Jaunty. Surefire. Full of brass. That’s how people described Clint Burnish. His hair and eyebrows stood straight out as if made of brick clay pushed through a sieve. He bathed once a week, his hair shifting about like an unreliable bird’s nest. Most of the time he wore a golden corduroy suit with a matching vest and tortoise-shell buttons. His shirts had a weekly rotation, but the suit was every day. He washed it on Sunday, and every Monday the raised, graham-cracker lines were refreshed to a velvety sheen. Clint was striking and memorable, which he used as he went door-to-door selling thimbles.
“Thimbles are the greatest door-to-door item ever conceived,” Clint would tell his fellow salesman over a beer in the hotel bar. “Easy to transport a large inventory and wide selection; from penny-pinching to lavishly luxuriant. With a vacuum, you’re lucky to carry two or three. Encyclopedias? You’ll break your back! Fuller brushes? Sure you can pack a couple dozen in your suitcase, but where’s the romance? A thimble is not only the best friend of the housewife, but a ceramic collectible brings the wonders of Europe, the Orient, and even darkest Africa to even the simplest home.” The other salesmen rolled their eyes, smoked their cigarettes, and chuckled at Clint’s monologue. But his confidence was unshakeable. “Laugh if you want! I know my business and my customers. I’ll be laughing all the way to the bank!”
“Thimbles? Who would buy those bits of trash?” Vole Largeman joined the other salesmen who fell silent upon his arrival. Vole sold wire and springs. “The world runs on wire and springs! No home or farm can operate without them.” Vole had a reputation for his strongarm tactics and shoddy products. He was the reason door-to-door salesmen had a bad name. His demonstration items were the finest available, but when hapless customers opened their box of goods they found gravel, rock salt, and broken bits of wire. Vole was usually long gone, but occasionally a distraught patron would chase him down and demand a refund. Towering over them, he’d laugh, “Capitalism. It runs on separating fools from their money. Never forget that.” If they challenged him further, he’d give them a thump to the chest removing both their and air and resolve.
“You’ll ruin it for all of us,” Clint said, pointing a freckled finger at Vole.
“If you want to keep that finger you may want to rethink your tone, Bozo.” Vole took a long sip of his drink.
“I know what you think—I look like a clown. I’ve heard the nicknames: Pumpkin Top. Rustylocks. The Corduroy Carrot. That’s what gets me in the door. A quality product, salesmanship, and customer service get me in the door the second time. A repeat customer does the work for you. Too bad you can’t see that, Largeman.” The other salesmen looked at their laps or the ceiling, discreetly shifting away from the table.
“You’re a plucky little sprout, I’ll give you that,” Vole said. “But I’m out there busting my hump just like the rest of you. I’m here to get mine, like the rest of the world—more if I’m able.” Vole brushed against the table as he stood, nearly toppling it. Glasses of beer crashed to the ground and Vole just chuckled.
“You owe me a drink!” Clint said, standing chest-height as he looked up at Vole. Largeman considered him for a moment as the other salesmen shrank. “Good for you little sprout. Good for you. You’re right. I do owe you a drink. C’mon.” Vole led Clint to the bar as the other salesmen happily escaped to their rooms.
The two men drank and shared stories. Clint told of the cruelty he suffered at the hand of children and adults, berating his orange hair and see-through skin. But he overcame it thanks to an act of kindness from another salesmen. Vole had no story of redemption. His size made him a target of abuse and violence his whole life. Since brute force was his only tool, he worked to get all he could from it. The two men drank until the bar closed, the barkeep steadying them as they wobbled out the door and into the cricket-filled night.
“You wanna see somethin’?” Clint asked Vole. “C’ mere, it’s in my car.” Vole slid into the passenger seat, his head brushing the ceiling as the seat springs squeaked for mercy. Clint turned on the dome light and reached under his seat, straining to remove something that seemed stuck. He grinned with triumph when he finally jerked it loose. Clint held a small iron box, dented and scratched as if dragged behind a car. “It’s really old. Been handed down for generations. But don’t let the box fool you. There’s treasure inside.” Clint handed the box to Vole who struggled to focus his eyes on the tiny object.
“Go ahead, open it,” Clint said. Vole moved his bratwurst fingers over the little box but the lid held fast. He pulled on the top until the steel started to groan.
“Twist the lid half a turn counterclockwise. Then it’ll pop open. It’s a special security box.”
“Why didn’t you just say so dumbass.” Vole turned the lid which clicked open revealing a golden thimble. The dimpled texture sparkled as Vole examined it.
“Solid gold. And rare. Very rare. There’s not another one like it in the whole world I bet.”
Vole looked at Clint, his eyes red-rimmed and watery. “Thank you. It’s a fine gift.”
“Gift? It’s not a gift. It’s mine.”
“No little sprout. It’s a gift. You’re thanking me for not beating you to a pulp tonight and ruining your cute little suit.”
“Gimme that!” Clint reached for the box as Vole held him back as if he wasn’t there.
“There’s two things that can happen,” Vole said. “You calm down and quietly give me the thimble, or I give you a beating and take the thimble. Which do you choose?”
“You don’t understand. The thimble is what saved me. It was a gift from the salesman. I was going to give it to you, but you can’t just take it.”
“Little sprout, this thimble isn’t worth a beating. Just give it up quietly and we can both go on about our lives.”
“I’ll be fine,” Clint said, “But I’m worried about you. This is your opportunity to take a different path. You won’t always be the biggest and the strongest. And a bullet can stop you as easily as any other man.”
“Are you threatening me little man? You have a gun hidden somewhere in that silly suit?” Vole slapped Clint, caroming his head from the window to the steering wheel, knocking him out cold. He closed the lid on the box and slipped it in his coat pocket. The seat sighed with relief as he got out and started walking back to the hotel. The box made a whirring sound, then a click. A second later a loud pop silenced the crickets as a bullet entered Vole’s belly, tearing through arteries as it went. He fell to the gravel, still unsure what had happened as his life drained away.
Half an hour later, Clint came to and retrieved the box from Vole.
“Somebody has to teach you how to open and close the box, dumbass.”