The Opening
by Frank Burton
I was new in town.
I’d quit the previous town pretty quickly for a number of pressing reasons, all of which were serious and none of which were my fault.
I needed cash badly, so I booked into the first B and B I could find and headed straight for Job Centre Plus.
I found an advertisement, with a number to ring, and the contact name of a Mr N. Fitzpatrick.
“O-PEN!” greeted the voice on the line. “Nathan Fitzpatrick speaking!”
Now, I’ve worked with some fairly unpleasant characters in the past, and to be honest, I was expecting more of the same.
Fitzpatrick, however, was a genuine inspiration. Before I could even introduce myself, he was insisting that I call him Nathan, and recounting the history of his business as though I were the first person in the world to hear it.
He told me of his humble beginnings setting up a stall in a market, selling the first ever O-PEN products: various novelty items that doubled up as pens. He referred to everything by its full name – “Key Fob That Is Also A Pen”; “Harmonica That Is Also A Pen” – never abbreviating, or growing tired of the repetition.
Nathan’s vision stretched far beyond his initial setting. His dream was for every household to be stocked with appliances that were also pens, with at least one in each room, so that no matter where you were in the house you would not be left short in a crisis.
Unfortunately, in those early days, his pens were simply not being taken seriously. They continued to be regarded as mere gimmickry, by both his competitors and an increasingly patronising general public.
And so, in an attempt to assert himself, Nathan had now ditched any item that was not regarded as a household necessity. His greatest triumph thus far was the product I’d now be selling: The Vacuum Cleaner That Was Also A Pen.
Very interesting stuff, of course.
The problem was, I was calling from the phone box on the High Street, and as there was no logical point in which to interrupt his narrative (a tale far more complex than the version I choose to recount here) I had no option but to stand there and listen, watching my money gradually vanish, every so often reaching up and dropping another pound.
Money was so tight at that time that I was carefully regulating all of my outgoings. Strictly, the coins I’d wasted on the phone call were meant for that afternoon’s lunch. Although I needed the job from Nathan, I was so annoyed by him effectively stealing my lunch money that I called him a playground bully and demanded compensation.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “In fact, allow me to take you to lunch.”
He explained more about the job over a cheeseburger and fries.
I was to be given my own car and phone, all expenses paid.
“I’ll be honest with you, Nath,” I said, “I like the way you do business.”
“Well, thank you,” he said. “The job is yours. But then, I don’t suppose I really needed to say that.” He looked deep into my eyes. “You know that already. This job has always been yours. It is your calling.”
For a moment, I was suspicious. “You’re not religious, are you?”
“Yes,” he said. “My religion is Vacuum Cleaners That Are Also Pens.”
“Nathan Fitzpatrick,” I said, “you are a ray of hope in a dark and hopeless world.”
My hand went up to scratch my nose. I hoped he didn’t notice.
The following morning, I was on the road in my car with my phone in its holder and a pocket full of personalised business cards that Nathan had produced.
I arrived at my first house: Ms M. Hex.
The woman who opened the door seemed a little dubious at first, but within minutes we were demonstrating the vac’s awesome power on her carpet. Not having seen these machines in action before, I was pleasantly surprised.
I stood back, arms folded.
“You know, it doesn’t matter how many times I see these little babies in action, I cannot help but be impressed by them.”
I turned off the machine.
“Do you have any questions, Ms Hex?”
“Yes,” she said, her arms also folded. “Why the pen?”
“Obvious reasons, really,” I said. “So that you can have something to write with.”
I demonstrated. The pen was attached to its own flexible plastic tube, which extended itself from the top of the machine and could stretch as far as three metres in any direction.
“You see? There’s no chance of losing this behind the sofa, Ms Hex.”
“Well, OK,” she said, “but if I wanted to keep hold of a pen that badly, I’d get one of those pens on chains from the bank. I’m impressed by your Hoover, but to be honest, you seem like a bit of a crackpot.”
