The Dream Merchant by Fred Waitzkin Page B

There were poor people in the audience and the money tree worked like chum scenting the water. Poor people wanted that money for food and fun they couldn’t afford; the dangling money made them feel unsettled. Marvin’s scene might have been obvious and a little shabby, but Ava had a shine that spilled all over the room. She moved within a circle of light. The music poured over Ava’s lush, swaying body as if she’d parted ways from her fundamental and fetching shyness. It must have been the sultry night air and money that made her wild and hot. Ava gave them license. Everyone wanted the money tree and this girl—even ladies could feel her pull; she incited an urge. MONEY. Jim’s voice, The more we sell, the quicker you get to your goal, the $1,260 payout. Quick. There were two men laboring in the aisles with heavy carts filled with irons.
    The music fell away and the spotlight found Jim in his tailored tuxedo. He seemed to be searching for the words. Ava stood to the side, the air gone out of her like a puppet on the shelf. They were a great team. Jim relished this long hesitation—what would happen—this building unease, and Marvin was nodding from behind the flap of canvas. Jim seemed to be listening for an inner voice.
    Finally he said, I want you to meet someone. Jim paused and gained traction. I want you to meet someone. Chester, Chester … Chester!!! Where are you, man? Jim walked back and forth on the stage searching in vain for a man in the audience. Chester … Chester? Jim squinted a little and then he signaled with his hand. Come on up here, Chester. Chester was a butcher, a short powerfully built guy with coarse black hair on his thick forearms. Jim signaled for him to come up onstage. He had never been onstage before. Months earlier, he bought an iron, and this was his moment, what he’d been promised. And more. Chester, this is your life, said Jim, invoking the name and spirit of the TV program watched by millions. It was the moment a butcher became a star. This unfurling of fame was an essential part of Marvin’s scheme. Every two weeks they made a little man a celebrity to be adulated for a time among his friends, at the bar, in his community. How much is fame worth? It was an ancient question with a new wrinkle. How much is it worth in terms of hawking electric irons? Chester had been a faithful customer. He had come to a dozen meetings, collected his payments, he brought friends and family to buy irons, and tonight was his night.
    Ava was clapping for Chester to come onstage. But he was beet red and remained glued to his folding seat. How could he come to this woman? Her walk was an event, teetering on the stairs in her heels; guys reached out to help, but really they wanted to touch her butt or feel her bare arm. She slithered down the aisle and right up to him, put out a hand, her charming Southern accent: I’ve come to take you up there, Chester. Her hand touched the hair on his forearm. Up there, into the circle of light onstage. He was a short guy, five feet, three inches, and he’d never been near a woman like Ava. He closed his eyes and breathed her in, slow and delicious. He wasn’t thinking about the money tree or what he might do with the $1,260. Chester was staring at Ava’s chest heaving from her brave exertions. He wanted to plunge into Ava’s creamy bosom, to swim all over her with his hairy body. Jim made a joke about where Chester was staring, but Chester didn’t notice. Ava was the greatest thing he’d ever seen.
    Look up, Chester, Jim said. Look up, man! Everyone roared with laughter, which roused him. Chester shot both hands up in the air and shouted, I like this! I like this!
    Then, while she led him up the stairs, Jim reflected a little on Chester’s hardworking life. He’s the salt of the earth, Jim said with real emotion as Ava counted money out from the tree and put it into Chester’s hand.