Laverne stepped onto a milk crate, in front of a hand-painted poster of old men and women tossing away their canes; wavy-haired men flexing their muscles; trim-waisted women admiring their jewels; and apple-cheeked children scoring touchdowns. Laverne followed the circus, setting up just outside the grounds, along with the other traveling salesmen. The poster hung from his open car trunk, which was filled with bottles packed in wood shavings. A throng of townsfolk was filing into the circus along a dirt path, kicking up a low cloud of dust turned golden in the late-afternoon sunlight. Laverne waited for eye contact, but they were slow to respond, hats protecting their heads from the heat, as they excitedly chattered about what the circus held for them. Then finally, a man slipped off his hat to wipe his scalp with a hanky, and Laverne caught his eye.
“Sir, you appear to suffer from advancing forehead disorder. Did you know that men with a full head of hair earn on average 40% more than men who are follicle challenged? Wouldn’t you like to earn more money simply by rubbing this fine emollient on your scalp and suffer nothing more than the tingling sensation of satisfaction?”
The man returned his hat to his head, and kept on. A woman herding her children looked up and gave Laverne a glancing, polite smile.
“And you madam, you are, if you don’t mind me saying, a stunning vision and a joy for these world-weary eyes to rest upon. But I note that you have perhaps been 39 for several years now? Remember your 20s when every head in the room would turn your way and men stumbled and fumbled just to catch your eye and life was as easy as drawing a breath? Would you like to turn back the clock by merely taking a teaspoon a day of this miracle elixir?” She looked away, easily escaping Laverne by chasing after her children.
Laverne could feel the heat on the back of neck, but he didn’t sweat. He was always comfortable in the heat, yet he held very still, conserving his energy in between pitches. A chubby man in overalls stumbled a bit, catching the shoe of the person ahead of him. The person turned, “watch it fatty!” and the fat man slowed. Laverne was sure he had finally found his target.
“And you my good man, I see that you suffer from short-arm syndrome. What’s that, never heard of short-arm syndrome? Why of course that’s when your arms are too short to push away the dinner plate, so you simply keep on eating.” The fat man’s friends laughed. “It’s not your fault you’re living with the arms with which you were born. You love to eat, and who doesn’t? Food is for eating, and if you put just a drop of my tincture on your tongue before every meal soon you will be as lithe and lean as a fresh Marine.”
The fat man had moved off the path, his two friends in tow poking at his sides to remind him of his girth.
“It’s so simple, and so safe, even a woman could use it. You know about women, don’t your friend? The fairer sex, their powdered bosoms and creamy thighs reveal all the mysteries of heaven and earth. Your friends know, surely they are men of the world.” A few more boys and men stopped when they heard talk of bosoms and thighs.
“I see by your blank expressions that you have yet to enjoy the gifts offered by the fairer sex. Within these bottles is your solution. The short become tall, the tall become handsome, the handsome become wise and the wise become virile. This life-changing snake oil has medicinal powers like nothing else that has ever been bought or sold on the face of this earth.”
The fat man spoke, “Snake oil? Mister, you’re sellin’ actual snake oil?”
“Indeed I am sir. Distilled from the most powerful serpents in darkest Africa. Powerful creatures that neither walk nor crawl, but move about the earth and in the trees like sentient liquid. Their muscled bodies as thick as tree trunks and hard as an iron rod. What creature brought men out of their innocence in the Garden of Eden? The snake! And why? Because snakes were made from the waters God made on the second day, a creature not of heaven or earth. With mysterious ways and curative powers that have been condensed into the soothing remedy I hold in my hand.”
Laverne pointed to a weedy man, at the back of the small gathering, “You sir, are you happy with your life? Have all your dreams been realized and your wildest fantasies borne fruit?”
“Me?” the man responded slowly in a thin voice, “well, no, I guess not yet.”
“And do you know why you are still wallowing in a misery of your own making?” Laverne pressed.
“Well, now, wait a minute …”
“Because you don’t have,” Laverne paused for a beat, “It.”
