Two Word Solution

By Odin Roark

A Chevy Spark wasn’t the class of car he was used to driving when he was Salesman of the year five years straight.  So, as he turned into the entrance, the blinking Vacancy light missing half its neon reminded him this also wasn’t the kind of digs he stayed in all those award-winning years on the road.  But, gone were the days sitting at the head table of the annual Christmas party with the unctuous VPs and President along with their jewel heavy wives who were always good for a laugh at his wonky jokes.  The bonus from the wives was always their wondering out loud as to how he had gone this long without being snared by some sweet young thing.  As he turned off the engine and marked in his little black book the mileage from the last stop to here, he caught his reflection in the rear view mirror and slowly shook his head at the memories of the days when he rented whatever he wanted, stayed at the best of best, ate like a king, and slept in the Presidential suite whenever it was available.  A quick hand through his hair reminded him of the bitch of a senior VP he reported to back then and was informed on one hell of a nippy January morning that based on his sales, his infrequent reorders, and the rather old-school manner displayed with colleagues and follow up calls with accounts always monitored in the office, he was given a pep talk to seek out fresh opportunities.  It had been a few minutes later as he was evacuating the results of his zealous appetite for coffee that he realized he’d been axed.

Now, after a few dead-end attempts to sell start-up products, liquidation bargains, and elaborate computer apps he either hated or didn’t understand, he was now back with what he knew best from his early days:  Kirby Vacuums.  Unlike the time he could run the vacuum over a mattress and show the impressionable lady of the home all the dead skin, and if lucky, the little creatures crawling around under their assumed comfort zone—a time when he’d place three, sometimes four units a day—he now worked on a smaller commission, paid his own expenses, and on top of it all, had to buy his own health insurance.  Gone were the days when he’d drive back to the sales office with his orders, singing all the way, “If you never do more than you get paid for, you’ll never get paid for more than you do.”  Oh, how he loved that salesman-warmup every morning with donuts, coffee, and “Start your engines, warriors!” battle cry.

So, here he was again checking into a budget-budget motel where he at least got free WIFI, cable TV and help-yourself breakfasts.  It was often survival time when the sales were low, and he actually looked forward to loading up on breakfast in order to skip lunch he often could ill afford.  He’d pile on the powdered scrambled eggs, limp bacon, soggy home fries and when he had some patience left, stand in line to get his three, sometimes four, pieces of stale white bread toasted.  He did like this chain’s coffee, though.  Liked it a lot, always taking a couple of extra styrofoam containers filled for the road—not too much in each, not wanting to hit the rest stops too often with his weak bladder.

And so, on a sunny June morning, Bernie stood in the breakfast room of Evergreen Smoky Mountain Lodge in Pigeon Forge, TN with his overloaded tray looking for a table to chow down.  He could see only one chair at a small table where on the other side, a large man with his cup of coffee.  Bernie thought him a bit odd, given he was chewing the eraser on his pencil and staring at the yellow pad in front of him, seeming to not be writing, but just staring.  There was little room to lay out his feast, but… what the hell.  He took a deep breath and layered his face with his polished salesman’s smile, hastened the twinkle in his eyes, a piece of imagination he owned when approaching a front door with his vacuum, or a stranger.  He put on the glad-hand voice and drifted over to the table.  “A good morning to you sir.  Mind if I take a seat?”

The huge Bluto-like hulk glanced up and Bernie recognized the gray pallor of a hangover, complete with droopy eyes from no sleep.  He unproudly wore a bed-head hair style and a good healthy five o’clock shadow from ear to ear.  “Oh, hell.  I’m sorry.”  He pulled his coffee cup and pad aside.  “Really sorry.”

Jesus, Bernie thought. Was I that assertive?  “No need for apologies, friend.  I believe in that old maxim as well:  Better safe than sorry, right?” 

As he put his tray on the table, the big man shyly asked, “Maxim?  What’s that mean.”

Bernie smiled, “Oh, just another way to express an adage.”

“Adage?”

“Oh, you know, just a saying.  My names Bernie,” he said as he extended his hand.

The big man just kept chewing on his eraser as he said, “Fine.  Okay.”

Bernie gave a subtle shrug and sat, fanning out his dishes as best he could on the tiny table.  The plate with the toast was placed between him and the nervous one.  “So… feel free to help yourself.  You know, a little dunking friend for your coffee.  I hustled up more than I need just in case I could share.”

