It's Dark!A Story by Woodya fledgling salesmanYawrzt Rooly is not a
handsome man. In fact, he is quite an ordinary six-foot-tall man with the broad
shoulders of a wrestler. On the wrong side of fifty, he still has a full head
of jet black hair, greying at the temples. His eyes are a little closer than
they should be and his nose is pinched and pointy. When he smiles, which he
does quite often, people are always dazzled by his white, perfectly aligned
teeth. Yawrzt’s smile is certainly his best asset and in his line of business,
an attractive smile is a killer. Yawrzt is a sales agent. What Yawrzt lacks in
looks, he largely makes up for in charm. He was born with a great gift of the
gab. Yawrzt is the man of the agency.
None of his colleagues can come within a mile of him. He lives out of town. In fact,
he would sell a fridge to an Eskimo living in Nigeria. Yawrzt found out about
his gift early in life. Whenever he recalls his first sale, a wide smile lights
up his features.
When Yawrzt was nine, he
wanted to become a professional footballer. He spent hours kicking a ball in
the garden. On Sundays, he would badger his father to take him to the park
where he would spend the whole morning dribbling and juggling, imagining
himself to be Messi or Ronaldo. One day, (I bet my last dollar you’ve just said: At last, he’s come to the interesting part! Well, I’m sorry but I had to put you in the picture. I have a reputation to safeguard) he was playing in the hall with his ball when it rolled/bounced into the large boot closet which happened to be open. Yawrzt went to fetch it but sat inside as he often did. He started a conversation with himself, imagining he was signing autographs to beautiful girls. He heard the bell and saw his mother rush to open the door. (I heard
you! You’ve just said: Where the hell’s he going with this? Look, if you’re
going to stop me every two minutes, you’d better go read something else.) Yawrzt heard his mum
whisper with that tall man who often came to their house, always when his dad
was not around. He heard giggling which stopped abruptly when a key turned in the
entrance door lock. His dad. Next thing he knew, his mum was roughly pushing
the man inside the closet and locking it. “It’s dark,” said
Yawrzt. Slightly taken aback,
the man whispered back: “I know but don’t worry, we’ll soon be out of here.” “Would you like to buy
my ball?” “Euh, no, thanks.” “Let me out!” “Ok, ok, I’ll buy it. How
much?” “A hunnered dollars.” “Jesus Christ! Are you
out of your mind?” hissed the man. “Let me out!” “Oh, God! Here! Take the
money! Give me the ball!” And that was the very
first sale of Yawrzt. A week later, Yawrzt was
in his favourite spot on the closet floor when his client was frantically
shoved into the closet and the door hastily shut and locked. “It’s dark,” said
Yawrzt. God Almighty, muttered
the man and, a little louder, “I know but don’t worry!” “Would you like to buy
my sneekers?” “Kid, they would never
fit me.” “Let me out!” “For crying out loud! How
much?” “Hunnered and twenty.” “Jes.. Here’s the money.
Give me the sneekers, you little devil,” hissed the man.
The following Sunday,
Yawrzt’s dad said to his son: “Say, Champ, how about
we go to the park for a little practice?” “Can’t.” “Why?” “I sold the ball and the
sneekers.” “You what? Why, silly
boy?” “So we can buy new ones
with the money,” replied Yawrzt calmly. “And how much did you
sell them?” “Hunnered for the ball,
hunnered twenty for the sneekers.” “What the…! But that’s
daylight robbery! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? I’ve a good mind to give you
a good beating, you little thief. Come! Let’s go to church.” “Why?” “You’re going to confess
your sin to Father Mc Kenzie, you bad boy and maybe, just maybe, you won’t go
to hell.” “I don’t want to go to
hell,” said Yawrzt, eyes brimming. “We’ll see what Father
Mc Kenzie has to say.”
Inside the church,
Yawrzt was pushed into the confessional, unceremoniously, by his father who
drew the curtain back and strode outside to smoke a cigarette, still fuming. “It’s dark,” said
Yawrzt. “Don’t you f*****g
start!” came the reply from the other side of the partition. © 2016 WoodyAuthor's Note
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26 Reviews Added on March 28, 2016 Last Updated on March 30, 2016 Tags: the art of selling, confessing one's sins AuthorWoodyMateur, Bizerte, TunisiaAboutok, time for an update I think. my old friends have come to know me pretty well, I trust so this is for the new comers. I'm a Tunisian 60-year-old teacher-cum-translator, book worm who enjoys writing.. more..Writing
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