I improvised. “I am a crackpot! Wahey!” I performed a cartwheel in the middle of the carpet. “But I’m crackers about this product, Ms Hex. Pens at the bank, you say? I think we both know where such items belong. What kind of a homely feel are you going to get from pens on chains? Free the pens, I say. Free the pens! And treat them with respect. Ours is a disposable culture, Ms Hex. We use a pen, the ink runs out, we throw it away and buy another one. Or else we lose the pen behind the sofa, letting it sit there for months, lidless; the ink dries out, you find it, funnily enough, while you’re doing the vacuuming; you throw it away. Or else you keep it, not realising it no longer works. You keep it until a very important piece of information transpires that you need to write down. You pick up the pen - it doesn’t work. You scribble furiously - nothing. You forget what it was you had to write down and you throw the pen away in anger and bitter frustration. Or - you may not notice the pen sitting there behind the sofa. It may be sucked up into the vacuum cleaner, breaking it - your brand new vacuum cleaner that you bought at the recommended retail price without discount, with a guarantee that does not extend to “pen damage.” Again, the frustration, the anger. The answer? Attach the pen to the vacuum cleaner!
“Now, the beauty of this product, Ms Hex, is that not only is it two products in one, but both of these products are the leaders in their respective fields. The vacuum cleaner - well, we’ve seen what that can do. The pen? Observe.”
I reached down and wrote my fake name, Preston North End, on a scrap of paper and handed it to her.
“With these pens, there is no need to scribble. It will remain at this quality for the rest of its existence. When the ink runs out, you simply refill it.”
“And I suppose I have to pay for all the refills?” said Ms Hex.
“Of course you don’t,” I said. “All refills are provided by O-PEN completely free of charge.”
Ms Hex was so impressed by this that she did not respond when both of my hands reached up to scratch my nose.
“And the money?” she said.
“OK,” I said. “Now, seen as you’ve been so inquisitive, I’d like to reward you with a neat little discount. These machines generally retail at around four hundred pounds. I can quote you today £375.”
“Seems a bit steep,” she said.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Ms Hex: this is an expensive product. There are valid reasons why it is expensive. The quality you have seen today speaks for itself. You used the word “Hoover” earlier. Never use that word again. From now on, there are no Hoovers; there are not even any vacuum cleaners. There are only O-PEN vacuum cleaners.”
“OK,” she said.
I gave her my card and told her to contact me if she ran into any trouble with the equipment. I assumed it would be some time before she realised that the card did not include an address or phone number, just the initials P.N.E. and O-PEN in attractive lettering.
From then on, it was easy. I was making twenty-five percent on each sale, which meant £95.75 for what averaged out at thirty minutes work, if you didn’t include the drive. This meant five to six hundred pounds on a good day.
Soon I had enough money to find a good place to live, but decided to stay at the B and B for a while longer. I was dedicating so much time to selling, that any time spent otherwise was considered a waste. I ate a Full English every morning, and found that this filled me up enough to work through lunch. In the evenings, I would eat take-away and watch TV, paying close attention to the adverts.
My nose developed a rash. It began as one spot right in the middle, which appeared the morning after my first sale. Whenever I saw Nathan from this point on, he’d call he Rudolph and slap me on the back a little too hard for my liking. One spot soon became a cluster of spots and it was becoming impossible for me to leave them alone. I tried all sorts of creams and ointments, but they seemed to irritate the skin still further. The rash soon spread to the inside of my nostrils, and any public scratching - which had proved inevitable at times - made me appear to be picking my nose.
Still, I was making so much money it was quite unthinkable for me to take time out to see a doctor. Instead, I prescribed for myself a strict regime of painkillers and controlled scratching. Every hour on the hour, I allowed myself five minutes scratching time. All other scratching was forbidden, and aside from a few isolated incidents that were quite beyond my control, I stuck to the system. If I happened to be at a customer’s house, as was often the case, and the time would reach the o’clock, I would politely ask if I might use their bathroom. One time, I was refused this privilege and, unable to resist, I began scratching like a madman for five full minutes, only explaining after I had done so, “I have a rash, you see …”
One morning when I arrived at Nathan’s office to collect more vacuum cleaners, I decided to take the opportunity to share a few of my ideas with him. Nathan was seldom around by this stage, sometimes going missing for weeks at a time, and the new management he’d brought in never seemed to know what was going on, so I decided not to delay.
“I’d like to take a more active role in the company’s output,” I told him. “I know you’re hoping to expand the range soon, Nath - but when? And with what?”
