The Traveling Salesman's Halloween

"It's a rich territory, Milt, plenty of potential.  After what you accomplished up north, we think you're the man to really open it up."

Milt Belaris grinned and shook the ash off his cigar.  He had set some sales records and he wasn't surprised when the district sales manager called him in.

"I'm ready to give it my best, George," he said, calling the manager for the first time by his Christian name.

"I know you will, Milt.  We always said you could sell ice cubes to Eskimos, ha ha.  But"--he paused--"there is something I should tell you.  Something--well--peculiar about that territory."

"They're all a little funny, George, 'til you figure them out.  What's so odd about this one?"

"Well, it's strange, but drummers who go down there seem to disappear."

"You mean they skip?"

"Maybe.  But why?  Three or four companies--Watkins, Fuller, Raleigh--have sent men down there and they don't hear from them again.  Like they took their sample cases and just vamoosed."

"Farmers' daughters, maybe?"

"Beats me, Milt.  Have another cigar.  Take a couple for the road, stick them in your pocket."

"Don't mind if I do.  Fine cigars, George."

"White Owl, two for a nickel."

Milt was on the nine p.m. train out of Moose Jaw.  He jawed with some of the other travelers, read the sports page, watched the moonlight falling over wheat fields and pumpkin patches.  He took a few sips from a mickey of rye and calculated his commissions.  Looked like there'd be a lot more coming up.  And if he did good, why hell, he might be sitting in George's office.

Mist drifted over the prairies, clouds covered the full orange moon, and winds began to make farmyard scarecrows dance.  Turning to Alf, the Massey-Harris man, Milt said, "Looks kinda spooky, don't it?"

"Well, whaddya expect?  It's Halloween."

Milt had dozed off when the train jerked to a stop, waking him.  The conductor was in the aisle, saying, "Folks, got a bit of unexpected news.  Mechanical problem.  Gotta stop here until a crew comes out to fix it.  Probably be tomorrow morning before we get going.  Sorry about the delay, but there's a hotel in town and the railway will pay your bill."

"What town is this?" someone asked.

"Called Inferno."

"Never heard of it."

"Well, it's pretty small.  Not even on many maps.  Okay, folks.  Get a good night's sleep." 

Milt lugged his sample case off the train and went into the small wooden depot.  It was dark and cold and looked deserted.  But then he hard a voice.  A woman's voice.

"Good evening," it said.  "Welcome to Inferno."

Milt turned and saw a woman sitting in the shadows.  Slim, skinny even.  Long black hair, hanging down her back.  Couldn't tell her age.  "Thanks," said Milt.  "Which way to the fleabag in this burg?"

"You mean the Princess of the Plains Hotel?"  She laughed.  "Not really your style."  She lit a dark brown cigarette, and in the flame from her match Milt saw emerald eyes in a chalk white face.  Not bad, he thought.  

"What are you doing here, around--what is it, midnight?  No train coming through, is there?"

"No," she exhaled smoke.  "No, I like to come down here sometimes at night. Meet some interesting people.  There's not a lot to do in this town."

"Don't suppose there's somewhere you and I could go for a drink?"

"No bar or saloon open, if that's what you mean.  But I don't live far from here, and I'd be pleased to pour something to refresh you after your trip."

"Sounds good to me," said Milt.  He stuck out his hand.  "Milt Belaris, kitchenwares."

"My name," she said, "is Lily."  Her hand was cold.

The small house was down a narrow winding road, and they walked quickly through the rain. When Lily opened the door, a black cat reached out a paw to her.  "This is Lucifer," she said. "Lucifer, this is Milt."

"Well," said Milt, "looks cosy," although the scarlet decorations were not something he would have chosen. 

"Take off that jacket," said Lily, "it's wet.  I'll hang it up to dry and bring you a drink."  

Milt settled himself on a sofa and took out one of George's cigars.  Almost at once Lily was back with a tall glass.  "Try this," she said.

He drank some, and said, "It's good.  Don't know what it is--I'm a rye man, mainly--but this has a nice punch to it--yes, indeed."

"It's my own special cocktail," said Lily.  "Why don't I get you something to eat?  Some nice hot soup?  You're probably hungry."

"Well, I could tie on the old feedbag," said Milt.  "And look, glass is empty."

