Money's Tight

The first step to picking up the pieces is knowing where you left them.

This time of year, it rains everyday.  Can't be helped.  A curtain will pull itself down without a warning and you just have to let it.  And it seems every time it rains there's some poor car slouched on the side of the road.  Or maybe there’s two cars angled at one another it the middle of the intersection like territorial animals.  Bleeding.  Growling.  Not backing down.  Times like that a small mistake, which would normally mean nothing at a low velocity, a barely noticeable lull in attention with all the traction in the world taken for granted, well, it can make all the difference.  And the traveling salesman, wipers on full speed, have to crawl by to catch a squinty-eyed look at the loser who thought he knew what he was doing.  Every single f*****g day.

“Remember, don’t worry about selling.  They’re gonna to say no.  To you they are going to say no.  'No' is just a step people need to get through before they say 'yes'.  Let me handle their objections.  ‘We only take cash, we just switched over, I have to talk to my co-owner.’  You’re gonna hear it all.  But, don’t worry about it.  Your job is to sell yourself, not the product. We don’t need to know if the product sells, we know it does.  The product sells itself.  Just walk in the door and make a three-minute friend.  ‘Good morning I’m Mitch Whoever from IPP and we service businesses here in Southwest Florida.  Looks like you’ve got a great place here, how long have you been in business?’  Just start asking them questions, get to know them.  Talk about what you know.  You guys down there are always talking about fishing.  Talk about fishing. Just be yourself.  You ever make thirteen hundred dollars in one day, Mitch?  It’s a great feeling, trust me.  You seem like an outgoing guy, just be yourself.“

“Ok, I got it.  Let me make some calls.”  Casually flipping through a list of nameless pictures on his phone, Mitch picks out a boy.  The boy's eyes are thick glazed in curiosity and hesitation, a space in-between not knowing what he wants and aching for it at the same time. Vulnerable.  Eighteen. White. One-forty pounds.  Two miles away.  Mitch bites his bottom lip and sends a quick message:

 

Are you really eighteen?

 

“You’ve got an 11 o’clock appointment but go ahead and knock on some doors.  Make some calls.  This thing is all about averages.  It’s not about selling everyone.  Just keep at it and eventually you’ll sell.  The more presentations you make the more you sell.  Get comfortable.  Make a friend.  Get through the pitch and call me.  These appointments have already shown interest, Mitch.  The sales team works all day to get you these leads.  They cost money, Mitch.  The only way you can go wrong is if you don’t put me on the phone with them.  Talk to you soon.”

Yes.  Working?

 

Driving around for work.

 

I'm a little horny.

 

Yea?

 

When are you free?

 

I have an appointment at eleven.  I have some time before then.

 

Mitch eyes the shops along street and pulls into a strip mall with a nail salon, a printing service, and a vapor lounge. Looks like you're starting all over again.  Knock on those doors, Mitch.  Be yourself.  This is what’s left.  You sure crawled yourself into a pretty ditch this time, this is how you're gonna climb out of it.  Nobody's gonna help you.  Nail salon, talk about the security features.  Printing service focus on inventory.  Vapor lounge, hell, just knock on those doors already.

He knows the longer he stays in the car the more likely he is to drive off without making a single pitch.  He takes a breath and opens the car door as if one depended on the other.  Inside a chemical smell hangs in the stillness of the nail salon.  The stations placed systematically stretch to the back of the long salon just as the fluorescent fixtures embedded in the ceiling.  Each is occupied by an Asian woman in silent diligence and a quiet patron submitting a hand or foot.  A man in a pink polo holding a woman's fingers delicately at the front station looks directly at Mitch who shuts the door as he enters.  The plastic blinds rattle and let in as little natural light as they can.  Others perk their heads to see who has walked in the door.  

Focusing completely on the man’s face, his eyes, Mitch purposefully avoids all other details in the room.  He avoids the woman whose hand is being tended to and all the other patrons.  In their blank stares he simply looks like an obvious nuisance.

