The Encyclopedia Salesmen (Continued)

 

“Hello,” he said to the sweaty, smiling figure waiting outside. He noticed the loose red tie and eyed it, critically.

 “Um, hello,” said Buddy Fenton. There was an awkward pause.

 “Can I help you?”

 “You sure can, buster.” replied Buddy, quickly. “You can help me by buying a set of Encyclopaedia Britannica.”

 “How did you know my name was Buster, buddy?” Buster Selkirk asked, suspiciously.

 There was a pause. Then Buddy said, “Say, how did you know my name was Buddy, Buster?”

 “What?” said Buster.

 “What?” said Buddy.

 “You mean your name is Buddy?” said Buster.

 “You mean your name is Buster?” said Buddy, a smile breaking over his face.

 Then they both started to laugh. And they laughed for quite a while. For at least thirty seconds, actually. And then as the laughter started to die down, Buddy Selkirk glanced down sheepishly.

 “That is so strange”, said Buster.

 “Yeah, must be fate, I guess. So, about the encyclopaedias?”

 “Yes, well, I’m sorry. We already have a set of encyclopedias, and I really don’t need two.”

 “Of course, right,” said Buddy, softly. “Well, thanks for your time.” He turned to go. Buster watched him start to move down the walk.

 “Sure is hot today,” Buster blurted out.

 “What?” Buddy said, stopping for a second.  “Oh, yeah… pretty hot.” and then he turned to leave again.

 “You must get pretty thirsty, lugging around those big boxes of books all day.” Buster said, a little too loudly.

 Buddy stopped once more, turned back and studied Buster. “Yeah, pretty thirsty.”

 “Would you like a glass of lemonade?” Buster asked.

 Buddy jumped at this, “Would I!” he cried. Then he pulled himself back. “I mean sure, yes, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

 “No trouble at all,” said Buster. “Come on in.”

 Buster led Buddy from the door, through the foyer and along the short, dark hall and into the small living room just beyond. Buddy dropped his book bags by the archway and looked around the modestly decorated room. Less than modest, actually.

 “Wow. This is a wonderful place you have here, Buster.”

 “Oh, thanks. It’s pretty small.”

 “Well, it sure beats staying at the Y,” Buddy said with a laugh.

 “The Y? Why are you staying at the Y, Buddy?”

 Buddy looked down, slightly embarrassed. “Oh, it’s just temporary, Buster. Until I can find something else.”

 “I see. Well, make yourself at home,” said Buster. “I’ll go get that lemonade.”

 “Thanks, that would be great,” Buddy said, and as Buster left through the swinging kitchen door, he started to walk around the room, inspecting the pictures and artifacts that adorned the walls. He spotted the bookshelf and quickly went over to it and started to examine the books thereon until his eye caught the set of aging Funk & Wagnall. He picked out a volume and felt, with admiration, its rich leather binding. He held it up to his nose and sniffed at it then turned it to view it length-wise against the light. From in the kitchen, came the clinking of glasses and the rattle of an ice tray.

 “Say, this is a wonderful set you have,” Buddy called out.

 “What?” Buster shouted back.

 “The set. By the window.  They’re leather, aren’t they?” Buddy asked, replacing the book back amongst its brethren on the shelf.

 “Yes, that’s right,” Buster called back. “I picked them up on a beach in Mexico.”

 “Mexico?” Buddy asked, surprised.

 “That’s right. They’re over four hundred years old.”

 Buster entered from the kitchen with a tray full of glasses and a huge pitcher slopping over with lemonade made with real lemons floating around between the ice-cubes. The ice-cubes were small, round balls of frozen plastic filled with some pink liquid. Some green leaves, probably mint, stuck to the sides of the glass.

 “What do you mean ‘four hundred years old’? I thought they were published in 1952,” Buddy said, looking back at the books.

 Buster put down the tray. “What? Oh, my gosh, I thought you were talking about the masks on the wall there.”

 Buddy had to let that sink in. “And I thought you were talking about the books!”

 “That is so…”

 “I can’t believe…”

 They started to laugh again. And the laughter built and built until a full minute had quickly gone by. Slowly the laughter died down and came to a halt. They were both thinking of what to say next when they suddenly became aware that they weren’t alone in the room any more. There was another man who had entered from the rear of the house, probably from the garage, and was standing staring at the two of them with an angry look on his face. He was a tall, powerfully built man of about fifty-five, dressed casually in a grey suit, his tie loose and folded back into his unbuttoned shirt. He, too, was sweating from being out in the unbearable heat.

 “Biff, I didn’t hear you come in.” Buster said, awkwardly.

 “Obviously not,” Biff snarled. “Having too much of a good time, were we? To hear me come in?”

 “Don’t be silly, Biff,” Buster said before attempting to make an introduction. “Biff this is Buddy. Buddy this is Biff. Buddy…”

 Biff cut him off moving towards Buddy. “I’m Buster’s roommate.”

 “Glad to meet you, Biff.” Buddy extended his hand. Biff just looked at it and then turned away.

 “Um, Buddy’s an encyclopedia salesman. Just like you, Biff.”

 Biff walked over to an armchair by the window. “I can see that. I’m not blind,” he said, sitting down.

