued. “Well, says here Darcy is recovering nicely in the hospital, rabies free. Let her be a lesson to you all. Watch out for the goddamned pooches!" A podium had replaced the mutilated foam-board map at the front of the room. Ball situated himself behind it and began a drum roll with banana bunch hands. A bottle of white-out, a highlighter and two packets of Post-it notes dropped from the podium on to the floor. "And now the moment you've all been waiting for" he drummed even harder then stopped abruptly. "It's a tie! Both Lana and Lance made a whopping two hundred dollars in just one day of pavement pounding. Come on up here!" Jimmy clapped a solitary round of applause. Ball produced two blue ribbons from his pocket. He tossed Lance's to him and turned to Lana. Her t-shirt was pulled so tightly over her chest, there was nowhere to pin the ribbon. After a few careful attempts discretion won and he just handed the ribbon to her then announced, "I hereby invite the two of you to my home for a gourmet meal!"

10

Lana accepted immediately. Ball’s eccentricities had been piquing her curiosity since the first training session. Lance accepted immediately because of Lana. The following evening Lana and Lance arrived at Ball's home to claim their prize. He greeted each of them warmly at the door. His apron depicted the front of a nude male, thighs to thorax, making the wearer appear naked - and hairy. "My Mom got it for me." Ball swelled, “Like it?” They followed him inside and a luxurious aroma from the cuisine was immediately palpable. Lance’s mouth began to water within seconds. Lana inhaled deeply, dangerously close to launching an already strained button. “Beauty, right?” Ball nodded towards the gigantic TV reaching blindly behind him for the remote control. He turned it on and threw the remote back towards the couch easily missing it by three feet. “Look at Dr. Phil’s nose. It’s bigger than my goddamned head!” Indeed, Lance was impressed. Lana was staring at a big rock opposite the television. Before she could ask Ball herded them into the dining room, and then dashed into the kitchen. “Have a seat my superstar Sales Associates," he called out, "Dinner will be served in a moment!” The meal was superb. A crisp, salad Niçoise freshened their taste buds, followed by perfectly sauteed Dover sole fillets served with fresh herb gnocchi, persimmon fricassee and curry emulsion. A chocolate caramel mousse with hazelnut dacquoise not only punctuated the meal, it brought them to their knees. They sat there in rapt repose

11

until Ball roused them from their stupor. “OK, let’s start with you Lana. How did you manage to sell two hundred dollars worth of mittens in the ghetto?” Lana’s field challenge had been to sell as many wool-knit mittens as possible in a highly dangerous housing project. “It was easy, Ball. There happen to be a few bakeries in that housing project. I told one bakery the mittens were light-weight oven mitts. Then I told another bakery how many their competitor bought, and suggested they buy the rest and offer them to customers as a promotional item. And boom, all gone.” “Boom, easy as pie, get it?” Ball giggled. “Tell you what Lana. You move to a town where the term, ‘dirty old man’ doesn’t exist and I’ll meet you there, OK? Kosher?” Ball winked at Lance, grinning, “Get it?” “Mazel tov, Ball,” replied Lance. Lana smiled at him. “OK, your turn, Shlomo. How did you unload all those tennis balls on those geriatric geezers?” Lance’s field challenge was to sell tennis balls in a retirement community. It wasn’t selling ping pong balls to quadriplegics, but it was close. “Well Ball, for some reason, I remembered your suggestion that my name should be more like Rob Walker while I was driving into that retirement community. It turns out old people like to put tennis balls on the legs of their walkers. Makes them easier to push.” “Well I’ll be a monkey!” Ball blustered.

12

“Anyway, I hung around until bingo started and just sorta worked the room. Once Margie saw that Rose had these pink tennis balls on her walker, she had to have them. And so on and so on.” Ball guffawed proudly, “Well done, Lance! Well done!” Now, some light must be shed on Lance’s seeming success. While Lana was visiting Darcy in the hospital shortly after the Labradoodle incident, she shared with her the story of her mitten selling success. Darcy surprised Lana with an enthusiastic highfive. In a celebration of their feminine camaraderie Darcy shouted, “Way to show those sons of bitches!” A few hours after, Lance had arrived at the hospital hoping he might run into Lana. “Lana just left,” Darcy told him before Lance could say a word. “Boy oh boy did she ever sell the pants off of you, though! Two-hundred dollars she made. Guess Ball was right about you buster browns!” Indeed. Lance had only sold a hundred dollars worth of tennis balls. But, he had also sold his entire CD collection to cover the remaining hundred himself, orchestrating a perfect tie. Ball had unknowingly taken care of the rest. The Sales Associates reclined on the large, suede couch and gazed at the luminous TV. “Does he wear sunscreen when he watches this thing?” Lance squinted. Lana chuckled, “Cute.” Lance’s tepid confidence began to simmer, “I heard you visited Darcy in the hospital. That was nice of you.” “I heard the same about you,” replied Lana grinning at the TV.