“Hello sir.  How are you?  My name is Mitch with IPP.  Integrated Payment Processing.  I’m here in the neighborhood helping out businesses with payment processing.  As an industry leader we can offer services that could save you more money than what you might currently be using for merchant services.”  The man looks away, attending to his client’s nails, intimately.

“I’m here to show you some of our newest products that can really drive your business-“

“Hey!  You there!” A woman from the back calls out in a thin accent,  “I’m the owner and we don’t have time to hear about your services.  We receive too many calls from you all the time and we are not interested in changing at all.   Thank you, now, please leave.”

The patrons sit motionlessly, seeing Mitch in the corner of their eyes.  The smallest sounds emit from the detailed finger work.  Mitch raises his voice to carry over their heads to the back of the salon.  “Sorry to trouble you bu-”

            "I said I wasn't interested!"  A quick smile and Mitch reaches behind him for the door. 

            Outside the nail salon, the sun adds weight on his shoulders.  He glances at the time on his phone, not even five minutes had passed.  The heat presses on him and Mitch realizes he can feel his clothes in ways he's not used to.  He starts sweating immediately.  Don’t let them cut you off.  They already have a service.  You’d have to be crazy not to accept cards.  Let them know you know.  You know all about it, don't you?  Voracious hounds on the telephone demanding a bit of time here and there, telling you what you need, telling you to wise-up, telling you to be ahead of the game, how much you owe.  Little faces popping in to smile and propose their way into a conversation just to explain how wrong you are about your own business.  You've heard it all, haven't you?

 

            At eleven?

 

            Yeah, got to be somewhere.

 

            Maybe we should just wait 'till you’re off.  Have more time.

           

            I only have the car when I'm working.  

 

            Why?

 

            It's not my car.

 

            Mitch sends a picture of his middle-age body in the bathroom mirror.  He's sucking in his gut and holding his veined penis at the base.  The head is bulging and hair creeps around his legs and amass in his crotch.  He’s smirking at himself but the photo cuts off just above the lips.  This photo is for prospecting.  He sticks the phone back in his pants, breathes deep and presses the door to the print shop.  Printing machines line the edge of the open room.  Stacked, elongated rolls of paper and two small desks sit idly under the bright, office light.  Two women are at the first desk.  Their dresses are generic and are each of one color.  Green girl and blue girl.  They talk low and casual.  An older man leans back thoughtfully at the second desk.  If they notice Mitch walk in they make no effort to show it.

            “Hello there, my name is Mitch.  Mitch Rydell I’m with IPP.  Integrated Payment Processing.”  He addresses no one in particular but leans toward the man in the all-too comfortable position.  The women side-glance toward the old man without taking their attention off the conversation.  He lunges his body forward off the chair and lets out a weighted groan from deep within.  On his feet the man stands much taller than Mitch first thought.  Mitch ambitiously extends his hand.

            “Yes.  What did you want?”  Mitch's hand deflates.

            I’m here to show you some of the most innovative products we’ve ever offered.  I see you're already taking credit and debit cards.  Payment processing is actually just a small part of what we do.   That’s why I’m here to show you what services you could have working with IPP.  Why not get more out of your processing provider, that you're already paying for?

            “No. Not interested.”

            I get it.  You've got a service.  And you’re using this small terminal for processing correct? Tell me, what is this machine doing to make you money right now?  Other than swiping cards and collecting dust what does this device really do for you?  That’s why we’ve developed a full-service system that can really increase your profitability.  From inventory management to offsite business management and online integration we’ve got your entire merchant services under one roof!  Are you receiving the benefits of all these services?  Probably not, only our company as a direct merchant service has the flexibility to cut out the middleman and save you money while increasing your profits-"  Outside the print shop, Mitch checks the time.

 

            That c**k.  I want it.

 

            If you want it, take it.