 Buster turned to Buddy. “Biff used to be an encyclopedia salesman too, Buddy. But now he’s a regional manager.”

 “Oh, yeah?” Buddy pointed to the shelves. “Funk and Wagnall’s, huh?”

 “That’s right,” said Biff coldly, “No more door to door for me.”

 There was an awkward silence that Buster eventually had to break.  “I was just going to give Buddy some lemonade, Biff. Would you like some?”

 “Scotch,” Biff shot back, “and I want it now.”

 Biff and Buddy looked at each other. “Okay, Biff,” said Buster. “How about you, Buddy? Would you like something a little stronger?”

 “Sure, Buster, that would be fine,” Buddy said slowly. As Buster turned to go, Buddy stopped him with a hand on his arm. “But take your time.”

 Buster went over to the bar and started to prepare the drinks. Buddy stood silently in the middle of the room watching Biff who was staring out the window, the same dark look on his face. “I should have known you’d like Scotch, Buddy,” Buster said over his shoulder, trying to make casual conversation. “Pretty much every Encyclopedia salesman I’ve ever known drank scotch. Even Blake…”

 With a sharp groan, Biff rose from his chair and stormed out of the room into the kitchen, heaving the swinging door to one side which proceeded to clatter back and forth on its hinge. One of the leather masks fell from the wall into the fireplace.

 “Biff!” Buster shouted. “Biff!”

 Buddy came over to Buster. “Did I say something wrong, Buster?”

 Buster shuddered slightly. “No, it’s not you Buddy. I’ll take care of this. You just relax, I’ll be right back. Buster headed to the kitchen. Buddy smiled slightly and walked over to the window, taking Biff’s place in the worn armchair. The chair was warm, the arms slightly moist. Buster slammed into the kitchen.

 “What’s the matter with you, Biff!?” he exclaimed, angrily, under his breath. At least as angry as a man like Buster could get.

 “Oh, as if you didn’t know...”

 “You’re being ridiculous! I just asked Buddy in for lemonade!”

 “Yeah, just like you asked Blake in. And me! Now this guy. History repeats itself, huh!”

 “Look, just because you pay some rent around here doesn’t mean you’re the boss of everybody!” Buster said, peevishly.

 “Oh, don’t be a big baby, Buster!”

 “If anyone’s being a big baby, Biff, it’s you boy!”

 “I work hard all day busting my ass for Funk & Wagnall’s and I come home and you’ve got the competition sucking back my lemonade!”

 “I don’t believe you!” Buster shouted, not caring now who heard.

 Biff had had enough and smashed through the swinging door again, running into Buddy who had moved closer to the kitchen to hear what was going on. Biff pushed past Buddy and marched to the fireplace. He picked up the fallen mask and replaced it on the wall, his hand shaking. Then he moved to the bar and started pouring another glass of Scotch.   Buster re-entered too, slowly. Buddy came to a decision.

 “Look, Buster, maybe I should be getting along.”

 Buster looked up at Buddy, almost having forgotten that he was in the room.  “Yeah, you could be right, Buddy.”

 “I’ll get my bags,” said Buddy as he started to the foyer.

 “Okay,” said Buster.

 Suddenly Biff was in between them. He downed the Scotch in one pull. “No!” said Biff in a low, angry voice. “I want to see his stuff. C’mon, Buddy, give me your spiel!”

 “Biff… let him go,” said Buster, sad now.

 “No, I want to see his stuff. See how good he is. I want to see his stuff!”

 “Oh, I don’t think so,” said Buddy, getting nervous.

 “You see, Biff? He doesn’t want to do it!” cried Buster

 Biff was furious. “I said I want to hear his spiel! And I want to hear it now!” He hurled his glass against the fireplace where it shattered to pieces, shards exploding in all directions. Buster made an involuntary move towards it as Buddy staggered backwards, shocked. There was a moment of silence.

 “I’ve cut my hand,” Biff muttered, almost inaudibly.

 “I’ll get a bandage,” Buster said. He looked at Buddy, unsure of what to say. “I know where they are.” Buster didn’t know where he was. He was alone and his head was spinning. He walked off towards the back of the house leaving Biff and Buddy alone.

 Biff sat down in the armchair. He moaned slightly as he wrapped his hand with his handkerchief. Buddy came over to him, peering down. “How’s the hand, Biff?” he said, without much sympathy.

 Biff looked up. “It’ll live.”

 “Don’t even know how you managed to cut it. The glass broke over there.” There was a pause. “You know, you really upset Buster, Biff.” He paused again before adding, “He’s a good man.”

 “Yeah, well everything was fine until you came along, pal,” said Biff.

 Buddy moved even closer, hovering over him menacingly, and said slowly, in a voice now choked with anger, “It’s Buddy.” He went into the hallway and returned with his two black cases. “So, you want to hear my spiel, do you?” he said, taking something out of one of the cases.

 “No, not really,” said Biff.

 Buddy moved slowly behind the armchair. Suddenly he hurled himself to the back of the chair. His arms came down over Biff’s head and around his chest. He pulled him backwards, the book in his hands trapping Biff with his arms to his side like a strait-jacket. Biff, despite his much bigger size, couldn’t move.

