The Encyclopedia Salesmen

 

It was a hot day. A really, really hot day. And Buddy Fenton had had about enough of it. He’d been tromping all over the Christie Pits area, toting his heavy sample bags around in his sweating palms. Occasionally, he’d duck into a store that might have some air-conditioning so he could cool down a bit. Now he couldn’t even remember where he had parked the car. That would be the next thing, he thought, irritably. He pictured the yellow ticket on the window of the old Ford station wagon. That would cost at least two hours’ worth of work if he couldn’t beat it. He wouldn’t even be able to claim it as a parking expense. The company would never allow it. Damn it!

He stopped for a moment and put the bags down, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his dripping brow. He considered taking off his tie. Surely nobody would expect him to show up at the door in a full suit on a day like this. Not in this heat. But then there were the rules. He decided to keep it on, but he loosened up the Windsor knot of the bright red tie a little.

He pulled out his small, black notebook and checked off a list against the numbers of the houses on this, the last street in the area. Four or five more cold calls and he’d pack it in. Even he, Buddy Fenton, last year’s top road salesman for Encyclopedia Britannica couldn’t be expected to last in this swelter. He perused the nearest houses and settled on a small, pink, semi-detached bungalow with an overly detailed garden and the number 48 in large, green numbers on the blue front door. He chose it because it was the only house not spraying water all over the place. He started up the walk…

Inside number 48 Pendrith Lane, a large man sat at a small table by the window. He was very neatly dressed, with a crisp, white, short-sleeved shirt done up to the neck and his neatly cropped red hair shone slightly from the pomade he made a habit of applying after his shower. He wore heavy, black-rimmed glasses and had a glass of freshly-poured lemonade in front of him, the ice within it already starting to melt. There was no air-conditioning at 48 Pendrith Lane.

He opened a large, leather-bound book which was sitting on the table, the label on the spine indicating that it was a volume of the 1952 Funk & Wagnall’s General Encyclopedia, Letters L through M. He ran his finger smoothly down a column of entries, naming them as he read them.

 “Laps… Legs… Lips… ah, here it is… Loneliness.” He read on. “The state of mind that results from…”

The doorbell rang. He reached for the yellow curtain and pulled it to one side so he could see out. To see who it was. A puzzled look crossed his face, and he let the curtain go. He sat for a moment, not moving. Perhaps the visitor would go away. Then the doorbell rang again. Somehow it seemed louder than the first time but, of course, that was impossible. He stood up and moved to the door. He opened it.

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