Arthur Davis

Gizmo

 

 

 

          “Mr. Rice, good afternoon. My name is Jonathan Hobbs. I work for Giant Enterprise Systems and I would like to offer you this.”

          Rice glanced over the little man’s shoulder to the rain swept lawn, to Harriet Gibson getting into her shiny new 1989 Ford across the street and remembered he hadn’t had lunch. “No thank you.” He closed the door and turned back to the comfort and quiet of an afternoon without Florence or the kids.

The knock returned, though it did sound slightly different.

          “Perhaps I should have been a little less aggressive,” Hobbs offered, even before the door revealed a slightly perturbed Howard Rice.

          “You’re not wet?”

          “You noticed. Thank you. That means a lot to me. I do my best work on rainy days. Days like this I can sell three or four hundred of these,” he said holding out a parcel the size of a shoebox.

          “I’m sorry, but what is it you said you do?”

          “I work for …”

          “Your shoes are dry, your pants and jacket are dry, and whatever that is, is dry.”

          “A trick I learned from a friend who traveled a lot in the Far East.”

          “He learned how to dance between raindrops?”

          “Well, actually …”

          “Three or four hundred, you said?”

          “Ah, can I come in? If you don’t mind? It’s just easier to answer your questions where it’s less distracting and, by the way, as far as questions go, yours are stand-out marvelous.”

Rice knew Grayson from accounting would differ. The moron hadn’t responded to one of his inquiries on the Remington account and Rice was ruminating on the consequences of presenting his report to the Committee without that pertinent and potentially damning information. Maybe Grayson was on the take? Maybe the entire accounting department was withholding data so he would be forced to hand in an incomplete assessment. Rice considered that the most likely possibility.

          “You have a very nice home, if you don’t mind me saying,” Hobbs said, while he unwrapped the hand carved wooden box and gently settled it on the coffee table, and himself onto the frayed sofa.

          “Now, Mr. Hobbs, is it? Tell me how you can sell three or four hundred of anything on a day like this? Or, in fact, on any day?”

          “No one’s ever asked me that. I don’t know why. I mean, it’s just such an obvious lie, you would think I would be tarred and feathered and run out of town on a rail for such a blatant prevarication.”

          “Then not three or four hundred?”

          “Best ever, ninety four.”

          “How much do you want for it?”

          “Well, frankly, it’s worth a lot.”

          “I don’t have a lot.”

          “That’s unfortunate.”

          “I doubt I could get my hands on a lot. Of course, I could strangle my wife, insist it was self-defense, and claim the insurance. That would get me a lot.”

          “In small, non-sequential bills?”

          “I doubt that would be a problem, if I had adequate time.”

          Hobbs lovingly fingered the worn wooden box. “I don’t really want to be responsible for your wife’s death.”

          Rice considered the possibly. It had passed his mind, as he was sure it had spent some time rattling around Florence’s head, in the time she saved not cleaning their home or not picking up the kids for school on time or not making his favorite dishes as though she really cared anymore. How many years had they been married? he thought, running out of fingers and interest.

          Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts, he replayed over and over as this Hobbs fellow sat across from him. ‘Always, happy thoughts’ he had heard in a commercial on how to live longer. He was certain there wasn’t a section on that tape that addressed a wife he no longer loved, and who certainly shared that soul-numbing sentiment.

          Standing against the backdrop of a grey rainstorm, he first thought Hobbs looked slightly bent and disheveled. Sitting across from him, Hobbs wore a very expensive suit; obviously Italian handcrafted shoes, and had to be every robust inch of six feet plus. And he was at least ten years younger than Howard first judged, and with a winning, confident smile.

          That left the box. A beautifully, ornate wooden box inlaid with onyx, cherry wood, and beryl, just over a foot long, about eight inches high, and ten inches deep. There was a small gold latch with a keyhole holding the lid in place.  And it was old.  Very old. Fine dry cracks slipped danced everywhere along the wood grain and fell gently over the sides.

Howard thought it handsome and certainly worth at least a hundred, maybe two or three times that. Florence might even like it as much as her mother would think it an impractical waste of money. But where would Rice get so many authentically aged boxes?

          “Go ahead, but handle it gently.  It looks old, I know, but I can guarantee it will last another lifetime. And, please if you will, try to keep it level.”

          Hobbs reached out as if he were going to grasp his newborn son. He remembered that wonderful day, turmoil in his belly and love in his heart. So much had gone wrong since his children were born, he couldn’t even lay the blame on Florence, but on circumstances and time and simple exhaustion.

