well, kids. I've sold one more fan. I already knew the person but it was still a sale so get over it.
her name was kate. it still is kate, but it was kate also. i arrived at some place in midtown that was further west than i knew existed, and it was, of course, scorchballs hot out. as i approached, kate yelled "PAUL! Do you have your fans?!"
Now I never told Kate about these fans. That question was a solid product of dot com blog tweet face space. And that gives me hope.
I reached into my backpack and pulled out a fan. I may not be pushing them on people like those fuckers in times square with the gangster rap CDs, or the upper middle class Cornell kids who beg the question "Do you like comedy?", but I keep a few on me.
As a kind gesture, as Kate dug out 3 big ones from her purse, I offered to put the batteries in the fan - which - even after preparing like 20 fans, figuring out how to put the batteries in is an episode of LOST every time.
"How does it work?" she asked.
Stupid Kate. "You hold this button up and-"
Holy shit. The fucking thing exploded in my hand. The blades went fucking flying. The front flew away like a man in Murray Hill the morning after. Little pieces of green plastics grazed the hair of a one miss Kate whose slow motion face was shock surprise delight and sweaty.
I am sure they teach you a BUNCH of things in salesman school - but i doubt there is a chapter on what to do when you're selling a battery fan and it atom bombs on the customer.
"I have another one!"
I didn't want to lose the sale. I quickly produced my second and final fan (for the time being) from my backpack.
"Here! Hold on here! Here's another one! Don't you worry I've got another one!"
Maybe if i keep talking there won't be a pause for her to say "It's cool just give me my money back."
The second one worked much better.
And then you'll never believe what happened. Someone came up to me and said "Are you selling those?"
My new agent Kate chimed "Yep - he's selling these fans. Feel how good." What a champ. Even after the first fan titanic-ed on her face, she was still swooping in to help a friend.
"I'll take one."
Well - that's great. That's what I've been working towards and waiting for and guess fucking what? I don't have one for you. Why? Cause I'm a fucking idiot. I don't have a Brita, Obama pays my rent, I've got two poppables on my face, and these fans are my ticket to a house in East Shampton and I can't pack enough fans to sell because I couldnt' fit anymore in my backpack because apparently it was much more important for me to have Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead in there which - let's face it Paul - it's been in there for 3 years and you're on page 8 - it's not gonna happen.
I didn't say that, though. I said "Ugh - I'm all sold out!"
"You're sold out?"
"Yep. (I have 78 fans at home but I'm going to tell you that I'm) All sold out."
Is it worth it? Maybe those Cornell kids are asking with compassion and concern. They look at my life - at my filteredless water - at my Clearasil Before face - at my fan business - and they can't fathom why I would choose this life - and so they all get together in Times Square, and they pick out corners along my path, they separate, they wait for me, and as I pass them, they look me in the eye and sympathetically ask "Do you like Comedy? Because your life is one big joke."
Send in the crowns.
These are my hounds.
They each weigh two pounds.
They each weigh two pounds.