 “Encyclopedia Britannica!” He screamed into Biff’s ear. “One hundred and forty thousand entries with over thirty-five thousand colour plates! Fourteen writers with a support staff of two hundred who compiled a full-colour atlas complete with overlays! And a step-by-step guide that helps to explain world politics. It’s got a yearbook every six months! It’s leather-bound and… you get a Frisbee!”

 Biff struggled free at last. “So?” he shouted, jumping up.

 “So,” Buddy said, calmer now. He tossed the book down into the case, “You don’t understand Buster’s needs at all, Biff. He’s got an enquiring young mind that needs to know. To know what’s happening now. Funk & Wagnall’s… that’s obsolete.” He glared at Biff. “Just like you.”

 Biff face turned red. His forehead glistened with sweat. “Yeah?” he said.

 “Yeah!” Buddy snarled. “I’ve seen guys like you before. You couldn’t hack it out on the street, so you got some cushy office job pushing pencils, instead of yourself. You’re a dinosaur, Biff. Why don’t you go crawl into some tar pit?”

 Biff exploded. “Yeah? Well, I’ve known guys like you, too. Mean guys. Always at it. Always trying to make the next big sale! Well, you don’t impress me.”

 “No?” said Buddy.

 “No,” Biff roared. “You’re just another book-schnook vendor out on the road. Just another big loser, pal!”

 Like a shot, Buddy was in his face. “It’s Buddy!”

 At that moment, Buster came from the hallway. Biff and Buddy pulled back from each other and looked at Buster. “I couldn’t find any bandages. All I could find was this old wig.” They all looked down at the ratty hair-piece that lay limply in his hands. There was silence for a moment and then Buddy eventually spoke.

 “I guess I really should go, Buster. It’s obviously not a good time now. But before I go I want you to have this Year Book.” Buddy walked over and retrieved the leather-bound gift from his case.

 “You don’t have to do that Buddy,” said Buster.

 “No, take it. After all you let me in, gave me lemonade. That’s more than most.”

 Buster reached out to take the book. “Don’t take it!” Biff roared.

 “What?” said Buster, flabbergasted.

 “You take that book, Buster, and it’s over.”

 Buster hesitated for a moment before saying, “Well, I am taking it! And not only am I taking this Yearbook, I’m taking a whole set of encyclopedias!”

 “You are?” Buddy exclaimed.

 “Yes,” said Buster, firmly.

 “You do that and I’m out of here. I’m leaving!” Biff cried.

 “And I’m writing!” Buster shouted back and flung open the drawer of the desk. He quickly tore a cheque out of a book and started filling it out. Biff flung himself out of the room. Buddy moved quickly to Buster.

 “Don’t you think you’re being a bit hasty, Buster?” he asked.

 Buster whirled on him, his eyes frantic and his hair falling out of its tightly controlled doo. “Shut up!” he cried. “I know what I’m doing. Here!” He handed Buddy the blank cheque. Biff came quickly back into the room with some clothes under his one arm and a bag in his hand. He looked at Buddy holding the cheque and then at Buster.

 “So, you did it, did you?” he asked quietly.

 “Yeah,” said Buster.

 “Yeah,” said Buddy.

 “You’re making a big mistake, Buster,” Biff said.

 “Maybe, Biff, maybe. And maybe it’s the smartest thing I’ve done in a long, long time.” Buster turned and looked out the window. It was starting to rain.

 “Good-bye, Buster,” Biff said and turned and walked down the hallway and out of the door. It was raining steadily now. He closed it quietly behind him, pausing for a second to look back into the house. Then he was gone.

Buster hadn’t moved. Buddy started to put the cheque into his breast pocket.

 “Thanks, Buster,” he said. “This means a lot.” He picked up his bags. “Well, I guess I’d better be going for real this time.”

 Buster turned. “What do you mean?”

 Buddy smiled from his place near the door. “You just don’t get it, do you Buster?”

 “What?”

 “I can’t stay here.”

 “Sure you can, Buddy. You can have Biff’s old room. You don’t have to stay at the Y anymore.”

 “No, Buster. My life’s out there. On the streets. Where I belong. It would never work-out here.    Someday you’ll understand that.” Buddy turned to leave.

 “Sunday?” Buster said, not catching the last of Buddy’s sentence.

 Buddy turned back. “Someday,” he repeated. “If you ever want to get in touch, you know where to find me.” With that Buddy walked out into the rain and turned down the street. Buster watched from the doorway before turning and moving slowly back into the house. The blue front door with the green numbers on it closed slowly.

 Buddy spotted his car, nestled behind a truck at the end of the street. He walked quickly towards it, the rain starting to run down his face. When he got to the car he glanced at the windshield. No ticket. He opened the trunk and tossed the two cases inside. He unlocked the driver’s door and slid in and put the key in the ignition, but he didn’t turn it. He reached into his jacket pocket and felt Buster’s cheque tucked deep inside. He smiled to himself, pulled out his black notebook and made a solid stroke through 48 Pendrith Lane. Then he started the engine, turned on the air-conditioning and headed for the Y.