All My Friends Are Superheroes - Andrew Kaufman [12]
Tom unplugs the headphones. He puts them back into the pocket of the seat in front of him.
NINE
SIX HUNDRED CIGARETTES LATER
One morning exactly five months after their wedding, the Perfectionist woke up even earlier than usual. She walked to her corner store to buy a package of cigarettes but when she got to the counter she hesitated. She asked for three cartons of cigarettes and bought a pink disposable lighter as well. From the corner store she walked to a thrift store where for $3.99 she bought the largest ashtray they had.
In the same plastic bag she carried the cigarettes, the ashtray and the pink plastic lighter back to the apartment. She upended the plastic bag on the kitchen table, the ashtray wobbling as it hit the tabletop.
Using a letter opener she unwrapped the three cartons of cigarettes. She took the plastic covering off the twenty-four packages. She took all the cigarettes out of their packages and made a stack of 600 cigarettes.
The Perfectionist started smoking. Six hundred seemed like an incredible number of cigarettes to her. She was sure Tom would return before she smoked the last one.
Twelve days later the 600th cigarette was between her nicotine-stained fingers. The plastic pink lighter was slippery in her hand. Her thumb flicked. She pushed the flame into the tip of the cigarette. She inhaled, didn’t cough, and somebody knocked on her door.
The Perfectionist exhaled. She set the lit cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. On the way to the door her inner voice said not to open it. ‘He wouldn’t knock,’ it told her. She opened the door anyway.
The man who stood in front of her was tall. His hair was freshly cut and greying at the temples. His black suit, white shirt and black tie were pressed. His shoes shone. Beside him on the sidewalk was a sample case big enough to hold a vacuum cleaner. He smiled at the Perfectionist.
The Perfectionist has always hated vacuum salesmen. There’s no reason, no traumatic episode in her past, no exlover or absent father who is one. She just doesn’t like them.
‘I don’t want a vacuum,’ the Perfectionist said.
‘I’m not selling vacuums,’ he answered. His voice was lyrical, calm and reassuring.
‘What are you selling?’ the Perfectionist asked.
‘I’m selling love,’ he answered.
The Perfectionist leaned against the door jamb. The smell of cigarettes came from her hair and her clothes. She backed out of the doorway and he followed her inside.
In the kitchen he set down his sample case. He tugged up his pant legs as he sat. He crossed his right leg over his left, revealing argyle socks.
‘What kind of love are we interested in today?’ he asked.
‘What kinds do you have?’
‘Well,’ he said. He stood up. ‘I’ve got the love you want, the love you think you want, the love you think you want but don’t when you finally get it ... ’
‘That must be very popular.’
‘It is.’
‘What else have you got?’
‘I’ve got the love that’s yours as long as you do what you’re told, the love that worries it’s not good enough, the love that worries it’ll be found out, the love that fears being judged and found lacking, the love that’s almost – but not quite – strong enough, the love that makes you feel they’re better than you ... ’
‘Stop.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t want any of those.’
‘What kind do you want?’
‘I want the kind I had with Tom.’
‘And what kind was that?’
‘It was true love,’ the Perfectionist said.
She locked eyes with the salesman. He swallowed. It made his eyes look sad.
‘Then you’ll need one of these,’ he replied. His eyes didn’t look sad any more. They sparkled. He dipped to his right, picked up his sample case, lifted it as high as he could and slammed it onto the kitchen table. He snapped the left clasp open. He snapped the right clasp open. He flipped open the lid, reached in and pulled out a vacuum.
‘You are a vacuum salesman?’ the Perfectionist hissed.
‘You don’t really believe true love exists outside one of these?’ he asked.
The salesman stood motionless, holding out the vacuum. The kitchen was silent. His arms got tired.