A DIRTY BEAUTIFUL SMELL
Harper Nevermind
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 Harper Nevermind
For no one in particular
A Dirty Beautiful Smell
Stuart Newman didn’t feel well on his way to work. He thought for a moment the ill feeling might have something to do with turning forty. But that wouldn’t explain yesterday. Yesterday he woke up energized and squeezed more life out of a pretty cosmetic sales girl than even he could imagine. He beamed as he proceeded to the bathroom where he pissed, brushed, shaved, and showered, replaying the night’s activities for his ego. The pretty cosmetic sales girl left by the time he dried and put on his dark suit, but unlike the others, Stuart actually remembered her name. In spite her being half his age, he hoped she’d share his bed again. He hoped too that she’d happily jet once morning came.
He preferred to be alone sipping coffee and spooning through a bowl of Kix with peanut butter toast while browsing the web. He read Pro Football Talk religiously and for amusement looked for the most shocking clip on Mediaite. If anything, this was his quiet time before he entered the daily trials of retail. And on this morning, the morning before he felt crappy, he felt fine—at least in mind.
He lived in a spacious one-bedroom apartment near the mall so he wouldn’t have to drive to work. He hated Seattle’s traffic and he hated the constant construction that blocked roads and offered clumsy detours. Plus, he didn’t want to deal with the hassle if his car ever got stolen. He drove a 2006 Honda Accord, probably the easiest vehicle to steal in the world. Twenty-two employees had their car stolen at the mall in the past year. Twelve had been Accord, while the rest were divided between Camry and Civic. He knew his luck was shit and he’d be next if he parked at the mall. That wasn’t to say he didn’t bring his car out from under the secured garage when he needed groceries or took a sales girl on a date. But he kept his fingers crossed.
For fifteen years he sold men’s suits at Macy’s. Five days a week, seven-and-a-half hours a day, forty-nine weeks a year. He took three weeks of vacation, which he split among the slowest sales periods in January, July, and August. He made $12.60 an hour with a 6.75% commission rate after he covered his wage. Last year, a recession year, he sold $586,789. The year before he did better at $603,457. Both years he was among the top five sales people in a store of 250 employees.
On his latest tax return, he made $41,425 in gross income. He had $22,456 in his checking account, $176,895 in his 401K, and zero debt. For a single guy with nominal rent and no attachments, his financial state left him content. He could afford what he wanted because what he desired cost so little. His profession required no ambition and had perfect simplicity: get men to spend more than they could the instant their feet landed on carpet.
Stuart sized potential buyers quickly. These buyers were the kind of men who got impressed by the fact their salesman didn’t need a measuring tape. Not surprising since many men didn’t know their size or what the number inside a jacket signified. Unless one was a metrosexual, buying a suit was an agonizing experience bordering on the equivalency of getting your nuts squeezed by a balding doctor with a thick mustache and piss yellow teeth.
Stuart knew this, explaining the size in a way that made him appear smarter than the job he had with a cordial tone that put the men at ease. He always presented five pieces for the man to try on. Normally a navy blazer with a pair of grey slacks, a charcoal suit, a black suit, and even an olive or tan suit for that rare sunny day.
If the wife were present, he’d charm her by complimenting her outfit or her hair or the choices she made for her husband. While the husband changed in the fitting room, he’d look at her in a way that made her feel far more attractive than she really was. He’d say something about her eyes or suggest how lucky her husband was to have someone like her while mentioning between the lines that he hadn’t found that perfect mate just yet. But the focus always remained on her.
So if she felt better about her self-image or even had a flash of betraying her husband with him, he knew he’d have a $1500 sale and an extra $100 in his pocket. He was man’s best friend as much as he was his fake ally. Yet regardless of his tactics, he knew growing his sales meant being the perfect servant.
Stuart’s success from his manipulative selling methods aggravated fellow associates. Men regarded him to be a ruthless shark biting into every sale, even if that sale was a pricey $2 tin of Frango Peppermints and the commission was a mere thirteen cents. Woman, however, earned his respect and were given a fair chance if Stuart found them attractive or if his ego was stroked. If they were fat, old, or sickly and didn’t find Stuart to be their Jacob or Edward, they were treated like men and he devoured them—with one exception.
Two years ago Stuart went to the tailor shop to steam a jacket for a picky client and a busty blonde had entered the department to assist an old man browsing for suit jackets. Newly hired and this being her first job, she didn’t know the protocol and did what was asked of her during orientation. When Stuart returned, he handed the man his pressed suit and thanked him by name for waiting. He moved alongside the busty blonde where she placed a jacket over the old man’s shoulders. Without stating the obvious and yet chiming in on the jacket’s features and benefits, Stuart hoped she’d get the hint.
When she told the old man he looked exquisite in a single button Kenneth Cole grey jacket, Stuart knew she’d be there until the end. Still, he assumed she’d ring the sale under his number, because, after all, the old man was on his territory and he greeted him first. But when she rang the sale under her number, Stuart’s face had hardened and he stormed off.
Inside the fitting room, Stuart paced, uttering every profanity in his head, converting a hissy fit into actual rage. When the busty blonde came in to thank him for his help, he tore into her with such vengeance that she exploded in tears and went missing.
HR further explored the issue when rumors filled the store of how a promising new hire abruptly quit. When Stuart arrived at the HR manager’s office, he wouldn’t speak unless his union rep was present. After a few weeks where the HR manager vacationed and attended a conference, the issue of Stuart’s professional conduct conveniently went away. Six months later, another issue arose, but Stuart used the union for his defense and denied any wrongdoing, while management looked away since he was one of their best sales people.
Stuart stood at the cash wrap feeling worse than he had in the morning. His head felt warm, his stomach carried more than he’d eaten, and a sharp pain rode down his back. He glanced at his watch and realized it was lunchtime. He wasn’t that hungry, but he needed the hour to get his body back together and perhaps a couple bites of something couldn’t hurt. He let the shoe associates know to provide coverage in case there were suit shoppers. Monday afternoons were normally for unemployed or retired men browsing for suits to find work or be buried in.
Stuart rarely worried about losing sales while away because he knew the averages were in his favor. If a man coughed up $400-$700 on a suit, they’d want expert advice from someone who actually wore a suit. Not from bumbling, nerdy shoe associates in their somehow wrinkled wrinkle-free Dockers, oversized woven shirts, and mismatched ties. He felt he was high stakes poker to their Dungeons and Dragons. He also knew in a sluggish economy there weren’t any impulse suit shoppers. Suit shoppers had to be convinced by a professional if they were to burden themselves with a large purchase and a department store credit card, and with the rare exception o
f the mesmerizing blonde sales girl, they needed Stuart’s knowledge and reassurance or they’d do better taking their shrinking wallets across the mall to a competitor.
In the food court, Stuart was taken aback by the penetrating grease smell. The smell was no stronger than any other day, but he felt the grease creeping through his pores disguised as bubbling sweat on his forehead. Glancing at his lunch tray made the feeling worse. Mongolian chicken drowning in sauce thick as pancake syrup, yellowish-brown rice crunchier than the decorative carrots in his tray’s corner, and a not-so-golden egg roll fried a minute too long. A couple bites to offset the feeling he had wasted his money, he spent the remainder of his lunch sipping 7UP.
On lunch breaks he’d eat at one of four places: Kid Valley, Ivar’s, Taco Time or Panda Express. Fast and fried, he’d rather not consider its negative health implications. Since he often ate salads at night, the negatives and the positives probably balanced out, he foolishly believed. He’d eat lunch alone and read The New Yorker or Sports Illustrated for enjoyment.
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