wind (excerpt)

Walking East, Gordon became aware of his elbows. He knew he was headed East after asking three people. There was a luggage store. The Post-It note with the name and address of the store had blown away, so Gordon went by what he remembered Jeff saying, which wasn’t much.

As he navigated the lunch throng, he realized that since he’d had so much of it, he hadn’t been conscious of space until now. Three thoughts occurred to him. First, he needed to join a weight loss program. Second, he had to acquire the skill of being able to watch out for everything in his immediate environment simultaneously: people around him, so he didn’t run into any more high-heeled executives or get knocked out by a purse; the ground, so he didn’t step in excrement, gum, something spilled or decaying; and the sky, to avoid bird droppings or air conditioner run-off. Thirdly, it hit him that he walked like a pigeon. He watched a mother warn her son not to touch the birds. ‘Dirty,’ she said. ‘Don’t.’

The natives pegged him as a tourist. They glared as he dodged their easy strides. He opened his face into a hopeful smile every time he passed someone, soon his face never shut, but his smile was terror more than pleasantry.

Where he was from, drivers passed each other on dirt roads and lifted one finger from the wheel in lazy salutation.

Jeff said, ‘You get used to it,’ and shrugged when Gordon exclaimed how different it was.

Gordon thought, ‘Like getting used to chronic acne.’ You knew in theory you’d have blemishes, but somehow each new pimple was a surprise.

On only his second day in the city, a pigeon pooped on his duffle bag while a man vomited into a trashcan. This happened on Gordon’s walk to pick up some lunch, and he reconsidered joining a weight loss program. Why waste money, when he could lose his appetite for free?

Because Jeff had informed him that a grey duffle bag was not conducive to building strong business relationships, Gordon shopped for a leather compact suitcase. It needed wheels and a handle. It needed to be durable and attractive.

‘Gordon, these are your goals. Let me spell it out for you. A, provide exceptional client service. B, expand the account base. And C, distribute samples to increase physician awareness of new pharmaceutical product launches.’

Gordon stared at the office rubber plant.

‘Got it?’ Jeff asked.

‘What exactly is a product launch?’

Jeff sighed. ‘We’ll go over that later. Charge it on the corporate account. Make sure to get one that can really take a beating. It’s a rough world out there and you’ll be lugging this thing everywhere like it’s your wife. Choose wisely. Any other questions, read the handbook.’

But you leave your wife in Nebraska, Gordon thought on the elevator, going down 32 floors. He’d taken the handbook along to read.

A small baseball field was the focal part of Walton, Nebraska. Gordon had lived with his mother in her square house across from the diamond. Summer was cicadas and bringing cold soda to the bleachers to watch kids play ball. He liked how the mothers got so excited when their boys stepped up to the plate. Secretly, he wanted to be with one of these women. He rarely saw whole families, just children and mothers jittering like restless electrons. It wasn’t that he wanted an affair; he didn’t think of the women as married. He marveled at how they dipped towels into buckets of ice to cool red faces; tore Popsicle wrappers open with their teeth and let the boys toss sticks into the air after they finished. They packed everything neatly into vans, or herded tight flocks home by foot. Gordon wanted to be the subject of such organization and care.

If it were his wife, Gordon hoped the suitcase would have dark hair, long legs, and ample hips. He got as close as he could by taking the model the salesgirl referred to as ‘elegant.’ Gordon nervously asked if it was a model that could really take a beating. Gordon thought anyone who would hit a woman deserved to die, and worried that he’d asked that. Approaching the register, he accidentally jabbed the salesgirl with his elbow. ‘Quite a weapon you’ve got,’ she said.

‘I know,’ he said.

Gordon guessed she must be just about twenty-three, and never would she imagine herself doing Walton women things. Wiping jam from a child’s mouth, teaching a girl to ride a tricycle, explaining the difference between poison ivy and poison oak. This salesgirl wouldn’t last a minute there. In Gordon’s mind, there were two types of women: women for babies, and women for high heels. The salesgirl was for heels. She understood words Gordon had picked up from his mother’s magazines: sling-back, slip on, strapless, stiletto. Probably she’d had understood them in utero. But she didn’t understand diapers. Gordon didn’t understand either type, but both fascinated him.

‘Are you going on vacation?’ She swiped Jeff’s corporate credit card.

‘No. I sell pharmaceuticals,’ Gordon said.

‘What do you mean?’ The girl pushed hair over her shoulder and handed him a receipt and pen.

‘I sell drugs,’ he said. ‘To doctors.’

‘I can’t read your signature,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘What’s yours?’ he asked. ‘I bet it’s a nice one.’

Before he moved, his mother said, ‘Anything can happen in the city.’ And it was true, because this girl, in her heels, asked him whether he’d go out to dinner with her later that week. Girls in the city were different.

‘I’d love to.’

‘I just got a new car. I’m trying to get out as often as possible.’

Gordon opened his new leather organizer and looked up his address so he could give it to her. His first Chicago entry besides Jeff’s number. He and Vicki agreed she’d pick him up at 7.30, they’d have dinner and then, as she said, ‘see how they felt.’

He stopped in the doorway to slip the receipt and Vicki’s phone number into the suitcase. Walking West, he felt he must leave a wake on the sidewalk.