The Sale

The Sale

Nervous as a kitten, I climbed the dark and creaky stairs on Harrison Avenue and peered into the gloom. The list of names was next to impossible to read in the erratic light of the flickering, bare bulb. It was more of a process of elimination than anything else to find the faded pencil markings that told me which door to find.

I hesitated at the doorway, even though I had been told to enter without knocking, trying to shake the creeping fingers up my back. With a small shake, I pushed up the door, and found myself in a tiny room which contained no furniture but a basic kitchen table from the mid 1970’s, a rocking chair, and an ordinary chair. On one of the neutral shaded walls, there was a series of shelves, each holding about a dozen bottles and jars. An old man sat in the rocking chair, reading an old issue of Time. Without a word, I handed him the card I was given.

“Sit down, Mr. Vaughn,” said the old man very politely. “I am glad to have made your acquaintance.”

“Is it true?” I blurted, blushing a bit at the shrill edge that seemed to echo back to me. Clearing my throat, I tried for a softer tone, “Is it true that you have a certain… mixture… that has… um… unique effects?”

The old man chuckled softly, “My stock in trade is not very large – I don’t carry anything you could find at one of the ubiquitous supermarkets – but such as it is, it is varied. I think that nothing I sell has effects that could be described as ordinary.”

“Well, I was told –“ I began.

“Here, for example,” interrupted the old man, reaching for a bottle from the bottom most shelf. “Here is a colorless, odorless, tasteless liquid. Guaranteed not to alter the taste of coffee, milk, wine, or any other number of beverages. It is also quite imperceptible in any known method of autopsy.”

“Poison?” I was horrified, what kind of place had I come to?

“Call it… cleaning fluid… if you like.” The man replied indifferently. “Lives are such dirty things. They all occasionally need cleaning. Or, better yet… spot remover. ‘Out damned spot!’”

“I don’t want that.”

“That is probably just as well,” replied the old man. “Do you know the price of this? For one teaspoon, which is more than sufficient, I ask ten grand, cash.” Hefting the bottle, he held it up to examine the contents. “I’d say there is probably almost a half a million left in here, if not more.”

“I can’t afford that.” I shifted apprehensively.

“Oh, no. Not all of my mixtures are so expensive. It would be stupid to charge that much for a simple love potion, for example.” The old man rocked back in his chair, smiling knowingly. “Young people who need a love potion seldom have that much money; otherwise they wouldn’t need my services.”

I nodded.

“I look at it like this,” he continued, “A happy customer comes back. Please him with your first service, and he will return for another. Even if it is more costly. He will save up for it, if necessary.”

“So,” I hesitated, before taking the plunge, “You do sell love potions then?”

“If I did not sell love potions, I wouldn’t have brought them up.” He reached for a higher shelf and took a bottle without looking at it.

“And this won’t just – err… I will be…”

“Permanent. Oh yes, it will last a lifetime, beyond just lust. But it does include it. Bountifully. Insistently. Forever.”

I could hardly contain myself. “How interesting.” I tried for an air of disinterest, but the greed in my voice was blatant.

“However,” the man folded his hands around the bottle. “Consider the spiritual side.”

“Uh…” I stared at him, lost.

“For indifference, they substitute devotion. For scorn, adoration. Give on teaspoon to a young lady – it will work in any liquid – and no matter how much of a flirt she is, no matter how much she likes to go out, she will change. She will want nothing but to be alone with you… forever.”

“I don’t know if I believe that, she loves parties.”

“Not anymore. She will be afraid of the pretty girls you may meet.”

“She’ll actually be jealous?” I was almost in rapture, “Over me?”

“She will want to be everything to you.”

“She already is, she just doesn’t care.”

“Yes, well, once she takes this, she will care. You will be her sole interest in life.”

“Wonderful!” I cried.

“She’ll want to know all that you do,” said the old man. “All that happens during your day. Every word of it. She’ll want to know what you are thinking about, why you smile suddenly, why you look sad.”

“That’s love for you!”

“Yes,” he replied. “She’ll never let you be tired, to sit in a draft, to let forget to eat. If you are late, she will be terrified. She’ll think you are killed, or that you have decided to have some fun with some young thing.”

“I can’t imagine Stacey like that.”

“You won’t need to imagine. And, by the way, since there will always be a skirt that will turn your head, if you should slip up and get caught cheating, don’t worry. She will forgive you. She will be hurt, of course, but she will forgive you… in the end.”

“That won’t happen.” I replied adamantly.

“Of course not,” he said with a slight smile. “But, if it does, you need not worry. She will never divorce you. And of course, she will never give you the least grounds, not for divorce, or even uneasiness.”

“How much?” I was ready to pay anything. “How much for this… perfection?”

“It’s not like the spot remover, as I think we agreed to call it. No. That is ten grand, not a penny less. One has to be older than you are to indulge in that. It requires considerable saving.”

“But for the love potion?”

“Oh, that,” replied the old man, pulling a small vial from his pocket. “This is only a dollar.”

“Of course,” I pulled a crumpled bill from my pocket as he filled the vial. “I’m grateful.”

“I like to oblige,” said the old man. “Then customers come back, later in life, when they are better off and want more expensive things.” He stoppered the bottle. “Here you are. I think you will find it effective.”

“Thank you,” I turned to the door. “Goodbye.”

“Au revoir,” the old man called as I closed the door behind me.