T.E. Wilderson
Tony Topolka had shied away from Déja Vu ever since Khrystal told him she’d put the whammy on him a few weeks ago. She was from New Orleans—and everybody knew about the voodoo going on there—so he took her at her word. But now he was closing in on a month-long sales slump that started after his wife, the dealership owner’s precious daughter, Marjean, had walked out on him exactly one month ago. He’d be damned if today wasn’t the day to end that bull and get his life back on track.
The minute he opened the lid of the pink pastry box, and saw it there, he knew his luck was changing for the better. There she was––a bear claw. The bear claw, because Georgette (the office manager whose girdle must be a size too small judging by her permanently puckered expression) only bought one despite his near-daily request for her to buy two and set one aside for him. She said she couldn’t so that no one could claim he was getting preferential treatment since Bruce, Tony’s father-in-law, was the owner. Which meant Melvin always got the spoils for coming in a half-hour early. And Tony was pretty sure the squeaky bastard came in early specifically for the bear claw. He refused to play such childish games such as See Who Can Come In Earliest For The Bear Claw.
So, holding the glazed pastry away from his new suit so he didn’t get sugar crumbles on it ––his new two-hundred-dollar-navy-blue-worsted-wool-bought-to-turn-his-luck suit––he took that first sweet bite. He knew it may be a little early in the season for wool, and he’s not really a superstitious guy, but this suit spoke to him. He thought he actually heard her whisper pick me––I’m the one you want. So he bought it and wore it with his lucky gold silk tie. He nodded his head at that first bite. Yes. This tastes like luck. He let the sugar coat the roof of his mouth as he walked toward the Big Board. He wanted to take one look at it again before it changed, and he was back in the top sales spot again over Melvin. Enough already. Everybody has slumps, he consoled himself.
He nibbled his way toward Georgette’s office, where she was sitting at her desk with her bulldog face scrunched over some paperwork. Tony stopped in her doorway long enough for her to notice him there. Then, he just held up the bear claw and said, “Cheers.” Taking another bite, he spun on his heels toward the conference room for the weekly sales meeting. D. J. and Keith were already seated at the long white table with their Styrofoam cups of coffee from the break room. Tony nodded good morning to the men, who paused from their chatter long enough to return the greeting, then took his usual spot at the table. Next to the head. Where Bruce always sat. He may have been in a slump, but no one had challenged his seat to Bruce’s right. It was important that he showed he was still second-in-command––his father-in-law’s literal right-hand man––despite his recent fumbling. Furthermore, he didn’t care if anyone thought he was the favored son since he was the boss’s son-in-law because he was the goddamn favored son. Which was why Bruce had yet to make mention of his losing streak, once clapping him on the shoulder in a way that said his confidence hadn’t wavered. They both knew Tony would be King of the Hill again.
Tony was licking the sugar off his fingertips when Bruce, a broad man with a silver crew cut, strode into the room, his voice booming greetings. Tony’s father-in-law wasn’t a chummy man, though he managed to be genial while direct. The kind of man who would fire you but leave you still wanting to shake his hand before you carried your file box of belongings out of the office while being escorted by security. Which was probably the key to his success. Tony admired this about the man. It was a quality his old man certainly did not possess. Tony was focused on getting on the sales floor. The only thing Bruce said that pierced his brain fog was that the salesman who went farthest over quota the next week would get a thousand-dollar bonus. A whole grand. Now the game was really on since the bonus was usually two hundred and fifty. Which meant sales overall really had been off the past week. The Big Board was right in showing that he wasn’t the only one flatlining. He’d also chalked up being off his game to his wife having walked out on him.
The moment Bruce announced the meeting was over, Tony made a beeline for the reception desk on the floor. Lorna was working today, which Tony regarded as a good thing since he found her to be the least peevish of the dealership’s three receptionists. He sidled up to the fortysomething woman and told her he liked what she’d done with her hair, despite the fact that her dishwater blond mop of curls appeared more or less the same as it ever did.
“I can’t believe you noticed,” gushed Lorna.
Tony poured it on, adding that whatever she did brought out the green in her hazel eyes.
She batted her black-mascara-clumped eyelashes at him before saying her boyfriend hadn’t noticed.
Tony replied that her boyfriend might be in need of corrective lenses and gave her a quick wink. Lorna’s cheeks splotched.