13

“Ironic what happened with that dog considering she’s vegan.” Lance grabbed a small pad from the coffee table, very much aware of Lana’s sustained smile. “So Lana, I would love to get your number. You know, just in case I find myself in the projects looking for baked goods.” The dull pencil in his hand was one Lana had seen before. It had been her very first sale. Ball rinsed dishes in the kitchen, humming loudly along with the intro music to 60 Minutes. The feature story was about heroes in remote places, where television coverage, newspapers or internet do not exist to help celebrate their heroic deeds. Leslie Stahl, covered in khaki, reported from a small village in central Africa following the story of a man who had saved the life of a relative. “Wow," said Lance, "that’s the blackest man I’ve ever seen." Ball heard him from him the kitchen. “Madi?” Ball popped into the room and dropped in front of the salt lick. He licked it once, keeping his eyes on the TV. “You know him?” Lana asked, struggling to comprehend what was happening. “Know him? He’s the one who helped me get this beauty. We’re practically family!” Ball licked again as a translator with a British accent recounted Madi's story. A few years ago, an eccentric nassara hired Madi to help him find a salt lick. "That's me," Ball gleamed, "I'm the nassara!" After a salt lick had been found and excavated for the white man, the hippos migrated to another one close to the village

14

where Madi’s brother lived. One day while Fatima, Madi’s niece, was washing her clothes in the river. A hippo burst from the water and clutched the ten-year old girl in its jaws. Fortunately, Madi was visiting his brother that same day. He heard the scream, ran to the river and killed the animal with one shot from his rifle. Fatima swam to the surface miraculously unharmed.

"Amazing," said Lance. “Incredible,” said Lana. Both of them stared at Ball. Ball stopped licking. He looked up at them from the floor bearing an earnest, childlike expression. Tears formed in his widening eyes. “Christ on a cracker, it’s my fault that little girl was attacked. I sent those hungry hippos right to her!” “No way, Ball,” Lana said, compassionately, and sat on the floor next to him. An obnoxious commercial bombarded them with brilliant noise. Ball remained expressionless. “Look.” She found the remote and shut off the TV. “Hippos are animals, right?” “Right.” He looked back at her. “And you are an animal too, right?” He grinned and made a clawing motion. Then, melancholy returned. “Right,” he sulked. “So why don’t you have the right to get a salt lick for yourself? You went all the way to Africa risking your life to get what you wanted and you succeeded! If that

15

fucking hippo wanted it bad enough it should have killed you instead of attacking some helpless little girl. Besides.” Lana crouched slightly on the balls of her bare feet and motioned to Lance to join them. “The little girl wasn't even hurt.” As he sat down, Lance ducked to avoid a specially placed lampshade; part of the “indoor-outdoor” motif. He noticed Lana’s toes were painted pink to match her fingernails. Ball was still noticeably shaken. They sat silently for a moment forming a perimeter around the salt lick. Lana cleared her throat and raised her hand as if to make a toast. “To Madi and the hippos," she said, and ran the tip of her small, pink tongue over a patch of the peppered mineral. “Say, that’s not bad,” she said, smacking her tongue and lips together. “Go on,” said Ball, his heart soaring. “Have another go! You too, Lance!” Lance politely refused. “C’mon Lance, it’s like Matzo ball soup!” Ball chided. “Yeah Lance, God knows I've tasted saltier,” Lana said then licked it again, this time like a pro. “Beauty!” Ball exclaimed, jabbing her playfully in the arm. For Lance, knowing a slime covered hippo with human blood still fresh in its mouth, wallowing in a river where people pissed and shit daily had licked this thing, turned his stomach. Had Lance known what other sins had been committed on the salt lick, namely what had landed Ball in trouble with the company in the first place a murderous hippo

16

simply licking it would have seemed trivial. A few weeks prior to the start of training Ball had prepared a lavish meal for a hefty co-ed. The evening led to her being bent over the salt lick. When Ball started urging her, “Go on and lick it. Lick it, my little hippopotamus,” the girl, mortified, ran from the house sobbing, leaving Ball standing in front of the salt lick with his trousers at his feet. The girl was the niece of the V.P. of Sales. Fortunately for Ball, he fucking lived to sell. It was time to go. Ball filled two Tupperware containers with leftovers and walked Lana and Lance to the foyer, his spirits much improved. Lana put her hand on Lance's arm and held it there as he and Ball exchanged goodbyes, “Lance, dear, my shoes are inside. Could you go get them for me?” Ball remained silent, grinning at the two of them. A quick search found her shoes carelessly kicked beneath the dinner table. Lance knelt to the ground and collected them on his hands and knees. He could hear Ball’s loud laugh and Lana’s muted voice carry from the foyer. As Lance started back to rejoin them, pink heels in hand, he stopped to face the salt lick. He looked around, then, quickly knelt in front of the thing. At first, Lance licked it timidly, barely tasting anything. He tried again, slightly more emboldened. Suddenly, he could not stop. He could not get enough. He paused only to allow saliva to gather on his tongue, to avoid abrasion, to facilitate the flavor - again and again he licked. Lance never spoke of what he tasted that night. He kept to himself the sweet memories resurrected by this covenant of salt. He did not even tell Lana as she lay glowing in his bed, smelling of milk.

17

18