"I can fix that," she said.

Halfway through the second glass Milt began to feel light-headed, even began to imagine shapes moving in the room, shapes of things, of people, he knew weren't there.  Well, he thought, it's been a long day.  Might as well relax and enjoy it.

"Milt," said Lily, "those trousers are soaked.  Why don't you crawl into bed, under that big, warm comforter, and I'll press them for you and hang them with your jacket."

This is turning out even better than I hoped, thought Milt, and while Lily turned her back he pulled off his soggy trousers.  He was glad he was wearing the boxer shorts with the hearts and diamonds, and his best garters on his socks.  He crawled into bed and noticed Lucifer sitting in the doorway.  "What are you staring at?" he said.

Soon the aroma of soup drifted in from the kitchen.  "Smells good," Milt called.  "My special recipe," said Lily.

Wonder what's in it, thought Milt.  Maybe I'll take a peek in the pantry.  Might even see if she could use some new kitchenwares.  Could be a sale, along with everything else.  He slipped out of bed and started for the door.  Lucifer hissed.  "Get outa my way," Milt hissed back.

He pulled back a curtain that led to the pantry.  Beyond it, in the kitchen, lily was stirring a huge, steaming pot.  Milt began looking at the jars of spices and herbs.  The usual stuff, curry, cinnamon, nutmeg, rosemary.  But--what was this?  Eye of newt?  Toe of frog?  Adder's fork, lizard's leg?  Milt shuddered.  He closed the curtain and crept back to the bedroom.

Wonder if my clothes are dry, he thought.  Milt opened the closet where Lily had hung them and saw not just his suit, but half a dozen men's suits, all shapes and sizes.  Wait a minute, he thought, I recognize that yellow checked jacket.  It's just like the one Fat Lew Wilvers had.  He checked the size:  52 short.  Milt could hear George's voice:  "Something peculiar--fellas went down there and just disappeared."  

Behind the suits were stacked suitcases.  No, not suitcases--sample cases.  Milt started opening them.  He found Fuller brushes, Watkins liniments, Raleigh spices, veterinary supplies, electric gadgets, yard goods.  Lucifer was scratching his bare leg, but Milt hardly noticed. 

"Soup coming up!" called Lily.  The smell was overpowering, menacing.

Milt grabbed his jacket and pants, and ran for the door, Lucifer after him all the way, leaping up, clinging to his leg.  Milt shook the cat loose and got outside.  

It was still raining as the moon appeared and disappeared behind the clouds.  Milt didn't care. With his clothes bunched under his arm, he ran all the way back to the railway depot.

Pass That Peace Pipe

"Pass That Peace Pipe" was a song in the musical comedy "Good News," a film written by Betty Comden and Adolph Green, who said it ranked as one of "the Big Three of Cinema" along with "Birth of a Nation" and "Battleship Potemkin."

This item is, however, not about passing the peace pipe, pleasurable as that might be.  It is about the custom in churches of passing the peace by handshakes.  Since the arrival of H1N1, and a renewed emphasis on hand washing, many congregations have felt uneasy about shaking hands.  Some churches have installed hand sanitizers.  Seen recently on television was a minister demonstrating her flock's alternative to shaking hands at the peace.  It seems to call for the worshippers to stand side by side, arms around each other's shoulder, while swinging and bumping hips.  It looks remarkably like a 1960s disco dance. 

The patrician William F. Buckley, Jr., expressed his horror at the very custom of exchanging the peace.  While attending a service at St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York, he reported, "some man to whom I had not been introduced turned around and presumed to shake my hand." Buckley added "I am only glad for Evelyn's sake he is not around to endure this."  (Evelyn being Waugh.)

And writing of crusty English gentlemen, one is reminded of a distinguished professor of Middle East studies at the University of British Columbia.  At a church service while visiting England, he turned and offered his hand to a tweedy squire of the Colonel Blimp era, and said "Peace be with you."  To which the resident worshipper responded "Go to hell!"

"And also with you," said the UBC prof. 

Pass that peace pipe.

Crisp, golden October day

     "The only day that was ever as good as you thought it was going to be was an October day."

--John P. Marquand, "So Little Time."