 

            At the car Mitch drops his body into the seat.  He turns the key and the A/C to the setting where the gradually increasing blue line is the thickest.  The gearshift is surrounded by business cards with truncated notes, barely legible, shoved in small crevices by their corners.  First names and times he’s been told to call back.  They lay fanned out as the midday sun cooks the interior.  People buy from who they like.  Common, who wants to talk to a salesman?  They can smell ya a mile away, be likable.  Smile, but not like a toothy dumbass.  Smile like you're an old friend and haven’t seen this person in some time but you’re glad to you did.  He stares at the vapor lounge in the rearview as he backs out and drives away.  Mitch feels a buzz on his thigh.

 

            I want to shower with you.

 

            He punches the numbers from one of the cards. “Mr. Barr?  Mitch with IPP.  We spoke briefly last week and I’m in your area and I’d like to drop by to see if we can extend an offer to better serve you than your current payment processor.  Exactly.  You have one already.  And how long have you been with them?”    

            Mitch receives a picture of the boy's torso, also taken in the bathroom mirror.  He’s lifting up a basketball jersey with the same hand that holds the camera phone.  His bare stomach is symmetrical with soft definition, so natural, so new.  The other hand pulls gently down on his black basketball shorts revealing a hint of white blonde hair, his thin fingers redden at the tip with the effort.

            Mitch puts the puts the phone on speaker and types a message with the phone resting on the steering wheel.  His eyes glance from the screen to the road.  Mitch drives the rickety four-door down the main drag of the town.  Each store is another potential customer, except the major chains, of course.  IPP has a separate team to sell to the large companies, corporations.  Mitch eyes the locally owned, the 'mom and pop.'  Each gun seller, pawn shop, dollar store, coffee shop, bakery, thrift shop, dry cleaner, florist and psychic.  They all broke away from the grind to carve a small piece of the economy for themselves.  At some point in every pitch he remembers how good it felt to say no to people like him.

 

            You look so good.  I want to take your c**k and balls in my mouth.  I want to lick inside you.

           

            “That's quite a long time.  And how long since you checked your rates against other companies?  I can assure you our rates are much lower.  Let's get make some time to talk it out this week, see how much I can really save you.  You might be giving your money away to your provider who doesn't even have the other services we offer.”

 

            Come shower with me.

 

            Don't know if I have time to shower. Gotta be somewhere at 11. 

 

            What do you want to do to me?

 

            I just want to swallow you.

 

            I’m nervous, though.

           

            “That’s understandable.  Who wants to talk to a salesman, right?  But that’s the thing, I’m not even interested in selling you something.  That’s not what I do.  I want to get you in on ground floor of what we can offer.  Things maybe you haven’t thought about.  Let's meet up and I can show you how we can increase your profits and save on your monthly spending.  You see, I’m here to inform you.  I’m less of a salesman and more of an informer.  I want to let you how these services can help you manage your business better.”

 

            What makes you nervous?

 

            I don’t know.  Meeting someone new.  But I want to.

 

            To be honest, I'm nervous too.

            “Well, yes, in fact.  I have owned a business and you know what I didn’t do so good and I’ll tell you why:  When it comes down it, I felt like I had a good thing goin' and I didn’t change.  I resisted.  I said ‘Hey I’ve already made my decision and I’m not changing for no one’ and not adapting cost me a lot.  Ya know, it cost me, maybe too much.  It cost me everything.  Business is always evolving like technology.  We gotta be on top of these things Mr. Barr and that’s what we offer.”

 

            But you’re so sexy.  Send me another.

           

            I think you like the pictures more than the real thing.

“Thursday is perfect.  Like I said, I’m local so I can be around at anytime that is convenient.  Exactly.  Alright, Mr. Barr.  Make sure to have your credit statement so we can hash out the particulars.  Like I said, don’t worry about that.  We will cover that.  Yes. Bye.”

Sorry.  I’m really nervous.

 

Maybe you’re not ready for it.

Mitch scribbles a date on the back of Mr. Barr’s card.  Barr's Auto.  'Taking the time to do it right.'  They take the time to get your hopes up, but they don’t take time to cancel.  Mr. Barr could pay off your lawyer fees, anger counseling.  You need this, don't f**k it up.  Hell, it probably would help the poor b*****d out in that heap of a garage.  He should be so lucky to have such a new system, to take back control of his business.  I bet he didn’t even see it get away from him.

