|Will this cat be there again?|
I kind of like this little section with Lucy; I find it nice to get around to humanizing her a bit and getting her to talk without being silly. It's just a nice little scene between our two leads that shows a much different dynamic than back on page four or five. Anyway, Table of Contents here, fiction below the fold.
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Sam was terrible. I don’t say that out of sadness or regret, but simply out of the pure mechanical understanding of selling crap on late night television to insomniatic soccer moms. He had no pep in his step, and he couldn’t really banter with Tanya or any of the guest shills or snake oil sales people. (Not salesmen, since we’re in a liberated, post-feminism era.)
What’s worse, Sam was self-aware enough to realize he was bombing by the first break. He asked to be given an out, but Roger convinced him to stay. That and the promise of a pay check. He took a quick phone call on his cell, then cornered me while I pretended to check inventory.
“Lucy, I need your help.”
“You’re doing great Sam.”
“You think so?”
I cocked my head and looked into his eyes. He seemed torn about something. I sighed, straightened my hair and motioned or him to sit down next to me.
“No, Sam. I think you’re doing your best. Your best just sucks.”
“Your honesty is cutting and refreshing Lucy. Any suggestions on doing better?”
“Stop being yourself,” I said. “You’re on TV; be a character. Be the you that people want you to be.”
“So, your big advice is sell out?”
“No, it is to embrace the spectacle,” I said. “I think you’d be keen on doing that, Boy Scout.”
“I’m not a Boy Scout,” He said.
“But you can play one on TV.”
“You’re a weird girl Lucy.”
“Your honesty is sweet, now go out and have some fun,” I told him while giving him a pat on the back. He pushed himself back to his feet and went to find out about whatever the next section of junk was to be peddled. I think it was probably cutlery. Roger liked selling knives to people; he said he wondered how many of the knives we had sold had sent people to the emergency room. I told him that was a morbid thought.
“Hey, I didn’t say how many people were stabbed by them; I’m just looking for some meaning to my life.”
“Can’t you get your meaning the same way the rest of us do?”
“I tried; kids are surprisingly not as fulfilling as you would think,” He had told me. It really was a shame that he was too married for Christine. I think they’d hit it off.