“Really none of your business,” he said.
“I’ve got lots of ideas. Hair-Drier That’s Also A Pen; Washing Machine That’s Also A Pen; and howsabout this: a grandfather clock! You put the pen in the pendulum. Pendulum - you get me?”
“Word of advice, Rudolph,” he said. “Perhaps you ought to concentrate on your actual job rather than expansion ideas.”
I couldn’t tell if he were joking or not. “What do you mean? I’m making excellent …”
“No doubt you are, Rudolph - one vacuum cleaner at a time. Your problem is, you go in there expecting to sell one, and that’s all you ever do! You need to be going in there expecting to sell ten, and if you come out having sold nine, well, that’s still a disappointment. So you tell yourself you’re definitely going to make ten sales next time, and lo and behold…!”
“With respect, Nathan,” I said, “it’s not quite as simple as that.”
“It’s not rocket science, Rudolph. This product sells itself, you know that. And another thing: you’re not following up enough leads. You know your problem? It’s not that you spend too much time on an appointment, you don’t - you just drive like an old woman!”
“So I like to drive carefully …”
“Do you know how many sales Brian makes in a week?”
“No.”
“Much more than you, and it’s not because of multiple sales - he’s just as diabolical as you are in that department. Brian makes more because he breaks the speed limit. Think about it. You know your problem?”
“I think you just told me.”
“You’re happy. You’re happy to live in your little B and B with your little TV and your five sales a day. Expansion ideas? I’ve got news for you, Rudolph, something that may not have occurred to you, maybe you didn’t pay attention in physics or something, I don’t know: if a pendulum stops swinging, then the clock stops! Goodbye!”
I tried to look into his eyes, but they were directed at the desk as though I’d already left.
“What happened to you, Nathan? Your encouragement, your … your sage wisdom?”
“Try not to trap your conk in the door on the way out,” he said.
My nose got worse. The itching had died down to be replaced by an ache that started in the middle of my head and at times seemed to extend to the section of air two feet in front of my face.
I had decided to combat the skin irritation by not scratching at all. I attached a bandage. If I’d been to the doctor’s, no doubt they would advise that I allow the skin to breath, but I felt I was safer from harm that way. Several times I had scratched until I’d bled and continued regardless. To make doubly sure I did not scratch, I had superglued a pair of black leather gloves to my hands and attached small pieces of broken glass to the fingertips. I kept the glue remover in a locked box beneath the bed, promising myself not to open it until the rash was completely healed.
I missed a night of sleep due to the ache.
That morning was the first in weeks that I found myself unable to eat my breakfast. Instead I stared down at the plate and drank seven cups of coffee.
Usually, I would make polite conversation with fellow guests, occasionally making a sale after explaining what I did for a living, but that morning I remained silent. An old couple were taking it in turns to look over at me, but I couldn’t be bothered explaining.
On my arrival at my first appointment, a Mr J. Switch, I’d pulled myself together somewhat.
The man opened the door to find me standing there with the vac at my feet and my hands behind my back, bunched into a pair of loose fists so as to disguise the broken glass.
“Mr Switch! Top of the morning to you, as I believe runs the popular Irish…”
He looked almost as though he wasn’t going to let me in.
“I think there’s been some sort of communications breakdown,” he said. “I dialled 1471 after receiving the call from your marketing people, but it came up number withheld. I tried the phone book, the Yellow Pages, Directory Enquiries, all the different ones. Eventually, I called the police.”
“Mr Switch, why on earth would you do something like that?”
“Oh, I’m not saying you’re criminals, or anything. I just wanted to get in touch to cancel the appointment. I don’t need a new vacuum cleaner. I’m sorry.”
“Need, Mr Switch? You’ll be surprised. A few weeks ago, I sold one of these babies to my old friend Lord Briarston, and just to test it, we set about cleaning one of the carpets at his private estate. Now, although the carpet had been supposedly “cleaned” a thousand times before, our machine sucked up so much dust - dust other vacuum cleaners simply cannot reach - that Lord Briarston calculated that due to carpet’s age, some of that dust could have been sitting there for generations. Just to see, we ran some DNA tests and sure enough, found the dead skin cells of half of Lord Briarston’s family tree. Not only that - there were Heads of State in there as well! Queen Victoria was in there! Queen Victoria’s DNA! Needless to say, we auctioned off the bag and made enough money to give the building a much needed renovation. All thanks to O-PEN.” I patted the vacuum cleaner on the head.