I am. 

Can I come now?

You sure you want to?

I want you.

I’m at 2641 Lincoln.  

I'm close.  I can be there in a few minutes.

I’m getting in the shower.  Come in the door will be unlocked.  Park across the street at the church.

The engine clicks and gurgles unnaturally as the car makes circles around the address the boy gave Mitch.  He casually sizes up the neighborhood.  The windows to the houses give an icey glare back.  Then a familiar sight caught his eye.

The last time Mitch saw this particular church the clouds were pale pink, the surrounding blue deepened to purple.  He sat nervously in an imperfect circle.  Introductions were being said clockwise.  Mitch wondered to himself if, when he spoke, he would tell the truth or just make another pitch.  He promised all those people that welcomed him so readily that he would return again and again.  They told him to just keep coming back, whatever happens.  Fight the good fight.  They gave him their phone numbers on a pamphlet.  The praise in their eyes was something awkwardly warm if not incredibly frightening.  They wanted him.  Badly.

Mitch thrusts the gear into park.  Across the church parking lot is a one-story house with a pick-up in the driveway.  The grass is slightly more wild at that house than all the others down the row.  Quiet neighborhood.  Looks different in the day.  Wholesome.  Who’s to say, though.  Wasn't it around here?  In the 70's a creep snatched up a couple kids and murdered them.  Strangled them with his bare hands.  Not before having his way.  They say he asked for a 9-year old boy and a steak before he was publicly electrocuted.  The phone buzzes at Mitch's side. TEAM LEADER, it reads.

“Mitch!  Haven’t heard from you all day.  Don’t let it get you down.  Some will say no, of course, but some will say yes and that’s what you have to keep your mind on.  You just gotta ask them about themselves, people love talking about themselves.  But don’t ask them what they want.  They don’t know what they want.  Tell them.  No, show them what they want.  Ask questions but don’t wait for the answers.  Salesman are artists, Mitch.  Imagine that you’re a painter and you’re painting a picture for them with your words.  Push.  Sure, it sounds aggressive.  But we are.  We are aggressive.  That’s the best way to get your point across.  Let me handle their objections.  By now you should have that presentation down, go ahead and try it on a few more business before your appointment.  Plenty of time to get some sales in before 11.  Go get’em.  Gimmie a call.  Alright.”

Mitch shoves his presentation folder under the passenger seat and heads to the boy's house.  The street crackles beneath his dress shoes as he approaches the house.  He knocks the door on formality alone.  He listens for movement, finds none, tries the knob and it opens.  

Water slaps against skin and falls to the ground in a bathroom on the right, echoing openly through the house.  Mitch feigns a lost look as he peers around each corner and at each peculiarity of a family home.  Family portraits hang, tabloid magazines and remote controls lay around the couch in the living room, and a silent electric piano sits knowingly in a small back room complete with a half-opened book of showtunes.  We're alone.  He presses the bathroom door and the sound of water heightens as the door swings. 

“Hello?”  A boy's nervous voice calls from in-between the water falling.

“Hi.”  Mitch quickly undresses and places his clothes on a peg on the back of the bathroom door.  He stands naked in the mirror and looks at himself before reaching for the bathroom curtain.  Still old, still hairy but with a smirk.  He peels back the curtain just enough to see the boy’s face.  The boy stands naked and averts his eyes, his skin pinkish from the hot water.  The boy's body looks soft to the touch, not as thin as his picture would have Mitch believe, but he didn't mind.  There was something tantalizing in the lie.  Mitch smiles and enters the shower.

“How has your day been so far?”  The boy stares ahead not looking at Mitch and rubs his body.

“Fine.  Just seeing appointments mostly.”

The boy's hands work the soap bar too quick to be nonchalant and too slow to be casual.  Both Mitch and the boy are wiping themselves mindlessly with water.  The boy says he has to clean his piercings, Mitch nods but has never had to clean a piercing.