“How about you gimme a nod if a call comes in,” he said. “Just a nod––that’s all. That’d be aces.” He knew she couldn’t flat out direct call-ins straight to him. Just a heads up so he could get close to a phone before she announced the call over the PA system.
She gave him a look that said she might be onto his flattering ruse but wasn’t angry.
To be over the top, he added, “That blouse looks cute on you, too.” He knew he was pushing it. But she was the only person who’d worked at the dealership longer than him, which might bode well for him today. Plus, Lorna and Marjean had gone to high school together and were still friendly. Lorna did have her mood swings, but he seemed to be on her good side today. Tony was of the mind that Lorna’s cool moods coincided too often with days Georgette may have whined to the gals about his breaking a few ATM-issued twenties into singles out of the petty cash drawer. Never you mind that he needed the singles to go to Déja Vu at lunch. Georgette couldn’t really need that much petty cash, anyhow.
***
They’d rearranged the sales floor since he’d worked on Thursday, so Tony set about getting acclimated. He was checking out the sticker on one of their top-of-the-line sedans, when a later-middle-aged couple came in the door. They stepped in just far enough that the door didn’t close on their behinds and began looking around in wonderment as if they were in a mystical place and not an auto dealership on the edge of downtown. The couple stood frozen on the doormat looking like a couple of lost kittens. Tony caught the man’s eye and gave him a no-pressure-but-I-see-you nod. He was leaned over inspecting the price sticker on the passenger’s side window, when he felt the couple tepidly approaching from his right. Tony began his time-tested stratagem and opened by asking them how they were doing this fine morning. That’s it. Never ask if they need help––that’s a rookie move. Let them set the tone of the conversation, gauge their mood, then gather a little intel. A little so who’s the lucky shopper today? If they’ve come up to you it’s okay to assume they need help. The dumpy lady was dressed in a black sweatshirt with gold and silver flower appliqués and clutched her handbag to her side as if she was expecting Tony to swipe it and make off like a mad bandit. Married with grown children, he guessed, going off their matching wedding bands and graying hair. He took a flier and guessed the husband was going to be the negotiator, given he was the only one of the duo who’d spoken.
“Do you have that model in Coronado Gold?” the husband asked. He was wearing khakis and penny loafers that were scuffed in the toes but had shiny pennies in the decorative coin slot.
“Let me show you,” Tony said. Asking about specific colors meant this probably wasn’t their first rodeo, and that they’ve probably already driven the car. And have it in their mind today’s the day to buy. It was all he could do not to smile too broadly as he led them through the showroom. He complimented them on their color choice as they made their way outside to the lot. “That’s our hottest color,” he added. “You’re lucky we’ve actually got one in stock.” He knew for a fact that particular car was fully loaded and had hopes they were willing to pay for options. If they were looking for a base model, he was going to have to give them the hard sell.
“Does it have power windows?” asked the mousy wife.
“I believe it does,” Tony replied, dropping back so that he was in step with the woman. Bingo. If they’re interested in the power package this was a lock. The wife had spoken. Play to the mouse.
“I think I’ve got just what you’re looking for,” he added. He wagged his finger playfully at the taut-lipped woman. She gave him a pursed smile, but was obviously eased slightly by his efforts to charm her. “So,” Tony asked as he pointed at her hubby, “are you going to let him drive it once you get it home?”
She eked out another smile and shrugged as if she was a game-show contestant caught off guard by a question from the host.
Out in the bright lot, Tony maneuvered them toward the sedan he wanted them to see, and the tire kicking began. The timid wife failed to ask more questions, but when it came time to test drive the car, she took the wheel. Tony took them on what he called his “cheese route”—so named on account of it being a mini-maze of a drive that would hopefully lead them into his sales-clinching trap when they returned to the lot. About halfway down the main thoroughfare that the dealership sat on, a left turn up into the hilly white-picket-fence neighborhood, a quick clip on the freeway, then back to the dealership. They were turning back onto the lot when the mouse spoke again.
“It’s got nice pickup,” the mouse said to her husband.
From the back seat, the husband said, “Certainly does.”
Thirty-nine minutes later the mouse and her husband were driving their Coronado Gold sedan off the lot, and Tony had his first sale. He was heading back inside after having given the couple a warm send-off, when he caught Lorna giving him a wide-eyed look. He hustled to his desk and was doing a soft-shoe shuffle, fingers poised over the phone’s keypad, receiver to his ear when he heard Lorna announce there was a call. He held his breath while waiting for her to say the line number. As soon as the number was out of her mouth, he punched button three and said, “Tony Topolka. How can I help you today?”
