“Some believe that the male parent, by some instinct, begins to sense an otherness about the son at around that age. And he begins to withdraw, physically, emotionally. The father doesn’t understand his discomfort with the child; the son doesn’t understand why he is being abandoned. If you believe this theory…But now our time is really up.”

“You call me a fag and then tell me time’s up!”

I’m practically shouting. I can hear my voice shaking. This son of a bitch doesn’t play fair. He offers me the last piece of pizza and shoves it in his mouth when I decline. Through the mush of dough and sauce, I make out the words “next week.”

The Great Pretender

Step right up, folks.

Welcome to the greatest show on earth.

What you have here works. But there’s always room for improvement. What works can always work better!

This used to be easier. I don’t remember a lead ball swinging from my tongue.

Yes, ma’am. Yes, sir. And by the way, that truly is a lovely dress you’re wearing today, Mrs. Cleaver.

No, I haven’t sunk that far. Yet.

Competition. It’s the name of the game. Too many retail outlets all selling the same things, the same brands. Look at these Maidenforms you’ve got here. How many places in town can you buy these? A dozen? A hundred? A thousand?

I have to remember to customize the sell at this point for the size of the city I’m in. The problem is remembering the city I’m in. Which airport did I fly into this morning? They all look the same.

Remember. It’s not Maidenforms you’re selling. It’s you. You are your brand. And your space tells the customer who you are.

This is where the architect or the space designer or, God forbid, the interior decorator, intervenes, determined not to lose control, to put me in my place, remind me who I am. Just the fucking salesman. Sorry, the manufacturer’s rep. I’m supposed to take the dimensions and answer questions. The “space” belongs to them; it’s their prerogative. They are the artists. The sales boy should stick to describing the durability of the wood chip veneer.

I’ve studied my adversaries. I know all the types.

The neurasthenic aesthetes of indeterminate gender, swaddled in black turtlenecks regardless of the season, swooning over lighting concepts.

The foppish, overweight homosexuals with pinky rings and liquor on their breath, dropping fey hints, trying to figure out if “I am” and if “I’m available.”

Worst of all are the tweedy first wives of captains of industry, barely sublimating their bitterness, castrating every male in sight, adding penises to their trophy belts.

Don’t fight ’em outright, my Born Again National Sales Manager advises me, but you gotta resist them. You only have a couple of hours to score. Stay focused. Remember who’s paying the bills. And if Miss Snotty Designer convinces the client later that it’s all wrong, well, the deposit’s been collected and there’s no refund on custom jobs. Remember, it’s war out there and Shelton/Murray Shelving and Display intends to win!

He makes it sound so easy. Why is it so hard? Is it because I’m tired? Is it because I don’t care?

I don’t care? How could anyone not care about products like these!

Be a part of the revolution in slatwall! Don’t waste a precious inch of selling space! Make your walls work for you! Cost-efficient and durable! Powder-coated steel frame construction means it’s lighter and easier to install and eliminates unsightly aluminum brackets!

Make a bold statement!

Create the environment of your imagination!

Differentiate your product!

Build brand identity!

Reinvent your image!

Shelton/Murray Shelving and Design doesn’t just sell slatwall.

We create solutions.

Yes. I can do this. I can do it well. I can be the best. The early verdicts are in. The Born Again National Sales Manager is pleased.

Praise the Lord!

I just have to remember to be careful. Keep my hair combed, my shirt freshly pressed, and a stash of breath mints close at hand. Never let my rancid nights poison my days. Stay upbeat. Smile until my face hurts. Keep up the act. I ought to be able to pull this one off. Years of experience, a lifetime of lying, have prepared me for this. Oh yes, I’m the Great Pretender.

And if I truly hate this job so much, why do I dread Friday afternoon and the flight home? The thought of my mother, smiling, self-consciously not intruding, strikes terror in my heart. The flight attendant disapproved when I ordered a third scotch, sniffing at me as if I was just another pathetic middle-aged failure. The flight was full of them, overweight losers, moving their lips while they read the editorial page of USA Today, circling their wish list in the Air Mall catalogue, punching out sales memos on their laptops.

Don’t lump me in with them, I wanted to tell that waitress in the sky. No way. I’m different. And I have the arrest record to prove it.

I congratulated myself on resisting the temptation of a former Big Man on Campus gone slightly to seed stroking his penis in the restroom in Terminal B. I dutifully kept my Friday appointment with my counselor and managed to feign enough enthusiasm to please Mr. Born Again Saturday afternoon. Now it’s Sunday morning. I pull the sheets over my head and inhale the fabric softener. I close my eyes and dig into the familiar soft spots in this old mattress. “Andy?” I burrow deeper, hiding from her wake-up call. “Andy, are you awake?” The rhythm is so familiar I count to ten and whisper along: “Rise and shine.”

“I’m up.”

“Good afternoon, grumpy.” She goes back down the stairs. I want to sleep, but Sunday dinner can’t be ignored. The kids next door are playing Marco Polo in the pool. A lawnmower chokes on a stone. A motorcycle backfires. Farberware clatters downstairs and my mother is singing her kitchen song.

“Oh, playmate, come out and play with me…”

The furniture in my room is scaled for a ten-year-old. The dresser mirror cuts me off at the chin. The monster models and Mickey Mouse and the Hardy Boys have never been consigned to attic or garage or trash. Two storage boxes of baseball cards are in the closet. The worn old chenille bedspread is as thin as a sheet. It’s only temporary, I tell myself.

“Coffee’s on the burner. Dinner in an hour,” she calls. I pull on a pair of boxers and go downstairs. She offers to slice ham for my breakfast. I shake my head no and crumble a biscuit into my coffee. She makes a face, like she always does when I exhibit white-trash habits. I take a second biscuit and she tells me I’m going to spoil my dinner. She’s making stuffed pork chops, my favorite.

I decide not to shave. Then I change my mind, not wanting to disappoint her. We’re eating in the dining room and she’s set a lovely table. I want to do something thoughtful so I clip a late-season bud from her rosebushes and place it on her dinner plate, a small gesture I know will please her. She kisses me on the cheek, as happy as if I’d bought out Tiffany’s, and asks me to say the Catholic grace (she still calls it that almost forty years after converting to marry my father in a proper church wedding). I lie and tell her everything is delicious. She forgets things now, like salt, or she’ll salt twice. All I taste is the stainless steel flatware. I empty the pepper shaker over my food when she goes for hot biscuits. I do the arithmetic of mortality, counting the number of pork chops the future still holds. I clear my throat and chirp, telling her sure, I’ll have a second.

We never talk about why I’m here. I’d called her from exile, a thirty-bucks-a-night motel near the Greensboro airport, drunk and crying, spilling my guts. The next morning I was on her doorstep. Every picture of my wife had already disappeared from my mother’s home. Her only comment was it’s a crying shame when things don’t work out and we should be grateful we hadn’t started a family yet. I moved in, nowhere else to go, nowhere else I wanted to be.