“Did you want shampoo?”

Mitch hushes the boy with a small hand gesture, pulls his body gently in and presses their lips together.  He takes the boy’s hand and wraps his fingers around his c**k, now thick, and squeezes.  Their hands glide over their slick bodies until gradually they are in tight embrace. 

The two retreat to the boys’ bedroom.  Figurines line all the installed shelf space.  Posters of cartoons and movies cover the walls that peak bright blue beneath.  The faint smell of a pet lingers.  Mitch fits the young boy’s stiff c**k and balls in his mouth as his feet kick and push the covers off the bed.  Mitch tongues the apple-red head to feel the boy thrust up and let out small pouts and sighs.  Finally, the boy releases everything he has into Mitch’s mouth amid deep gasps.  Mitch swallows and savors the taste, blessing times when he’s enjoyed a boy so young, so afraid.  He sprays the boy and covers his chest and stomach in thick spurts.

A quick pause and the two share a nervous laugh.  The boy wraps a towel around his waist and jumps off the bed out of sight.  He’s talking about his school, how he wasn’t picked for the center of the upcoming dance performance.  He should have seniority, he said.  Mitch went to bathroom to retrieve his hung clothes.

“So you’re off to your appointment?”  The boy said still with the slight hesitation Mitch was beginning to adore.

“Yep.  Day’s not over yet.”  Mitch dressed quickly, and patted his pockets for his belongings out of habit.

            “Well at least you have a job.”

            Mitch gives the boy a last look, and felt a stiffness he wasn’t expecting.  He was wearing the same black basketball shorts as Mitch saw in his photo.  He still hadn't clean himself completely and Mitch thought he could pass for much younger.  Just as Mitch was outside the boy shut the door and locked it quickly.  The boy’s taste was still fresh in his mouth. The neighborhood stares back at him as he crosses the quiet street.  Mitch takes the keys from his back pocket and looks around the parking lot. 

Dread strikes and he stands in the spot where his car had been.  Now, there's no sign of it.  He spins, frantically glancing down each street hoping to see brake lights.  He looks down at his keys, the car key is missing.  He jerks his head to the boy's house and the locked door that separates him from the boy.  He flings his body full speed across the street and lunges his fists onto the front door.  A dog immediately starts barking.  Mitch’s words fire out and burn his throat.

            “You f*****g b*****d!  What have you done!  Open the door!  Where’s my car you goddamn s**t! I’m gonna break this f*****g door down!”

            Nothing.  No response.  Mitch checks his phone, shaking hysterically.  It won’t turn on.  It’s soaked. 

            “I still have your cum all over me!  Get the f**k outa here before I call the cops.”  A muffled voice bawls from behind the door.  Mitch lets out a screeching wail and pounds the door repeatedly.  The frame rattles violently but shows no sign of giving.

            "You and your friend are f*****g over!  Ya, hear me!  I don't care who you are I'm gonna take you apart with me bare-"

            “Hey!  You there!”  A high southern drawl calls from a car in the street directly in front of the house.  “Hey!”  The car’s horn honks irritably.  A pale face looks disapprovingly like the way a second grade school teacher's might.

            Mitch jumps and turns around.  Sweat rolls down his face, strands of hair poke in every direction.

            “Excuse me sir, can I help you?  I don’t think they’re home.  No matter how hard you knock.”

            Mitch suddenly realizes he's out of breath, dizzy, and stumbles to face to the car.    

            “I- This-“

            “You in some sort of trouble there, mister?  The Didericksons work all day, you ain’t gonna reach'em that way."  He speaks in a soft tone as if scolding a child, quietly.  Intimately.  "You calmed down yet?”

            “My car-“

            “You car?  You got troubles with your car?  Come on over here, I can’t hardly hear ya at all.”

            Mitch's body submits almost involuntarily but his eyes leer at the front door.  He leans his arm on the roof and scans the man in the window.  The man’s milky, concerned face clings close to the bone underneath with shallow wrinkles sprawling outward.  Mitch could imagine the exact shape of his skull.  His pale, grey eyes fix on Mitch’s. 