“Share? Bernie took a bite of one of the slices of toast and pushed the plate toward the man.  “Hey, you never know.”

“Know?  Know what?”  The big man seemed drugged, half asleep or maybe just suffering one hell of a binge the night before.

“Well, you never know what you don’t know,” said Bernie.  “Like why did the dog cross the road twice?”

“Isn’t that a chicken joke fucked up?”

“Whoa,” Bernie looked over his shoulder as the guy’s expression was a bit loud.  He leaned across his plates and in a clandestine voice whispered, “the dog was trying to fetch a boomerang.”  He chuckled.  “Get it… twice…”. He made a whirly motion in the air.

The big man loudly cleared his throat which Bernie thought might be a sort of laugh… maybe?  “You seem like a guy named Al,” Bernie offered.

“Al?”

“I’m great with names.  Al, right?  And, my guess is you aren’t a guest here.  Just a local buying a cup of coffee, right?”

“You crazy, man.”  And the big man laughed.

“Oh, I’ve been called worse,” said Bernie as he tore open several packets of ketchup and drowned his eggs and home fries.

The big man sat back, stopped chewing his eraser, and grinned a rather maniacal change of expression.  “I am Al.”  He folded his arms, seeming rather impressed, but not for long.

Bernie nodded to him.  “Don’t be shy.  Have a piece.”

Al took a slice and dunked it in his coffee. 

Bernie continued.  “I’ve got a hell of a batting average with names.  Maybe three-fifty, three- seventy.  Once I hear a name, never forget it.  Faces too.”  After a couple bites of eggs, Bernie looked up.  Al was sitting back again having finished his slice of toast.  His arms folded.  Only now he was squinting at Bernie.  “You a writer or somethin’?” said Al.

Bernie grinned.  “No.  But you look like one with that pencil and pad.  Yeah?”

Al just stared at Bernie.  “No.”

“Well, you remind me of that guy who wrote a whole book in notebooks and submitted it on a continuous roll of paper.  Now, that’s crazy, don’t ya think?  What was his… oh. yeah.  Kerouac the guy’s name.  Jack Kerouac.  You ever read his book, On the Road?”

“No.  Never heard of him. And I don’t read.  I don’t write.  I’m just Al.”

“I don’t read much anymore either.  What’s the point?”

Al unfolded his arms and leaned forward.  “Good question.  What’s the fucking point.”

A family of one overweight mother and two rug rats slopping down Cheerios and milk, looked up.  The woman put her arms around the child on each side and glared at Al, as she hurriedly saddled one onto each hip and left.

Bernie nodded and forked another bite.  “You got her tuned in, Al.  She’d make a good spy in a thriller, you know?  Nobody would ever suspect.  Like she’s really just a rent a mom like from Central Casting, feigning that guise when she later turns out to be undercover for the CIA.  You pen that kind of thing?”

“Pen?”

“Write.  You write like that?”

“I’m not a writer, Bernie.”

“Didn’t you say you were a writer, you know… that pad, the pencil?”

“No, Bernie.  You said I was a writer.  You might be good with names, but you don’t know shit about what somebody does.”

“Okay.   I just…”

Al turned the yellow pad over.  “You’re dying to know what I’m trying to write, right?”

Bernie stopped eating mid lift of another bite.  Damn, that sounded like a threat, he thought.  “Hey, it’s all good, buddy… Al.  Didn’t mean to offend.  None of my business.  I get it.  I’m just a curious guy.  That’s all.”

“A confession.”

“Say what?”

“I’m trying to write a confession.”

“A confession, eh?  Like to a priest or, you know, somebody like that.”

“Kinda,” said Al, his eyes taking on that maniacal look again.  “I need him to read it before I do it.”

“Do it?  You mean sit in the confessional and confess your sins?  That’s understandable, Al.”

“He won’t think so.”

Bernie now sat back, intrigued.  “They understand a lot and…”

“When a priest spends his days molesting kids and one of the kids is me… no he won’t understand why I’m gonna do him in.”

Bernie swallowed.  “What do you mean ‘do him in?’  I’m a kidder too, Al, and… and you’re just kidding, right?”

He hoped for a grin to appear on Al’s face, but instead… “I’m gonna take him out while he sits in that fucking little brown cage while he plays with people’s lives and little boys dicks.”