***
And that was it for the morning. One quick sale followed by a god-awful lull. He decided he deserved a smokey treat. So he huffed a quick Lucky Strike—careful to hang up his suit coat before going out behind the dealership—and popped in a couple breath mints before returning to the floor. He was almost back in front when he realized it was lunch time, and did an about-face and headed toward Georgette’s office. He had no sooner darkened her door than he she was reaching him a stack of single dollar bills as if she’d been expecting him. And why wouldn’t she be? Despite the fact he’d skipped the last two, she knew what day it was––Saturday.
“Don’t spend it all in one place,” she said, as she relieved him of his twenties.
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, I won’t,” Tony replied with a snort. He wouldn’t let her shriveled smirk dampen his mood. “You know what? I think I’m gonna need twenty more.”
“You’re wiping me out.” Still, Georgette went into her drawer and pulled out twenty additional singles.
He folded the bills in half, and tucked them in the pocket of his slacks. Today he was going to get a lap dance from Diamond. She called him “Big Papa” no matter how much he tipped her. And ever since Khrystal had stopped talking to him, Diamond had been extra attentive. Why Khrystal had become bitter with him after the paternity test came up negative for him being her baby’s daddy was a mystery. He’d paid for the test without complaint and had assured her he would take care of his obligations if it came to that. That was one thing his old man had taught him. Take care of your obligations. And he would have. Quietly, of course, but he would have. Heck. He was not so opposed to the thought of maybe having a son. It wasn’t that he didn’t adore his three daughters. He did, and Marjean too. It was why Khrystal’s jaws got so tight when she found out he wasn’t the father that had him perplexed. Sure, he made a decent living, but it’s not like he was thinking about leaving his family or anything crazy like that. And he could come up with only so much child support. Which he thought was what Diamond understood that Khrystal didn’t, and why Diamond stepped up to the plate after Khrystal started giving him the cold shoulder. Raven, Kira, and Paris were more or less Switzerland while all of that played out, and Tony didn’t blame them. He and Raven went way back. And after whatever-you-might-call-it ended with Khrystal, Raven still gave him special treatment. Kira told him about her woes with her boyfriend, who was apparently dabbling in pimping, so they kind of had that connection. Paris was looks-wise his favorite, mostly because her “assets” looked real, and she had the best gams. She was the prettiest by a long shot. So when she’d hustled up to him in the parking lot one afternoon asking for help, he never asked why––he just gave her the money and let her pay him back when she could. His guess was she was pregnant and in trouble. But that wasn’t his business. Don’t ask, don’t tell, like they say in the Army.
He’d downed his ginger ale and was thinking of heading back to work when, lo and behold, Khrystal cat-crawled across the stage toward him. He took it as a sign and tucked a few singles into her garter. Maybe his luck was changing for the better. Perhaps the bear claw hadn’t been a fluke.
***
When he clocked out he had made one paltry sale, and Melvin had four sales in a row. A goddamn row. Even on his best days, Tony rarely did four in a row. Not only was he not out of his losing streak, Melvin was on his way to bonusland. Tony planned to take the little missus to Murray’s steakhouse when his streak broke. He loved their New York strip. Marjean always got the petit filet mignon which, since she was a petite woman herself, he found kind of cute. Once upon a time, he knew how to make her smile even when she didn’t want to. Usually. Like when he would remind her Saturdays were poker night with the guys. His charms hadn’t worked that Friday, though, when she announced that she was going to stay with her mother for a while. Tony hoped that whatever had gotten her panties in a bunch was smoothed out after a week without him. But that week had stretched into two. Then three. Now it was four. Women.
***
He stopped at Mickey’s Liquor and bought a large bottle of Johnnie Walker Black before heading to the poker game at Phil Holcomb’s house in the formal dining room, which was now his man cave. On the drive over, he smoked a Lucky at full tilt. He tsk-tsked aloud in between puffs. The day should have gone better. The signs were all there. The lucky new suit. The bear claw. The quick early sale. Khrystal. Then nothing. He couldn’t take any more bad luck. He was breaking.