            “Listen, you got car trouble you don’t go pounding on someone’s door like that.  Never know who might call the police.”

            Mitch opens his mouth to explain but can't decide what to leave out.

            “It just so happens I’m on my way to my office.  Maybe I could give you a ride somewhere?  You live far from here?”

            “No I-“

            “Well you can’t stay here.  I suggest you take me up on my offer, seems like you could use a little help- mister?”

            “Rydell.  Mitch.  You can call me Mitch.  Thank you and- I think I will.”

            “Of course you will.” 

            Mitch glares at the house, small details burn in him that will be stuck with him until the day he dies.  He rounds the car, a deep red Corvette, to the passenger side.  The man inside immediately welcomes with a polite smile and a grim set of aged teeth.  He wears a kitschy, striped purple shirt with a tasteful grey tie and his head is topped with a toupee Mitch doesn't find convincing at all.  A hue in the man's skin makes Mitch uneasy, a thin shade of green in the visible veins.  Still, the coolness of the car soothes him.  Mitch leans back in the seat and they drive past the house.

            "Listen, I appreciate your help. I do.  What I really need is to get to a police station."  Mitch's words come out in exhausted puffs.

            "Well that sounds serious.  About your car?"

            "Yes.  Someone has taken my car and I need it-"

            "Well, of course, Mr. Rydell who doesn't need their car?"

            "I'm working, you see, and I need the car to meet these appointments.  It's not even my car-"

            "What sort of work you do, Mr. Rydell?"

            "Sales.  I'm a salesman."

            "Is that what you were doing at the Diderickson's place?  Selling?"

            Mitch opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

            "I'm an optometrist myself.  That's where I'm headed, to my office.  Lucky I passed you by actually, running a little late this morning.  I hope you didn't miss any appointments on account of your car."

            "Goddamn it!  What time is it?"
            "Just passed eleven-thirty."

            Mitch jabs the air accidentally clipping the dashboard a little harder than he anticipated, pauses then heaves a sigh.  The optometrist ignores this action.

            "Yep.  Been an optometrist my whole life.  Well, my father was an optometrist and my uncle was an optometrist.  Even got a couple optometrist cousins, whole family is in the health field so I like to say I've been an optometrist my whole life.  It was actually my uncle that got in interested.  Father wasn't around very much.  My uncle, he taught me everything I know. Everything little thing.  God bless his soul."

            The car rides smoothly around the suburb streets shaded by looming trees.

            "I was thinkin' you might be trying to reach young KC Diderickson.  Hollerin' at the door the way you were.  You acquainted with KC?"

            "KC? No. I was at their house on the job- as a sales appointment and someone made off with my car.  I guess I just got carried away, I- I let my anger get the best of me sometimes."

            "Well young KC has the tendency to get into trouble around the neighborhood, if ya catch my meaning.  Even as young as he is.  I could always ask him if he knows something-"

            "No, that's- that's not necessary.  I don't think- I'm sure- KC was it?

            "That's right."

            "I'm sure KC doesn't have anything to do with it.  You say he's fairly young?"

            "Fifteen, I believe."

            Mitch swallows the last taste of the boy.  All that's left in his mouth is a balmy sense of nausea.

            "Used to be a bit more meat on him.  KC, I mean.  But with all his activities he's sure slimming down.  We've fallen out of the talks we used to have.  That's how teenagers are, aren't they?  There one minute, gone the next.  Never can tell what they'll do.  But I always enjoyed his perspective.  Bright boy, that one.  Certainly brighter than he is light on his feet.  But they'll do what they want, won't they?  My uncle used to always say."

            The optometrist stops talking and eyes Mitch who's staying silently still.  He's somewhere else, squinting, his face tightening slowly with anger.  He's screaming, cursing, and clawing violently. 

            "Tell you what, why don't you go ahead and pitch me something.  What do you sell, exactly?"

            Rain stabs at the car lightly, the outside world warps in the droplets and melts down the glass.  Mitch feels his body taking more and more effort to stay awake.

