six fifteen on monday morning and he’s on his feet, stretching tight muscles, running a comb through his greasy dark hair.

he slides his feet into socks and his socks into shoes. he straightens his tie. forest green is the color du jour and he wears it with certainty and pride. it brings out the flecks of gold in his eyes.

he grabs his briefcase, battered but dignified, and gathers his wares for the day. some men sell steaks. others preach the word of The Lord.

Eddie Flynn sells knives.

having the the thin sharp blades always in such close proximity makes the hairs on the back of Eddie’s neck stand up. the glint of hard metal as he takes each prize from its protective sleeve—

"this one’s ripe for slicin’ and dicin’, ma’am, while this one here could rightly butcher a whole hog should the mood strike!"

they look at him incredulously, these women in their hairnets, as they warily open the door. Eddie has a foot in the foyer before they can so much as think to protest and before they know it, they’ve purchased three shiny sets and are placing a down payment on a window treatment from a partnering company.

Eddie collects his money, scratches the family dog behind the ears, and is on his way, barreling down the sidewalk to charm the sucker in the house next door.

he’s been the top salesman in Arkansas for eighteen straight weeks, since the untimely and and unsightly death of Max Patashnik, a doughy gentleman who traded car parts and had questionable morals.

Dick Baker, founder of Baker’s Bearings and Eddie’s boss, has expanded his business by seven counties since hiring wily, cunning Flynn. his top salesman is patched through from post offices and telephone boots all around Arkansas with news of sale after sale, including some poor sap’s purchase of a Hoover 2100 Multifunctional Steam-Vac— a product that doesn’t exist.

"where the blazin’ hell am I gonna come up with somethin like that?" roared Baker, upon hearing the news.

"for 100 clams? you’ll come up with something," came the cheeky response, followed closely by the unmistakable click of the receiver.

and just as they’ve settled, as business is starting to boom and there are fewer housewives without a set of Baker knives than there are with them, Eddie stops returning calls.

on a Tuesday at the end of the month, Dick Baker walks into his shop to find his cash register empty, the safe in his office neatly and expertly cleared, all cash, checks, bonds, and evidence of sales tendered removed without so much as a fingerprint left behind.

Dick finds Eddie’s small home unlocked and gutted, all evidence of human inhabitance erased, while already a thousand miles away,

navy blue is the color du jour. it too illuminates the flecks of gold in his eyes and he wears it with certainty and pride.

some men sell steaks. others preach the word of The Lord.

Lonny Hammill sells knives.

you can tell so much about people based on the contents of their whole foods shopping carts in between jobs on a friday afternoon. this is when the sad people shop, i think. or maybe just the wise ones, the people who know exactly what they want, who know that their fellow all-organic macrobiotic enthusiasts will be busy doing other things and that the population of whole foods will be the emotional wreckage of new york: 

the people with occupied hearts. 

note that i say occupied, rather than broken. i say this because i am one of them, one of the distracted, an aimless wanderer whose feet brought me to whole foods during my lonely hour between jobs. my heart, not even remotely broken, is, at the moment, otherwise occupied, existing quietly outside of my body.

my heart is out of town recording a record and my body went to whole foods to buy tuna salad.  i stood in line behind a woman purchasing six viles of fish oil (?) and a couple arguing about kale. i avoided eye contact with a teenager whose pink forehead indicated freshly waxed eyebrows and tried not to stare at an unkempt man muttering about the price of pomegranates. 

i stood in line with my tuna salad and eyeballed the wall of chocolate bars i never let myself investigate as a woman shamefully carrying a single serving of macaroni and cheese got into line behind me. she held my spot as i picked out the best of the bunch— milk chocolate with toffee and sea salt— and dropped it into my sad little occupied heart’s basket.

tonight, i had chocolate for dinner and left my tuna salad in the fridge.

i wonder how the fish oil lady fared.

the bottom of my shoe is sticky because i stepped in gum. i stepped in gum because of you, because you put your hands on my face and pulled me towards you and i lost my balance in the middle of the sidewalk, two blocks away from home.

i stepped in gum and my shoes, which were expensive, are ruined. they were lost in the wreckage that was created out of that kiss, that hard and quiet kiss that you placed on my lips just before i stepped in gum and ruined my shoes.

said shoes, may they rest in peace, were black and soft buttery suede. the opposing gum was blue and smeared itself, rather inexplicably, not only on the underside of my shoe, but all the way up to my ankle, across my arch, and over my toe as well. when i lost my balance, i stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk and, as you and i both tried unsuccessfully to restore my rightful position in the universe, i tumbled to the ground in what must have been slow motion. i was falling and flailing and shouting and laughing and your eyes were the size of saucers as you watched me go down. in the milliseconds between being poised and fresh and my ass unceremoniously hitting the concrete, the heel of my other shoe, the as yet untainted survivor, snapped with a loud punctuated CRACK. 

i was down both shoes and lying on the sidewalk giggling like a lunatic. you stood over me with your mouth hanging open, completely unsure of what to do next. 

and then.

you chose perfectly; without missing a beat, you slipped off your own shoes, first the left, then the right. you stood there in your socks with your eyes sparkling and glanced meaningfully at my feet.

our bare toes scarcely touched the ground as we made our way home. we were laughing and kissing and our shoes, my broken heels and your old exhausted chucks, were left on the sidewalk, entwined in each other.

i stepped in gum tonight.

i’ve never loved you more.