The rest of the gang were already there: Phil, Huey, and Mort. First placing the Scotch on the bar cart, he greeted his friends before pouring himself a neat lowball. They heckled him for being a few minutes late. After the day he’d had, the jabs didn’t faze him. Phil was shuffling the deck of cards. Tony placed his drink on a cork coaster, shucked his jacket, draped it over the chair back, then took his seat.
One of the things Tony enjoyed about poker night was the ability to let off steam. About work. About women—and he’d talk about all of them. But tonight, he didn’t feel like grousing. He wanted to win, and win big. That was the plan. He’d even tell Marjean to go out and buy a new outfit for their steak evening. She deserved it. She deserved so much more than he could give her, even when he was riding high. And he’d ride high again. He refused to think about what losing his wife would mean.
The game, as always, was Texas Hold’em. The first game went to Mort. So did the second. When the third round went to Phil and Tony saw his stack of chips dented by a few too many bad calls and a tiny bluff, he knew he had to pull himself together. He drained his drink and went to pour himself another. The bar cart was in front of a bay window. He paused and took in the low-slung full moon. Soughing to himself, Tony wondered if that was the cause for the crazy day. Not that he necessarily believed in that mumbo jumbo. Marjean did. Usually he scoffed at her, though, and made a joke about warning the werewolves not to touch his TV clicker. He got so lost in the glow of the moon, Phil had to call his name and break the trance.
It was Tony’s turn to deal. The betting started off with Mort raising the initial five-dollar bet to ten dollars. Huey saw that—and raised the bet by another ten. This made for a tidy little first-round pot. Tony peeked at his hole cards. He felt comfortable doing that. He had a great poker face, which was one advantage of being a car salesman. Tony always had at least three hundred dollars on him, but he rarely let himself lose more than a hundred. Lifting the corners of his two cards, he saw that he had the ace and five of spades. He could handle that. Maybe work toward an aces-high straight. Or flush. But with the way his day had been going . . .
Tony flipped over the first community card: the king of clubs. He had bubkes. Dreams of a flush were dashed. He could still hope for another ace. Two would be nice, but chances were slim. Tony dealt the second “turn” card. Jack of hearts. A bet at this point would be risky. He knew he didn’t have a “tell”—a habit other players could read to guess your hand.
Phil started by tossing in a ten-dollar chip. When Mort raised to fifty, the left corner of his mouth twitched. Everyone noticed. That meant he was holding something pretty. Huey saw his raise—and raised an extra fifty. Tony’s mind started reeling. Huey was a known bluffer. Was he trying to rattle Mort? The pot was pretty rich for Tony’s blood. And, he wasn’t holding anything to hang his hat on. But at that moment, he felt this primal urge to howl at the moon. It may have been the rollercoaster day. It could be the thought of ending the night on a high note. Khrystal had forgiven him for whatever transgression she’d been mad about. He had made a sale that morning. He had a sweet wife who he needed to be at home. He vowed to show up on his mother-in-law’s doorstep the next day with a bunch of French tulips and a box of Godiva truffles for Marjean. Talk to her about why she’d run off to her mama’s. Happy wife, happy life and all that. His wife was one loss he wasn’t going to take lying down.
The sugary goodness of the bear claw came back to him. Tony took a long sip of his Johnny Walker. Held it in his mouth. Let the malty warmth of the liquor burn his upper palate. What he wasn’t going to do was be meek when he wanted—needed—to show the world he knew what’s what. Tony Topolka was no loser. He wasn’t losing Marjean and would even give up Déja Vu if that’s what it took. And, there was still time left to climb back to the top of the Big Board. It all added up to taking a risk. He wasn’t going to wait. The final “river” community card be damned. A man’s man didn’t need Lady Luck.
“Fellas,” he said, shoveling his dwindled stacks of chips into the center of the table with the care of someone laying a sleeping newborn in their cradle, “I’m all in.”
#
T. E. Wilderson is an African American, New Orleans-born writer currently living in the Midwest. By day, she is a copy editor and creative writing teaching artist. Her short stories have appeared in F(r)iction, Notre Dame Review, Crack the Spine Anthology XVII, The Louisville Review, The Tishman Review, Still: The Journal, Cobalt Weekly, and The Account: A Journal of Prose, Poetry, and Thought, among others. She holds an MFA in creative writing from Spalding University and is a PEN/Emerging Voices fellowship finalist and McKnight Foundation Creative Writing Fellow.