The few remaining guests left their tables and made their way out of the breakfast room, leaving Bernie and Al alone.

“But I can’t do it,” said Al.

Bernie let out a sigh of relief.  “Oh good.  You really had me going there.” 

“I can’t write the fucking confession,” muttered Al and he snapped the pencil in half.  “I’m not a writer and this has to be good, Goddamn it!” 

Bernie looked around the room again, as another group of guests filed in for breakfast.

Al leaned forward.  “Are you a writer, Bernie?”

“Oh, Jesus, no.  I mean, I can write.  Did okay in English classes, but I’m no author, I’m no writer-writer.  Salesman is my game.  Yeah.  Just a salesman.”  Now Bernie folded his arms, not knowing what to do with his hands.  “Look, Al, you might feel bad about your experience, but things could be worse.  Always, things can be worse.  So, you have to look for the good side of things even if they suck.  Oops, bad word choice.  Sorry.”

Al stared at him with a blank face.  “Worse like what?  You ever have a wife?”

“No, Al.  Never had the time or money to get married, raise kids, the house, the…”

“So, ever had a kid you didn’t mean to have?”

“No, Al.  Kids… condoms good.  Kids bad.”

“You ever have your balls removed ‘cause they were fucked up?”

“Oh, God no, Al.  No.  Balls are intact.”

“Me too.  None of that girly, kids, house, shit ever happened to me either. 

Bernie sighed once again.  “So, see.  Things are good.  Good.  Maybe you’re just feeling down for other reasons besides…”

“What?  Besides having my virginity taken by a fucking priest,” said too loud.  He grimaced and was about to let out another burst, when Bernie’s hands came up in a clam down gesture.  Al settled back in his chair, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead now.

Bernie had the urge to reach across the table and give Al a pat on his hand, but then thought better of it.  Who knows what might really set this guy off.   In a reassuring tone, “You know, Al, my pop used to say, he used to say ‘every day there are lessons, and when you look at the negative things that happen to you as a lesson, they can feel positive.  ‘Cause learning is positive.  Get it?  That ‘s what my pop believed.”

“Yeah, well that don’t work for me.  What’s bad is bad.  And bad has to be eliminated.  Period.”

Bernie looked around.  Several patrons were glancing over.  “Look, Al.  I’ve got a good idea.  It’s a beautiful sunny day here in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee and I noticed a couple picnic tables out back.  What you say we go out there and I help you with the confession?  Deal?”

“Outside?”

“Yeah.  Picnic tables are out back and down the hill a smidgeon.  I drank too much coffee, so I’ve got to hit the head.  I’ll join you in a couple of minutes.”

“You’ll help with my confession?  You maybe ain’t gonna like what I’m thinkin’, Bernie.  I got bad thoughts.”

“It’s gonna be fine, Al.  You’ll see.  But now, I gotta tend to another maxim: what goes in has to come out, right Al?”

“What?”

“Give me a hand with these plates, eh”

Together, they stacked the plates on the tray.  “Good, Al.  Now you go out and get a table.  Get us a good one in the shade, okay?”

Al nodded, picked up his pad and the two broken pieces of pencil and lumbered toward the back door, glancing over his shoulder at Bernie exiting the room, not sure of what was happening.

Bernie rushed to his room, threw his clothes in his bag, and grabbed his room key. 

At the front desk, he hurriedly gave the receptionist the key, as she parroted the standard, “How was your stay?”

“Wonderful.  Absolutely wonderful.”

The receptionist blushed.  “You’re kidding, right?”

“No.  Fabulous.”

She quickly grabbed a survey sheet from under the counter.  “Would you be so kind as to put those words on our survey?”

With his best salesman smile, “Oh, I’m sorry.  I’m late for an appointment.  Maybe next time.”

“Well, hurry back so we can give you more ‘wonderful’ and ‘fabulous’ service, eh?”

“You bet.  Keep smiling now.”

Bernie rushed out of the motel, glanced around and not seeing the big guy, Al, darted for his car.