High Station in Life

Most audiences may remember Eric Peterson best for his television roles in "Street Legal" and "Corner Gas," or perhaps for his long run in "Billy Bishop Goes to War."  But I remember Peterson most happily for his performance in Larry Lillo's production of John Gray's "Health: The Musical." 

"Health" is a play for one character and body parts, the body parts being played memorably in the Vancouver Playhouse staging by Ian McDonald, Ross Douglas and Stephen Miller.

I began thinking of various productions in which I have admired the work of Peterson--probably the best known thespian to emerge from Indian Head, Saskatchewan--when I read a conversation between him and Gordon Pinsent in the National Post (October 8, 2009).

Peterson was about to receive the Pinsent Award of Excellence from Toronto's Company Theatre, and the two veteran actors were exchanging on-stage and back-stage stories.  Which brings me to the quotation which prompted this entry.  Pinsent had suffered some unfortunate experience on a Winnipeg stage, and was sent this note:

"Never mind.  High station in life is earned by the gallantry in which appalling experiences are survived with grace."

Peterson said, "I'm getting that tattooed on my chest."

Blog Wisdom or: A Nicol for Your Thoughts

Some newspaper columnist (maybe Jim Taylor) once wrote a piece about a nugget of wisdom handed him by an elder scrivener (maybe Eric Nicol).

The younger writer had just been given a column a day.  The older writer said, "Five columns a week, eh?  Well, two of them should be good, perhaps three."

The younger writer reeled back against his Underwood portable.  "Oh no, sir," he cried, "I'll make all of them good."

"You may think so," said the sage, "but it's impossible to write a good column every day."

Same with blogs.

70-Year-Old Cigarette Ash

Browsing through the library of a camp on Shuswap Lake several summers ago, I came upon a 1943 edition of John P. Marquand's "So Little Time," a Marquand novel I hadn't read.  The camp director was persuaded to sell me the book, along with a collection of Dorothy Parker's poems, and I brought it back to Vancouver and set it on a shelf with other Marquands.

Finally, now having plenty of time,  I pulled "So Little Time" from its place between "B.F.'s Daughter" and "Point of No Return," and began to read.  There were no surprises in the style--it's vintage Marquand--but what did surprise me, what I found more evocative--were traces of cigarette ash caught here and there along the spine.

The book was published in 1943, and showed no signs of having been read since then.  I began wondering about the smoker who had enjoyed this novel almost seventy years ago.  An artist friend had given me another novel, "People of the Book" by Geraldine Brooks, in which a book conservator finds elusive and tantalizing clues--a fragment of a butterfly's wing, wine and blood stains--in a rare and ancient volume.  There is slim chance of ever finding the people of the book, or the cigarette smoking reader of "So Little Time," but it does engage one's curiosity (as did the Chinese writing I found the other day in a library copy of Harold Bloom's "Hamlet: Poem Unlimited"). 

As many people have, I have pressed flowers and leaves in books, and am pleased when I find, for example, a sprig of still bright yellow forsythia from a house where we once lived.  So perhaps I will leave some unexplained souvenirs in my books.

Meanwhile, I go back to pondering the identity of the person behind the 70-year-old cigarette ash.  I thought at first I should brush the ash away; now I think I should leave it where it is.

Olympiad: The 2010 Religion

The religious fervor stirred by the approach of the 2010 Olympics to Vancouver and environs will be inflamed further by the lighting tomorrow of the sacred Olympic Torch by a suitably semi-clad "High Priestess" in Olympia (Greece, not Washington).

But perhaps even more significant is the Olympic scarf worn by BC Premier Gordon Campbell, which strongly resembles a priestly stole or a Talmudic prayer shawl.  He wore it to his NBC interview and he wore it when he and John Furlong presented UN Secretary-General Ban Ki Moon with a pair of Olympic mittens ("Now you too can be caught red-handed, ha ha").

The scarf is also similar to a style made famous by the Middle Eastern fashion-plate Yasser Arafat.  Even so, a scarf has yet to be presented to such powerful figures as Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and Hamid Karzai.  A trip to China has yet to be confirmed ("Have some more oolong, Furlong?")   

Despite all this, there are some Olympic apostates, who have failed to embrace the new religion.  But for these dissidents, there is hope:  Pope Benedict XVI has announced that rules will be relaxed to allow non-Olympians to join his somewhat older church.