“That’s all very well,” said Mr Switch. “But how are people supposed to contact you?”
“Well, initially, Mr Switch, we will contact you. Consider it a personal service. Now, I’m not going to lie to you: I am a salesman. I am here to try to sell you a Vacuum Cleaner That Is Also A Pen. You may not, as you say, “need” a new vacuum cleaner. You may not, as you quite rightly suggest, feel that you “need” a new pen. But how will you know if you don’t give these products a chance?”
“Is there a website?” he said.
“A website, Mr Switch? A website? We are a family company! We do not associate ourselves with filth.”
I took hold of the pen by slotting it into my closed hand and extended its attachment until it reached an inch away from my customer’s face.
“Do you know what this represents? Family values. Tradition. You know where you are with a pen, Mr Switch. If I write something down on a piece of paper, it’s there, it’s in my hand, it’s not virtual. There’s no chance of it getting infected by a virus or accidentally being deleted, erased forever. If I lose a piece of paper behind the sofa, it’s still there. Even if I burn it, it’s still there, it’s just been converted into scattered carbon molecules. You see?”
“I think you’d better come in,” he said.
I entered his house.
I demonstrated the vacuum cleaner.
I demonstrated the pen.
Then certain things started to go wrong.
My nose started twitching. I reached up instinctively to stop it. My palm connected with my nose while my fingers made small incisions all over my face. I pulled my hand away and cursed my foolishness, and as I did so, I clenched my fist, piercing the leather and cutting my hand. Blood dribbled onto the carpet.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “That vacuum cleaner nozzle has an in-built stain remover that’ll shift just about anything!”
As I was saying this, my nose continued twitching, and my resistance to touch it was so weak that I was hopping up and down on the spot.
Mr Switch was standing mesmerised as though all of this were too much information to take in.
Suddenly, he snapped out of his trance.
“I’d better take four,” he said.
I was pleased, but still, sympathy sales did not come along very often and it was not enough to get me through the day.
I hadn’t mentioned the discount yet, so I quoted him £1600 and he reached for his chequebook.
In a flash of inspiration, when he asked me who he could make the cheque out to, instead of giving my usual “O-PEN Limited,” I told him my own name, my real name, and from there on, that money was mine, the car was mine, the phone was mine.
“Thank you,” I said as I left, “and don’t hesitate to contact me any hour of the day or night about those free refills.”
I did not leave a business card.
I drove out of town, through the next town and through the next, wondering where I would decide to stop, or if I would ever stop driving again.
A mass of images flashed through my head, some good, some bad, each of them dictating my mood for the short time that they remained.
For no good reason, Nathan Fitzpatrick’s face popped into my head, and an almost unbearable rage overcame me.
If it wasn’t for him, if it hadn’t been for him …
A fresh pain shot through my face, sharper than ever before, as though I were giving birth the wrong way up.
I pulled to the side of the road.
I closed my eyes for several minutes, not daring to look.
Finally, I opened. I adjusted the driver’s mirror to examine my blood-flecked image, with water in its eyes and a new addition protruding through its bandage.
My nose had grown a clear inch.
I examined my side-profile, imagining the kind of shadow I would cast, and found myself wincing. I could see it hanging there in front of me without needing to look down.
The pain had disappeared now. This in itself was a kind of relief.
I removed the bandage.
The rash had also gone, just pinkish traces left in the skin.
The tears continued to flow, real emotional ones this time.
This wasn’t my fault. That was the crying shame. None of this was my fault.
I reached for the phone, and from memory dialled the number of my surgeon from several towns previously.
“I need another reduction,” I told him. “It’s happened again.”
“I’ll book you in for tomorrow morning,” he said. “Discretion assured as always, sir.”
As I turned off the phone, I found myself remarking sardonically to myself that this was where all my money went.
I opened the phone from the back, took out the battery, removed the SIM card and threw it out of the window.
I twisted the keys, took off the handbrake, put my foot down, and performed a U-turn without signalling.