Laverne stopped, standing still once again, and let the quiet drive someone to action.
A chinless man up front asked, “Don’t have what?”
“Precisely sir! What is it? You know it when you see it! Certain men and occasional women have it and immediately you feel it. That indefinable thing that sets them apart from the rest of us. They seem to glow or shimmer in a way others do not, and yet it is elusive. Mysterious. Mercurial. But your suffering is at an end my friends. The antidote to your wretched lives is within these unassuming bottles.
“Ain’t no snake oil gonna make us be like that,” a trout-shouldered man with glasses protested.
“A cynic is in our midst friends. And I will say to you sir, that no, this miraculous medicine will not change your life; because you do not believe. How was Caesar able to conquer the ancient world? He believed that he could. How was Hannibal able to cross the Alps? How was Genghis Khan able to build the Mongol Empire? Because they believed. Faith sets us apart from the animals, and makes all our dreams possible.”
“Faith? I ain’t never seen a preacher selling snake oil before,” said the fat man. The crowd laughed softly at this.
“I’m no preacher friend. No, but I’m sure all of you are God fearing men. But have you ever wondered what it is that you fear? Do you fear to dream of a better life? Do you fear to be rich, to be thin, successful, able to get any woman you want? You’re afraid to live the life you know you deserve, and every Sunday you’re told to count your blessings and to settle for less. But in these bottles is the more you deserve; at last you have it, and it will bring you all the joys you desire.”
By now about fifty people had gathered, men, women and children gathering like flies on a piece of meat. Laverne moved into his final pitch.
“I can promise each of that my tincture will cure your ills, turn your bad luck to good, and give you everything in life you’ve ever wanted. And I’m so sure of this, I will give it anyone who asks at no cost to you today.”
“What? Free? What’s the catch?” lisped a buck-toothed boy in the front.
“I’ll come back this way one day, and collect from those that believed, and finished the whole bottle just like it says on the label. And I’ll know who you are because you will be the best-looking, wealthiest, most successful people in town. And if it doesn’t work, you don’t owe me a thing. All you have to do is sign your name in my book. Now what do you have to lose?” Laverne gave a bottle to nearly everyone in the crowd and collected signatures. Afterward, they went on their way to the circus and many had one of the best nights of their lives.
That evening, as the circus was reloading the tents and animals for the next town a salesman approached Laverne as he was repacking his trunk.
“I can’t figure your angle, friend,” he pulled on his cigarette until it crackled.
“What angle would that be?” Laverne asked, not looking up from his bottles.
“I’ve seen your pitch and you’re good. So I figure you know what you’re doing, but how do you make any scratch giving the bottles away?” The salesman had removed his sweat-soaked tie, his shirt and pants rumpled and damp from the hot night air.
“It’s just like I said, I come back later, and if the tonic works I collect.”
“Right,” the salesman said sarcastically. “The tonic. You mean this mix of bourbon and kerosene; you’d be lucky if they don’t go blind let alone have their dreams come true.”
Laverne carefully folded the poster, “if they believe in the bottle, and really embrace what’s in their hearts, it works. If not, it doesn’t work. But it’s a path really, not an overnight cure. So I come back later, and see which path my customers have taken, and collect accordingly.”
“Sounds like a bunch of voodoo to me. But I always respect the long con.” He flicked his cigarette butt. “Never had the patience for it myself. I sell vegetable peelers; they rust out after a month, but the first week they work like a slice of heaven. The rubes love the line, ‘like angels carving clouds into snow, you will praise the wondrous ease of this peeler.’”
“Angels don’t like to get their hands dirty.” Laverne slammed his hood shut, and moved smoothly to his seat, his suit and shirt still as crisp as when they were laundered. “Good luck with the peelers and the rubes. And if you’d like to learn more about the long con, look me up, I’ll be around.” He started his car; on the radio a Baptist preacher was mid-sermon, working the congregation into a frenzy.
Laverne chuckled to himself as he drove into the night and on to the next town.