            "Payment processing."  Mitch mutters.

            "Credit cards, debit cards things of that nature?"

            "Yea.  Well-" Mitch pulls down the vanity and presses his hair down.

            "Mr. Rydell I think you're going to have to try harder than that.  Common, Mr. Salesman tell me something!  Never know, I might be interested.  Make your day worthwhile."

            "Payment processing is actually a small part of what we do."  Mitch stutters.

            "Is that right?"

            "Yes.  We offer inventory and staff management software that's integrated into your POS system so you have all that data in one place." 

            "Huh." 

            "Accessible, I might add, from anywhere."

            "Remotely?"

            "That's correct.  Remotely.  Your home, or perhaps, if you need to travel, your laptop.  This information can be accessed online from our website that we set up for you.  Keep on eye on the business without stepping foot in your office."

            "Well, I'm in my office most days.  I got things set up the just way I like it.  Over the years I've whittled it down to a science and I'm really not interested in messin' with it."

            "Well of course, I understand."

            "No!"

            "I'm sorry."

            "Don't understand!  You think you're going to convince me by commiserating? Don't stop there.  Keep going.  Mr. Rydell if you're going to get me interested you have to appeal to my practical needs not just try to woo me with some services I barely have a use for."

            Mitch pulls at his tie.

            "Well how long have you been with your current provider?"

            "I'd say a solid seven years."

            "And in those seven years have you been tracking trends in rates and comparing companies?"          

            "Well I don't really have the-"

            "Of course not.  You're running a successful business.  That's for us to do.  I can honestly say that our rates are very competitive and that because we are an industry leader with 20 years experience as a direct merchant service.  This means we cut out the costs of bank costs.  You're using a card terminal right now?"

            "Yes, that's right."

            "Doctor, what does that terminal do you for you besides collect dust-"

            The car comes to an abrupt stop.

            "I'm gonna stop you right there, Mr. Rydell.  Can't say you're being very convincing.  I seem to have caught ya one leg off the horse.  Bet that's how you got here in the first place isn't?  Let yourself wallow in self-pity or something stupid like that?  Tell you what, Mr. Rydell, why don't you get yourself home.  Get yourself situated.  Come through to my office.  Next week."

            He hands Mitch a card.  D. Witherington OD.

            Dr. Witherington nods to the door and Mitch's hand finds the lever to open it.  The thick, humid, air pours in the car.  The rain heightens, gradually, the way the sky takes shape, too slow to notice until it's completely different.

            "Ya know, in the 20 years I've been in my own practice I don't advertise.  Yet, I have more clients than I know what do with.  I'm blessed with people in need, all by word of mouth and kindness.  I live by that.  Credit card companies?  They have the nastiest, most presumptuous and shameless lies to get people to think they need help and write money, time and effort away just to treat them like trash after the ink is dry.  I receive fifteen calls a week and people like you dropping by all time.  Checking on credit statements to make sure I'm getting the best rate.  Sound familiar?  They say they have appointments, companies I've never heard of.  They use you.  I can tell you're out there trying to make an earnest living.  I can respect that, I really can.  You're out with your wit and charm and they have already set you up to fail.  I see these young boys with their done-up shirts, their genuine smiles and smooth hands.  Smoother than yours but they're all hungry, just like you, Mitch.  Just like young KC Diderickson.  I don't know if it makes any difference to you, but I can leave you here clear of conscience knowing I told you so.  You're being played and anyone who spends the five minutes it takes to say "no, thank you" is humoring you, my friend, out of pity."

            "Police station is about five blocks up that street.  Rains comin' down though, and I imagine it will only get worse.  You take care now, Mitch.  And appreciate the opportunity I've just given you."

            Mitch stands in the rain and watches Dr. Witherington drive away.

Author's Note

This is a working draft. Even the title is a place holder. I'm really interested to know what my readers walk away with in this story. I'm not terribly prone to fleshing out details. I realize that some readers want to know the exact 'how' and 'why' but I'm more interested in the impact of the thing as is.