Donald listens to the whole pitch sheet
They were selling fifty-dollar coupon
books out of a pop-up phone bank
in a shabby office on a mid-size street
in a mid-size suburb of a pretty big
city. The top boss Barry hired
a sequence of couples who came up
north to run the branch for a few
weeks before moving on. Tim
and Tammy, Rich and Patty,
Chip and Cathy, Bob and Peg.
They tended to be desperate,
tired and unkempt, no better off
than the kids who made the calls.
Who in their right mind would buy
a fifty-dollar coupon book over
the phone? Mostly, the people
who answered were merciful
and hung up fast. Each kid
was given sheets full of numbers
from 000-0000 on up. They made
the best of it, had fun, for which
they paid one day. Barry sat them
down and said, No more laughing,
or you’re out, hear? Fired. One girl
began to cry. Her father would kill
her. She was a regular girl
with a regular father, whose brow
would darken if she lost this job.
But Barry came from a place
that made him believe it was true.
Her father would kill her. It will be
okay. Just get serious and do your job.
Her very next call, she soberly
read through the things
she’d been given to say. Bowling,
tires, chicken, paint. All of it
ten percent off. The only rule
she broke was pausing, hoping
to spare herself. But the man
on the phone didn’t grab his
chance: he was there, breathing,
silent. He let her finish,
and then he bought a book.
* * * * *
Helena already knew how to knit
Valerie is not good
with her hands. If she bakes
a cake, it sinks in the middle.
If she makes a pie, it turns out
looking as if someone planted
a tiny explosive in its folds.
She cannot draw, or paint, or craft.
When Helena’s mother taught
an after-school knitting class,
Helena already knew how to knit.
She was a long-faced honey-
colored third-grader. In the class,
Valerie had many questions.
She needed clarification.
One day in school, Helena
told Valerie that Helena’s mother
complained about Valerie
asking so many questions.
Helena mimicked her mother’s
mean, mocking manner. Helena
might still be a person for whom
casual cruelty comes easily.
Valerie didn’t ask questions
again, of anyone, ever, for years.
She is a harsh judge of character,
and she fears she has passed
this quality on to her children.
But they are not cruel. Helena
has almost certainly never thought
of Valerie again. It is unlikely,
(though possible) that she grew
into a thoughtful person. Valerie
thinks of Helena any time she has
the urge to raise her hand.
* * * * *
Does Samantha have children herself?
When the choir director told them
he was quitting, they cried. They cried
bitterly, one and all. He said, I would’ve
brought tissues, but I wouldn’t have wanted
to flatter myself. He promised them one
last, big project: An album recorded
in a big room with good acoustics.
They were eleven or twelve years old.
The album sounded good. When Valerie
was carrying two copies home,
Samantha, whom Valerie barely knew,
approached her and said, why do you have two
copies? Valerie told her, my mother said to get
an extra, so I will have one to give my children
some day. (Presumptuous but kindly
meant.) Samantha looked at Valerie (small
and awkward, bespectacled, shy) levelly
and said, I don’t think you will ever have children.
* * * * *
Wanda’s mother worked in the toll booth
To the girls with glowering fathers
that left for the third shift at the mill,
lifting the afternoon atmosphere
of their low-ceiling post-war two-
bedroom houses with detached
garages and postage-stamp yards,
a third-floor apartment alone
with Mom looked good. This
is what Wanda had. Valerie
was there the night Wanda met
Rob. Wanda, so dreamy at a stop-
light going home, she stared into
the wet street streaked with green,
not moving. Not like her. Feet
and wheels planted on asphalt.
Suit yourself. To each his own.
To anyone with hope, Wanda said
Those dreams of yours will never come
to pass. At the wedding, Valerie
overheard Rob say, I wish I’d met
you first to a bridesmaid in shimmering
mauve. Oh Wanda. In a tunnel
walking straight into pain.
Valerie didn’t know the half of it.
No one ever does. Wiry, tightly
wound, and tense, Wanda buried
her mother with her diesel-filled
lungs, buried her youngest with Rob.
She lives in a flat with her daughter
overlooking the interstate.
/ / / / /
Click here for four poems by Carolyn Guinzio published On The Seawall in 2019.