He started the engine, put on his dark glasses, checked his smile and hair in the rear-view mirror, when something gave him a sudden unexpected pause.  He flashed back on his sales career.  Vacuums were a lot harder to sell now days.  Amazon had the market cornered for many, and each day’s run meant there would likely be fewer sales.  He was lucky in some respects, especially when compared to Al.  He could return from a road trip, hole up a few days in the house his mother willed to him, do his many routines for pumping up his enthusiasm, truly believing things could be worse.  Living there alone and never really knowing his neighbors wasn’t all that bad, really.  Only those dreaded occasional nights when nightcaps continued ‘til morning, making him sleep sometimes into the next day.

He looked away from the rear-view mirror and toward the picnic area.  That poor bastard must be getting agitated again.  He looked at his sales leads and tossed them in the back seat.  “Fuck it,” he muttered to himself, exited the car and shuffled toward the picnic tables in the back of the motel.

“Hey, sorry Al,” he said as he sat down beside him.  “Turned out, there was more than a tinkle I had to do.”

Al nodded, his expression back to stoic and melancholy.  He clutched his pencil stub and yellow pad. “Figured you ditched me, Bernie.  Nobody ever does what they say.”

“I’m doing what I said I’d do, Al.  Now…”. He glanced at the pad.

Al nodded a couple of times.  “Guess I might as well do it.  People think I’m crazy anyway.  Probably am.”

“Why?  ‘Cause you’re carrying some baggage you’re tired of lugging around.  I don’t think you’re crazy.  Hell, I’ve got my own share of baggage I carry from day to day, and I’m not just talking about my sales kit.  Most of us have lives that often suck, Al.  And for those of us feeling that way, we sometimes think crazy things when baggage comes knocking at our doors uninvited all the time.  You don’t need anybody reminding you with cheap advice, pills or rehab centers, ‘cause you know it in here.”  Bernie taps his heart.  “Right here is where you carry that baggage, right Al.  I’m pretty good with figuring out people too, once I know their name.  Yeah.  Kinda spooky sometimes.” 

Al looked over at him.  “You got that right, Bernie.  Spooky.  Yeah.  I fucking know it good.”

“So, big guy, lets get that confession done, eh?  What you got so far?”

Al shows him.  The only line written is: You’re gonna rot in hell.

Bernie shakes his head.  “Well, subtle you’re not.  So, write this: “You ain’t draggin’ my unsorry ass down there with your sorry ass.”

Al, snickered.  “Subtlety ain’t for you either, is it?”

“Well, there was a time I held all kinds of stuff inside, but sometimes you just have to let it all hang out.  I learned the hard way too.  You sometimes have to travel a long way to go a short distance.

“Say that again.”

“Simple, really.  ‘You sometimes have to travel a long way to go a short distance.’”

“You really believe that kind of shit, don’t you?”

“Yes, and I believe you’re beginning to as well.”

“Huh?”

“For all we know, Al, holding onto resentment and ‘doing him in’ might be the easy way out.  You don’t strike me as an easy way out guy.  Write it down,” as he pointed at the pad.

Al carefully wrote the sentence ‘you sometimes have to travel a long way to go a short distance’, stopping several times for Bernie to feed him the words again.

“Confessions can be short too, Al.  One more little bit.  ‘Fuck it.’ 

“‘Fuck it’.  You serious.”

“That’s it.  You’ve finished.  Long and short versions.”

Al twitched his mouth, sniffed and wrote FUCK IT it in big cursive letters. “You’re somethin’ else, Bernie. Never read no confession like this.”  His eyes gave off a glisten that hadn’t been there before.  Tears?  “So, is ‘fuck It’ kinda like sincerely yours?”

“Yeah.  You could say that, Al.  Hell, if it works, then it’s yours, and yours only.”

They sat for a long time.  Long enough for the sun to move and shine down on their table.  Neither spoke.  Just two guys drinking in the sunshine.

                                                ***

 “So, Al.  You need to go anywhere.  I can give you a lift.”

Al turned his head toward the road.  “No.  I’m fine right here for awhile.  But, if you could,

drop this off at the church.  It’s just down the road.  Confessions are every day.  Hand it to him and tell him Al says… well, just say ‘this is from Al’.  He’ll be in that cage of his.”  He tore off the page of few words and handed it to Bernie.

Bernie nodded.  “Done.”  He started to walk away and turned back.  “Hey, Al?”

“Yeah?”

“Why did the rooster cross the road?”

“Another one?”

“Because he wasn’t chicken”

Al dropped his head, chuckling.  “I’ll remember that.”

“You better, Al.  You deserve to.”