          The box was warm to the touch and light, half as light as he expected. As he drew it to his lap, it seemed to gain a nervous momentum, drawing itself towards him. But that would have been impossible, he reasoned. “It’s very beautiful.”

          “How does it feel in your hands, Mr. Rice? That will tell me much of what I need to know.”

          “Comfortable.”

          “Like it belongs to you and you to it?”

          The man couldn’t be a day older than forty, Rice concluded, remembering how harshly, or disrespectfully, he had first judged Hobbs. A man panhandling from door to door in an affluent neighborhood. Like he was selling vacuum cleaners or encyclopedias. “Something like that.”

          “Is it heavy?”

          “No. Hardly weighs anything at all, and the detailed woodwork is amazing.”

          “I bring them in from old Tenochtitlan.  South America.  Some say they were a nation of headhunters.  But you have to discount so much in my business.”

          “Tenochtitlan”

          “You pronounce it perfectly.  That’s actually quite good.”

          “Tenochtitlan.”

          “So, you don’t mind if it’s a bit of an antique?”

          “I love antiques.” It was a lie, but seemed perfectly honest. He felt a sharp pain in the tip of his right index finger and pulled away. 

          “Be careful not to tip or tilt it too much. There, that’s better,” he said as Rice rested the box back on the coffee table.

          Rice examined his finger.  There was a swell of redness, and he was struck by a flush of warmth.  A splinter, he reasoned, suddenly feeling very relaxed.

          Hobbs pulled back his shirt cuff revealing an expensive watch, “I’m afraid I can’t stay much longer.”

          “Stay?”

          “Yes. Here. With you. My car will be here to pick me up in a few minutes. I have another stop to make.”

          “Your car?”

          “Well, you don’t think I walked door to door in this tempest?”

          Rice was about to say something approaching nasty when he spotted a limousine pulling into his driveway. The headlights flashed on and off three times. Rice recognized the model. The CEO of his firm owned one. “How much do you want for the box?”

          “You haven’t heard what the box contains yet.”

          “I know all I need to know.”

          “That’s impressive.”

          “What do you want?”

          “However, I think the real question is how much I want for the boxes.”

          “There is more than one?” Rice said, noticing a sudden throbbing where the splinter had imbedded itself.

          “I never sell just one box, Mr. Rice. And do you know why?”

          “No.”

          “Saves me another trip when you call me back and want more. I don’t have the time to make additional deliveries. And I refuse to use a commercial carrier. Too many complaints about theft and damaged goods. One sale. One delivery.”

          Howard reasoned if he were so taken with the box without knowing its contents, than others might be equally impressed. His brother-in-law, two of his poker buddies, the pro at the golf shop, and a few of his more gullible neighbors. I’ll take a half dozen.”

          I’m afraid there is a minimum, Mr. Rice. I probably should have mentioned it at first. Sometimes I make such a strong connection with a customer or feel that the box would be such a perfect gift, something so well suited to a person’s character, soul, and spirit, I forget myself.”

          “A dozen,” Hobbs offered confidently. What an excellent Christmas and birthday gift. No matter the price, a few dozen would last him years. At least half a dozen managers, except for Grayson, would be impressed with such a gesture. And, if Florence didn’t like it, well, he could deal with her later. This was his decision. After all, he was the one who had found Hobbs.

          Hobbs got up, brushed off his trousers, straightened his tie and vest, went to the window at the end of the living room and nodded to his driver. “The minimum for this sale is considerably higher.”

          “Name the amount and I will cut a check right here and now.”

          “Excellent. I knew you were a man of action from the moment I met you.”

          “What’s the number?”

          “Well, Mr. Rice, why don’t we leave the check a blank, and I’ll decide later. Makes the transaction a lot simpler that way, don’t you think?”

“Yes. I can see how it would,” Rice said, moving effortlessly, as though some unearthly force propelled him towards the large, antique oak desk where Florence hid their checkbook. “Tenochtitlan,” he repeated over and over and over until he was certain of it.

 

 

 

Arthur Davis is a management consultant specializing in corporate planning and reorganization and has been quoted in The New York Times, Crain’s New York Business and interviewed on New York TV News Channel 1.  He has taught at The New School University, advised Senator John McCain's investigating committee on boxing reform, appeared as an expert witness on best practices in 1999 before State Senator Roy Goodman's New York State Commission on Corruption in Boxing and advised the Department of Homeland Security, National Protection and Programs Directorate. Over 50 stories have been published including "Conversation in Black," which was nominated for the 2015 Pushcart Prize.